“I am so sorry Mr. Clifton!” “Never mind! never mind, my dear!” said the old gentleman, stooping and kissing her brow. “Oh, but I _am_! _so sorry_!” “You, child! Do you think I mind your little petulance?” “Oh! you are good, you are good. Indeed, I’m quite unworthy of you!” she whispered softly, pressing her head against his bosom, and clinging close. “You, darling!” cried the old man, stroking her curls in delight. “I am such an irritable, petulant child! I am sure no one would have patience with me but you—that is the reason I love you so!” “You do love me then?” gazing fondly in her witching face. “Oh, dearly! dearly! look in my eyes and see if I don’t!” “Yes! I know you do, my pet! And I love you entirely!” “Ah! how can you then! I have so many faults!” “I love your little faults, and all! Come! Brighten up! Never mind! I love to see my darling bright and cheerful.” “Ah! how can I, when I remember my fit of ill temper!” “Say no more about it, my love! That’s the reason why I love you! For those very little gusts of temper! They are followed by such a sweet reaction! and then my child is so frank, so ingenuous in her little penitence!” “Ah! But then I am such a spoiled child! And always was! Father spoiled me. And now you spoil me worse than ever!” “My sweet! you can’t be spoiled! you are so ingenuous! But now tell me, what vexed my little girl this evening? Come, let me hear?” asked the old man, caressing the syren. “Well! now it was this! I thought you loved Carolyn and Zuleime better than me!” replied the artful woman, gazing half-reproachfully, half-pleadingly up into his smiling face. “Love Carolyn and Zuleime better than you! Why you jealous little witch!” exclaimed the old man in rapture. “Love _them_ more than you! Why, I have to pray Heaven’s pardon daily, for not loving them a hundredth part as much!—kiss me!” Georgia nerved her loathing heart to give the demanded kiss, and then went and joined the party in the parlor, as beautiful, smooth, seductive, dangerous as ever; while the old man walked up and down the piazza, smiling to himself and saying— “She is a child—nothing but a child!—a sweet, willful, witching child!” Alas! little recking of the household treachery, the household wreck that “child” was preparing! CHAPTER VI. THE RUPTURED TIE. Alas! they had been friends in youth, But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above, And life is thorny, and youth is vain, And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness on the brain. What ruin a single spark of fire may spread, if carelessly or designedly dropped amid combustible or inflammable material. What desolation a single word may cause, if thoughtlessly or intentionally let fall into a passionate, impetuous heart.