“Only what? If you don’t object to me and everything about me, you should try not to look as if you did. Understand, once for all, that _I_ understand my own motives and you don’t. And I don’t mean to be forced to explain by any one, much less my own child.” “Papa,” said Janey, “you souldn’t be cross. You dave me a slap last night, but I never was cross. I did not look like this,” and she covered her innocent forehead with the most portentous of frowns. “I forgave you,” said the child, mastering the “g” with an effort, and looking up at him with a countenance clear as the day, not like the troubled face of Helen. The man was more touched than words could say. He caught her up in his arms. “Yes, my little darling,” he said, “I did; God forgive me! I gave this dear little cheek a tap. I may have done other things as wrong, but none that I regretted so much. But you forgive your poor old father, Janey? I would not hurt you, my pet, not a hair of your pretty head, for the world.” “I knew you would be sorry, papa,” said the little girl, with the air of a little queen. Then she lifted up her tiny forefinger, with serious yet mischievous warning, “But you sould never be cross,” she said. How different was Helen’s state from the innocent, tender play of the child! She sat immovable and looked on at this pretty scene, seeing her father’s countenance change, the hard lines melt, a tender light come over it. He kissed his little Janey with a kind of reverential passion. “I will try, my little love,” he said, as humble as a child. And while he kissed her half weeping, and she clung with both her little arms round his neck, Helen felt herself rigid as stone. She could not be touched even by that which was most pathetic in this little episode--the real emotion of the man whose conscience was certainly not void of greater offences, yet whose heart melted at the pretty majesty of his child’s reproof, her innocent counsel and authority. Helen sat and looked on like some one entirely outside, a world apart from this tender union. She did not share the emotion of it, nor the sweetness. Her heart seemed made of lead; her eyes were dry as summer dust. She turned away from them, not to see the innocent rapture of the father and child. The bare little _salle à manger_, with its long table thinly covered; the bare board; the windows with their close white curtains; the all-prevailing odour of soup and cigars; the clashing of the ostler’s pails outside; the high-pitched voices; the language only half comprehensible,--made up a scene for her which she never forgot. Their strange meal was over--a dozen unknown dishes--and they had been left with a plate of fruit on the table and a bottle of _vin du pays_, which Helen thought so sour. She was wearied to death, but she no longer felt that devouring desire to lie down and go to sleep. The pain had roused her; it seemed to her for the moment as if she could never sleep again.