She was very beautiful in her white dress, with her blue eyes shining so brightly, and she hung about her father in a caressing way, and played and sang his favorite songs; and then, when at last he bade her good-night, she shook her curly head, and, holding fast his hand, went with him up the stairs to his own room, which she entered with him. She felt that he did not want her there; but she stayed just the same, and, seating herself upon his knee, laid her soft, white arms across his neck, and, looking straight into his eyes, pleaded earnestly for the poor creature who had been an occupant of the adjoining room. “Let her go with us, father. I am sure the voyage would do her good. Don’t leave her there alone.” But Mr. Grey said “No,” gently at first, then very firmly as Alice grew more earnest, and, finally, so sternly and decidedly, that Alice gave it up, with a great gush of tears, and only asked permission to see her once before she sailed. But to this Mr. Grey answered no, also. “It would only excite her,” he said; “and the more quiet she is kept, the better it is for her. I have seen that everything is provided for her comfort. She is better there than here, or with us across the sea. We shall be absent several years, perhaps, as I intend putting you at some good school where you will finish your education.” He intimated a wish for her to leave him then, and so she bade him good-night, and left him alone with his thoughts, which were not of the most agreeable nature. How still it was in the next room!—so still, that he trembled as he opened the door and went in, where Alice had wept so bitterly. He did not weep; he never wept; but he was conscious of a feeling of oppression and pain as he glanced around the quiet, orderly room, at the chair by the window, the bed in the corner, and the crib standing near. “What could have put that idea into her head?” he asked himself, as, with his hand upon the cradle, he made the motion which poor Laura kept up so constantly. Then with a sigh he went back to his own room, and stood a long time before that picture of the graveyard, which hung upon the wall. There was a softness now in his eyes and manner,—a softness which increased when he turned to his chair by the writing-desk, and took from a drawer the faded flowers and the curl of hair which Alice had found. “Poor Jessie! I wish I had never crossed her path,” he said, as he put the curl and flowers away, and thought again of Alice and the little dark-eyed girl who had designated her “Frank’s Alice Grey.” “Frank’s, indeed!” he said; “I trust I have effectually stopped any foolishness of that kind.”