"Louisianny," he said, hurriedly, "what's agin it? Thar aint nothin'--nothin'! It come in my mind when Powers was a-tellin' me. I ses to myself, 'Why, here's the very thing fer Louisianny! Travel an' furrin langwidges an' new ways o' doin'. It's what she'd oughter hed long ago.' An' Powers he went on a-talkin' right while I was a-steddyin, an' he ses: 'Whar's that pretty darter o' yourn thet we was so took with when we passed through Hamilton last summer? Why,' ses he,--he ses it hisself, Louisianny,--'why don't ye send her to Europe? Let her go with my wife. She'll take care of her.' An' I stopped him right thar. 'Do ye mean it, Jedge?' I ses. 'Yes,' ses he. 'Why not? My wife an' daughter hev talked about her many a time, an' said how they'd like to see her agin. Send her,' ses he. 'You're a rich man, an' ye kin afford it, Squire, if ye will.' An' I ses, 'So I kin ef she'd like to go, an' what's more, I'm a-goin' to ask her ef she would--fer thar aint nothin' agin it--nothin'.'" He paused for a moment and turned to look at her. "Thet's what I was steddyin' about mostly, Louisianny," he said, "when I set yere afore ye come." She had been sitting beside him, and she sprang to her feet and stood before him. "Father," she cried, "are you tired of me?" "Tired of ye, Louisianny?" he repeated. "Tired of ye?" She flung out her hand with a wild gesture and burst into tears. "Are you tired of me?" she said again. "Don't you love me any more? Don't you want me as you used to? Could you do without me for months and months and know I was far away and couldn't come to you? No, you couldn't. You couldn't. I know that, though something--I don't know what--has come between us, and I feel it every minute, and most when you are kindest. Is there nothing in the way of my going away--nothing? Think again." "Louisianny," he answered, "I cayn't think of nothin'--thet's partic'lar." She slipped down on her knee and threw herself on his breast, clinging to him with all her young strength. "Are _you_ nothing?" she cried. "Is all your love nothing? Are all your beautiful, good thoughts for my happiness 'nothing'? Is your loneliness nothing? Shall I leave you here to live by yourself in the new home which is strange to you--after you have given up the old one you knew and loved for me? Oh! what has made you think I have no heart, and no soul, and nothing to be grateful with? Have I ever been bad and cruel and hard to you that you can think it?" She poured forth her love and grief and tender reproach on his breast with such innocent fervor that he could scarcely bear it. His eyes were wet too, and his furrowed, sunburnt cheeks, and his breath came short and fast while he held her close in his arms.