They all came back not long after, full of high spirits and endless talk; they were all glad to see their father, who had never been any restraint upon their pleasure, whose grave, gentle presence had never checked or stilled them. They were sure of his sympathy more or less. If he did not share their fun, he had at least never discouraged it. And soon in the plenitude of their own affairs they forgot him, as was so natural, and filled the room with laughing consultations over to-morrow’s pleasure, and plans for it. “What are we going to do?” they all cried, one after another, even Lizzie and Lance, coming in a little dazzled from the balcony, where they had been enjoying the last fading lights of the ending day, while the others had clamoured for lamps and candles inside; “What are we going to do?” Mrs. Sandford sat beaming upon them, hearing all the suggestions, offering a new idea now and then. “I must know to-night, that the hampers may be got ready,” she said; and then there was an echoing laugh all round. “Mother’s always so practical.” Mr. Sandford sat a little outside of that lively circle with a book in his hand. But he was not reading; he was watching them with a strange fascination; not willing to check them; oh no! feeling a helpless sort of wonder that they should play such pranks on the edge of the precipice, and that none of them should divine--that even his wife should not divine! The animated group, full in the light of the lamps--girls and young men in the frank familiarity of the family interrupting each other, contradicting each other, discussing and arguing--was as charming a study as a painter could have desired; the mother in the midst with her pencil in her hand and a sheet of white paper on the table before her, which threw back the light; and behind, the lovers stealing in out of the soft twilight shadows, the faint glimmer of distant sea and sky. He watched it with a strange dull ache under the pleasure of the father and the painter: the light touching those graceful outlines, shining in those young eyes, the glimmer of shining hair, the play of animated features, the soft, dreamlike, suggestive shadows of the two behind. And yet the precipice yawning, gaping at their feet, though nobody knew. “Papa,” said suddenly a small voice in his ear, “I am not going to-morrow. I want to stay with you.” “My little Mary! But I am a dull old fellow, not worth staying with.” “You are sorry about something, papa!” “Sorry? There are a great many things in the world to be sorry about,” he said, stroking her brown head. The child had clasped her hands about his arm, and was nestling close up to him whispering. They were altogether outside of the lively group at the table. This little consoler comforted Mr. Sandford more than words could say.