"I'm afraid you will. Everybody does." "Did _you_ want to, papa?" Beth asked in amazement. "Yes," he answered. "And did you do it?" "Yes," he repeated. "And what happened?" "Much misery." "Were you miserable?" "Yes, very. But that wasn't the worst of it." "What was the worst of it?" "The worst of it was that I made other people miserable." "Ah, that's bad," said Beth, with perfect comprehension. "That makes you feel so horrid inside yourself." "Well, Beth, just you remember that. You can't do wrong without making somebody else miserable. Be loyal, be loyal to yourself, loyal to the best that is in you; that means, be as good as your friends think you, and better if you can. Tell the truth, live openly, and stick to your friends; that's the whole of the best code of morality in the world. Now we must go in." As they walked down the garden together, Beth slipped her dirty little hand into his, and looked up at him: "Papa," she said solemnly, "when you want to be with somebody always, more than with anybody else; and want to look at him, and want to talk to him, and you find you can tell him lots of things you couldn't tell anybody else if you tried, you know; what does it mean?" "It means you love him very much." "Then I love you, papa, very much," she said, nestling her head against his arm. "And it does make me feel so nice inside. But it makes me miserable too," she added, sighing. "How so?" "When you have a headache, you know. I used only to be afraid you'd be angry if I made a noise. But now I'm always thinking how much it hurts you. I wake up often and often at night, and you are in my mind, and I try and see you say, 'It's better,' or 'It's quite well.'" "And what then, Beth?" her father asked, in a queer voice. "Then I don't cry any more, you know." She looked up at her father as she spoke, and saw that his eyes were full of tears. CHAPTER X