‘I would go if it were only for the sake of going a little way towards heaven with you. Yes, Lina dearest, I will go and kneel by your side, and pray to become more like you.’ ‘A poor example,’ answered Madoline, smiling. And now Sir Vernon entered, pale and drawn after his late illness, but erect and dignified. There were no family prayers at South Hill, and there never had been since the first Lady Lawford’s death. Sir Vernon went to church on Sunday morning, when he considered himself well enough, but all other religious offices he performed in the seclusion of his own rooms. There was therefore no morning muster for prayers, and the servants at South Hill were free to choose their own road to heaven. Madoline rose to greet her father with loving New Year wishes. Daphne kept her kneeling attitude by the fire, with her face turned towards the blaze, feeling that good wishes from her would be a superfluity. ‘My years must always be happy while I have you, dearest,’ said Sir Vernon, kissing his elder daughter; and then, with some touch of gentlemanly feeling, bethinking himself of the child he did not love, he laid his hand lightly on Daphne’s golden head. ‘Good morning, Daphne. A happy New Year to you!’ he said gently. She silently turned from the fire, took her father’s hand, and raised it to her lips. It was the first time she had ever done such a thing: a little gush of spontaneous feeling, and the father’s heart was touched—touched, albeit, like all Daphne’s graces, this little bit of girlish graciousness recalled her mother’s fatal charms. ‘“Bless me, even me also, O my father!”’ she exclaimed, recalling one of the most pathetic passages of Holy Writ. ‘God bless and prosper you, my dear.’ ‘Thank you, papa. That is a good beginning for the year,’ said Daphne, stifling a sob. ‘I don’t think I shall feel like Esau any more.’ ‘My dearest, what comparisons you make,’ cried Madoline. ‘In what have you ever been like Esau? Have I ever cheated you?’ ‘Not willingly, darling,’ answered Daphne, nestling close beside Madoline as she began to pour out Sir Vernon’s tea. ‘You are my benefactress, my guardian angel. Is it your fault if I belong by nature and pedigree to the tribe of Ishmael?’ CHAPTER XX. ‘AL SODENLY SHE SWAPT ADOWN TO GROUND.’ The second week of January was half over, and it was the night of the Hunt Ball. What girl of eighteen, were her breast ever so gnawed by secret cark and care, could refrain from giving way to some excitement upon the occasion of her first dance, and that a dance which was to be danced by all Warwickshire’s beauty and chivalry—a dance as distinguished, from a local standpoint, as that famous assembly in Belgium’s capital, which was scared by the thunder of distant guns, the prelude of instant war?