Her father sat with his elbow on the desk, and his handsome head bowed upon his hand. He did not raise his head when she entered. She began to wonder if he was asleep, and her heart beat with awe and dread. Nothing good had ever come to her out of these interviews in the study. Perhaps he was going to send her away, too, as he had sent her mother. Her little face hardened. Well, she would be glad to go. What if he should send her to her mother! Oh, that would be joy!—but he never would. She was a beautiful child as she sat there palpitating with fear and hope. Her face was like her mother’s, fair, with wild-rose color, and eyes that were dark and dreamy, always looking out with longing and appeal. Her hair, like her father’s only in its tendency to curl, was fine and dark, and fell about the little troubled face. It had been the cause of many a contention between her and her step-mother, who wished to plait it smoothly into braids, which she considered the only neat way for a child’s hair to be arranged. Failing in that, she had tried to cut it off, but the child had defended her curls so fiercely that they had finally let her alone. It was wonderful what care the little girl took of them herself, for it was no small task to keep such a head of hair well brushed. But Dawn could remember how her mother loved her curls, and she clung to them. When she lifted the dark lashes there was a light in her eyes that made one think of the dawn of day. Such eyes had her mother. At last Dawn looked up tremulously to her father, and he spoke. He did not look toward her, however, and his voice was cold and reserved. "I have sent for you, my daughter—" Dawn was glad he did not use the hateful name "Jemima." "—to tell you that your mother was a good woman." "Of course," said the child, with rising color. "I knew that all the time. Why did you ever say she wasn’t?" "There was a terrible mistake made." The father’s voice was shaken. It gave Dawn a curious feeling. "Who made the mistake?" she asked gravely. The room was very still while this arrow found its way into the father’s heart. "I did." His voice sounded hoarse. The little girl felt almost sorry for him. "Oh! Then you will bring her right back to us again and send this other woman away, won’t you?" "Child, your mother is dead!" Dawn’s face went as white as death, and she sprang to her feet, clasping her hands in horror. "Then you have killed her!" she screamed. "You have killed her! My beautiful mother!" and with a wild cry she flung herself upon the floor and broke into a passion of tears. The strong man writhed in anguish as his little child set the mark of Cain upon his forehead.