"I don't _dread_ it; I just wish it was over," she explained. "It makes me feel a little queer, you see. Probably you wouldn't feel that way if you was better acquainted with a person. Fathers and mothers are kind of strangers." She was ready at seven o'clock, and sat, a little patient statue, watching the nursery clock. Marie, who had planned to go out and had intended setting the hands of the clock ahead a little, was unwarrantably angry with the Child for sitting there so persistently. "Come," she said, impatiently; "I've got your night-gown ready. This clock's too slow." "Truly, is it?" the Child questioned, anxiously. "Slow means it's 'most half-past, doesn't it? Then I ought to be going!" "Yes,--come along;" but Marie meant to bed, and the Child was already on her way to her father. She hurried back on second thought to explain to Marie. "I've engaged somebody--there's somebody else going to put me to bed to-night. You needn't wait, Marie," she said, her voice oddly subdued and like some other little girl's voice in her repressed excitement. He was waiting for her. He had been ready since half-past six o'clock. Without a word--with only an odd little smile that set the Child at ease--he took her hand and went back with her. The door of the other writing-room was ajar, and they caught a glimpse as they went by of a slender, stooping figure. It did not turn. "This is my room," the Child introduced, gayly. The worst was over now and all the rest was best. "You've never been in my room before, have you? This is where I keep my clothes, and this is my undressing-chair. This is where Marie sits--you're Marie to-night!" The Child's voice rang out in sudden, sweet laughter. It was such a funny idea! She was not a laughing Child, and the little, rippling sound had the effect of escaping from imprisonment and exulting at its freedom. "You never unbuttoned a little girl before, did you? I'll have to learn you." "Teach you," he corrected, gently. "Marie says learn you. But of course I'll say 'teach' if you like it better," with the ready courtesy of a hostess. "You begin with my feet and go backwards!" Again the escaped laughter. The Child was happy. Down the hall where the slender figure stooped above the delicately written pages the little laugh travelled again and again. By-and-by another laugh, deep and rich, came hand in hand with it. Then the figure straightened tensely, for this new laugh was rarer even than the Child's. Two years--two years and more since she had heard this one. "Now it is time to pray me," the Child said, dropping into sudden solemnity. "Marie lets me kneel to her--" hesitating questioningly. Then: "It's pleasanter to kneel to somebody--" "Kneel to me," he whispered. His face grew a little white, and his hand, when he caressed lightly the frolic-rumpled little head, was not steady. The stone mask of the man dropped off completely, and underneath was tenderness and pain and love.