“Edna,” she said, solemnly, “I implore you not to give way to flippancy. That is exactly the way your father talks, and while, let us hope, it will be forgiven him, it ill becomes one of your years to take that tone. Your father little thinks what trouble he is storing for himself in his training of you, and, if I told him you were deceiving him, he would not believe it. But some day, alas! his eyes will be opened.” “How am I deceiving him?” cried Edna, a quick pallour coming into her face. Her step-mother mournfully shook her head, and sighed. “If your own heart does not tell you, then perhaps I should be silent. You have his wicked temper, my poor child. Your face is pale with anger just because I have mildly tried to show you the right path.” “You have not shown me the right path. You have said I am deceiving my father, and I ask what you mean?” Mrs. Sartwell smiled gently, if sadly. “How like! how like! I can almost fancy it is your father speaking with your voice.” “Well, I am glad of that. You don’t often say complimentary things to me.” “That is more of your pertness. You know very well I don’t compliment you when I say you are like your father. Far from it. But a day will come when even his eyes will be opened. Yes, indeed.” “You mean that his eyes will be opened to my deceit, but you have not told me how I am deceiving him.” “You deceive him because you take very good care, when in his presence, not to show him the worst side of your character. Oh, dear no, you take good care of that! Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth when he is here. But he’ll find you out some day, to his sorrow. Wait till your stubborn wills cross, and then you will each know the other. Of course, now it is all smooth and pleasant, but that is because you don’t demand to know what he means, and do not tell him that you can’t be bothered about the Last Great Day.” “Father never threatens me with the Judgment, as you so often do, nor does he make accusations against me, and so I don’t need to ask what he means. I suppose I am wicked,” continued the girl, almost in tears, “but you say things that seem always to bring out the bad side of my character.” “You are too impulsive,” said the lady, smoothly. “You are first impenitently impudent to me, and then you, say you have a bad character, which I never asserted. You are not worse than your father.” “Worse? I only wish I were half as good.” “Ah, that’s because you don’t know him any better than he knows you. You think he takes you entirely into his confidence, but he does nothing of the sort. Why did he so carefully carry away the newspaper with him this morning?” “I’m sure I don’t know. Why shouldn’t he? it’s his own.” “His own,--yes! but he never did it before. He took it away the better to deceive his wife and daughter,--that’s why. So that we shouldn’t know how he braved and defied the men yesterday. Oh, I can see him! It was just the kind of thing that would gratify his worldly pride.”