CHAPTER XXV FATHER AND DAUGHTER “It was not until the next June, when we had been parted nearly two years, that I saw my father again. “He came over suddenly and dropped down on us, so to speak, on the morning of the fifth of that month. “Steward and housekeeper were both ‘taken aback’ and ‘flustered,’ as they described themselves; yet they were not unprepared. The house was always as well kept as the circumstances would permit. “Nor was Miss Murray. She also had done her duty and could present her pupil without fear of criticism. “We were both in the schoolroom, my governess and I, when the door opened and some one entered unannounced. I looked up from my slate, to see a tall, stately man, with a pale face framed in black hair and black whiskers, standing in the doorway. “I recognized my father and flew to his embrace, before Miss Murray could rise to receive him with deliberate decorum. “My father kissed me with much love and received Miss Murray’s greetings with stately politeness. “Later on, when I had recovered from my surprise and excitement at his sudden appearance, he explained that he had but lately returned to England and had taken his delicate wife and child to London, which was then, in the fine June days, at the height of the fashionable season, and had left them on a visit to his mother-in-law, the Dowager Lady Burnshot, who had a fine house near Hyde Park; and that he had seized this first opportunity to run to Ireland to see his dear little daughter. “He further explained that he could not bring the countess and the little viscount because she could not bear the sea air yet. “He brought me a doll and a doll’s set of furniture, all of which delighted me almost as much as his visit, for—will it be believed?—I had not possessed a doll since the death of my own mother, and I was only six years old. “My father remained only a few days at Weirdwaste, during which he invited the vicar and the doctor to dine and talk with him over the affairs of the estate, and the condition of my health, to thank them for their past kindness, and to ask their continued supervision of his daughter’s welfare. “‘I cannot take her with me to London at present,’ he said, ‘for we are visiting at the house of Lady Burnshot, the mother of my wife. Besides, I think, for her own sake, little Elfrida is much better here for a few years longer.’ “The doctor and the vicar agreed with my father, that I was much better off at Weirdwaste than I could be in London. And so there was no more to be said. “My father took a very loving leave of me at the end of the week. “After he was gone I grieved myself sick! I loved him so dearly! I longed to go with him so ardently. “But it was not to be.