“Why, I was just thinking,” said the child thoughtfully; “this pretty lady wanted me to call her mamma, just as you wanted me to call you papa, you know, only in fun.” “And did you call her that?” “Yes, but I never will again—no, never in the world; for, do you think, she began to cry like any thing the moment I put my arms round her neck and said ‘Mamma!’ You can’t think how she did cry, and after asking me, too.” Mr. Clark turned away his head; the child’s earnest look troubled him. “She knew well enough that it was all fun,” persisted the child, “and yet she kept on crying all I could do.” “Oh, such words are bitter, bitter fun,” muttered Mr. Clark, tortured by the innocent prattle of the child. “I did not mean any harm; the lady asked me to call her ‘Mamma,’ but I never will again,” said Myra, drooping under what seemed to her the displeasure of her best friend. “Oh yes, Myra, you must love this lady; you must call her any thing she pleases,” said Mr. Clark, with a burst of emotion that startled the little girl. “Be good to her; be gentle and loving as if—as if it was not fun when you call her ‘Mamma.’ You will be good to her; promise me, my darling, that you will.” “But she will not ask me again. It is a long, long time since the lady has been here,” answered the child thoughtfully. “Perhaps she will not come any more.” “Perhaps,” said Mr. Clark, with a voice and look of painful abstraction. A slight noise in a distant part of the garden drew the child’s attention. She started, and bending eagerly forward looked down a winding path sheltered by the orange-trees. “See!” cried the child, pointing down the path with her finger, while her eyes sparkled like diamonds; “didn’t I say that she always came like a fairy? Didn’t I tell you so?” Clark followed the child’s finger with his eyes, and there, coming up the path rapidly, and with eager haste in her look and manner, he saw Zulima, the wife of his bosom, the mother of his child. For the world, that proud man could not have risen to his feet; his strength utterly forsook him; he attempted to remove Myra’s arm from his neck, but even that he failed to accomplish, so profound was his astonishment, so overpowering was his agitation. A tree stood close by the fountain, overrun and shadowed by the convolutions of a passion-flower vine, that fell like a curtain around it, concealing the father and child as Zulima came up. Thus it happened that without any preparation, the wronged wife and the deceived husband stood face to face, breathless and pale as statues in a graveyard. The child clung to her father’s neck. Her large eyes dilated, and her face grew crimson with fear. She was frightened by the terrible pallor of Zulima’s face. Mr. Clark arose pale as death; and trembling in every limb, he placed the child gently on the grass, and approaching Zulima held forth his hand.