"Jane is going, of course; and so is Emily. And we are trying to persuade mother, also. She didn't go last year. Won't you spend a week or two with us? Now do say yes." My father shook his head at this last proposal, and said, "No, child!" very decidedly. "Why?" I asked. "Because I have something of more importance to think about than Saratoga and its fashionable follies." "Business! business!" said I, impatiently. "It is the Moloch, father, to which you sacrifice every social pleasure, every home delight, every good! Already you have laid health and happiness upon the bloody altars of this false god!" A few quick flushes went over his pale face, and then its expression became very sad. "Anna," he said, after a brief silence, during which even my unpracticed eyes could see that an intense struggle was going on in his mind, "Anna, you will have to give up your visit to Saratoga this year." "Why, father!" It seemed as if my blood were instantly on fire. My face was, of course, all in a glow. I was confounded, and, let me confess it, indignant; it seemed so like a tyrannical outrage. "It is simply as I say, my daughter." He spoke without visible excitement. "I cannot afford the expense this season, and you will, therefore, all have to remain in the city." "That's impossible!" said I. "I couldn't live here through the summer." "_I_ manage to live!" There was a tone in my father's voice, as he uttered these simple words, partly to himself, that rebuked me. Yes, he did manage to live, but _how_? Witness his pale face, wasted form, subdued aspect, brooding silence, and habitual abstraction of mind! "_I_ manage to live!" I hear the rebuking words even now--the tones in which they were uttered are in my ears. Dear father! Kind, tender, indulgent, long-suffering, self-denying! Ah, how little were you understood by your thoughtless, selfish children! "Let my sisters and mother go," said I, a new regard for my father springing up in my heart; "I will remain at home with you." "Thank you, dear child!" he answered, his voice suddenly veiled with feeling. "But I cannot afford to let any one go this season." "The girls will be terribly disappointed. They have set their hearts on going," said I. "I'm sorry," he said. "But necessity knows no law. They will have to make themselves as contented at home as possible." And he left me, and went away to his all-exacting "business."