Mr Maybury took the girl’s soft hand in his and looked thoughtfully into her face. For this news came as a sudden shock to him. He had not anticipated parting with her for at least a twelve-month--or perhaps more--from the day of her betrothal to Harold Jefferson. Dora and he had been very firm friends from the earliest days, and since his commercial downfall this bond between the two had increased tenfold. For, when Mr Maybury was rich, Dora had been a queen-in-little, very imperious, exacting, impetuous, and possibly somewhat selfish. But ever she had been her father’s most treasured possession, and he had loved to see her in dainty dresses, and surrounded by those pretty things which his wealth had enabled him to buy for her in abundance. So devoted was he to the child, indeed, that when he married for the second time, his new wife had exhibited no little jealousy on Dora’s account. Then came the crash--when Dora was a schoolgirl--and then, when the elder Miss Maybury and Mrs Maybury uttered lamentations for their altered estate, and even went so far as to upbraid Mr Maybury for his short-sighted business policy, Dora’s arms closed about his neck, her lips sought his haggard face, and Dora’s voice, with words of love and affection, acted like healing balm upon his sore heart. "Yes," he said at length, "it does seem a little time--a month!" He sighed--and Dora’s eyes filled with tears she would not let fall, so that she saw him as through a mist, dimly. "Oh, father," she said, laying her head upon his shoulder, "it does seem dreadful to have to leave you, but I shall come to see you very often--very, _very_ often!" "Yes, yes, dear," he said, "you will come and see me. I must not be selfish. I cannot expect to keep you by my side all my life. It is the same with most fathers. Their sons seek wives, their daughters are taken from them, and they are left alone." "Poor father," said Dora, gently, as she kissed him. Mr Maybury sat down, and Dora placed herself on his knees, as had been her custom from babyhood, with one round arm encircling his neck. In those early days Dora may have sadly plagued her nurse or governess, but with her father she had always been docile, serving him with a demure obedience that had been very sweet to see. As a child, her storms of tears would be replaced of a sudden by sunny smiles when she heard his voice or noticed his approaching form. Their mutual love was a talisman which chased away her frowns and pouts, and changed her, upon his entrance, into a totally different creature, her nurse or governess wondering greatly the while. And so, though of a naturally wilful disposition, Dora would often strive to conquer the rebellious mood when she felt it coming upon her, simply that she might please her father.