The duties of the schoolroom had filled up the rest of the morning for
Lulu, so occupying her mind that she could give only an occasional
thought to the sad fact that she was in disgrace with her father.
Then came dinner, which she took in the dining-room, feeling it lonely
enough with the whole family absent; immediately after that a music
lesson filled another hour, and that was followed by an hour of practice
on the piano.
Then Alma wanted her again, and then, knowing it was what her father
would approve, she took her usual exercise about the grounds; after
which she prepared her lessons for the next day.
But all the time her heart was heavy with the consciousness that "papa,
dear papa," was displeased with her, and she felt that there could be no
happiness for her till she had made her peace with him.
"Oh," she sighed again and again, "will he never, never come, that I may
tell him how sorry and ashamed I am?"
But when tea-time came he was still absent, and that meal also had to be
taken alone.
She did not linger at the table, and on leaving it went into the library
where a wood fire blazed cheerfully on the hearth, for the evenings were
now quite cool, and settling herself in an easy-chair listened for the
sound of his coming.
She was too much disturbed, and too anxious to read or work, so sat
doing nothing but listen intently for the sound of horses' hoofs or
carriage-wheels on the drive without.
"Will he punish me?" she was asking herself. "I believe I want him to,
for I'm sure I richly deserve it. Oh, there he is! I hear his voice in
the hall!" and her heart beat fast as she sprang up and ran to meet him.
He was already at the door of the room when she reached it.
"Papa," she said humbly, and with her eyes on the carpet, "I--I'm very,
very sorry for my naughtiness this morning. I have obeyed you--asked
Alma's pardon--and--please, dear papa, won't you forgive me, too?"
"Certainly, dear child," he said, bending down to press a kiss upon her
lips. "I am always ready to forgive my dear children when they tell me
they are sorry for having offended, and ready to obey."
He led her to the easy-chair by the fireside, which she had just
vacated, and seating himself therein, drew her to a seat upon his knee.
"Papa, I'm so sorry, so very sorry for my badness, so ashamed of not
being obedient to such a dear, kind father," she said, low and
tremulously, blushing painfully as she spoke. "Please, I want you to
punish me well for it."
"Have I not already done so, daughter?" he asked. "I doubt if this has
been a happy day to you."
"Oh, no, indeed, papa! I soon repented of my badness and looked
everywhere for you to tell you how sorry I was and ask you to forgive
me. But you were gone and so I had to wait, and the day has seemed as if
it would never end, though I've been trying to do everything I thought
you would bid me do if you were here."
"Then I think I need add no further punishment," he said, softly
caressing her hair and cheek with his hand.
"But please I want you to, because I deserve it and ought to be made to
pay for such badness; and I'm afraid if I'm not, I'll just be bad again
soon."
"Well, daughter," he replied, "we will leave that question open to
consideration. I see you have books here on the table, and we will now
attend to the recitations."
Her recitations were quite perfect, and he gave the deserved meed of
praise, appointed the tasks for the next day, then drawing her to his
knee again, said: "It does not seem to me necessary, daughter, to
inflict any further punishment for the wrong-doings of this morning. You
are sorry for them, and do not intend to offend in the same way again?"
"Yes, I am sorry, papa, and I don't mean to behave so any more; still,
I'd feel more comfortable, and surer of not being just as bad again in a
few days or weeks, if you'd punish me. So please do."
"Very well, then, I will give you an extra task or two," he said, taking
up her Latin grammar, "I will give you twice the usual lesson in this.
Then, not as a punishment, but for your good, I want you to search out
all the texts you can find in God's Holy Word about the sinfulness of
anger and pride and the duty of confessing our faults, not only to him,
but to those whom we have injured by them."
Opening the Family Bible which lay on the table close at hand, "Here is
one in Proverbs," he said. "'He that covereth his sins shall not
prosper; but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them, shall have mercy."'
Then turning to the New Testament, he read again, "'Therefore, if thou
bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath
aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy
way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy
gift.'"
"That is in Matthew," he said, "and here in the Epistle of James," again
turning over the leaves, "we read perhaps the plainest direction of all
on the subject, 'Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for
another that ye may be healed.'"
"But, papa----" she paused, hanging her head while a vivid blush
suffused her cheeks.
"Well, daughter, what is it? Do not be afraid to let me know all your
thoughts. I want you always to talk freely to me, that if you are wrong
I may be able to convince you of the right. I want my children to act
intelligently, doing right because they see that it is right, and not
merely because papa commands it."
"Please don't be angry with me, papa, but, it did seem to me a sort of
degradation to have to ask pardon of a--a woman who has to work for her
living like Alma," she said with some hesitation, blushing and hanging
her head as she spoke.
"I am very, very sorry to hear such sentiments from a daughter of mine,"
he returned in a gravely concerned tone and with a slight sigh. "It is
wicked pride, my child, that puts such thoughts in your head.
"And who can say that there may not come a time when you too will have
to work for your living? The Bible tells us riches certainly take to
themselves wings and fly away."
Again turning over the leaves, "Here is the passage--twenty-third
chapter of Proverbs, fourth and fifth verses: 'Labor not to be rich;
cease from thine own wisdom. Wilt thou set thine eyes upon that which is
not? for riches certainly make themselves wings; they fly away as an
eagle toward heaven.'
"And how little are they really worth, while we have them? 'Riches
profit not in the day of wrath,' we are told in this Holy Book. And it
says a great deal of the folly and sinfulness of pride; particularly in
this book of Proverbs;" turning over the leaves he read here and
there--"'When pride cometh, then cometh shame; but, with the lowly is
wisdom.' 'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a
fall. Better is it to be an humble spirit with the lowly, than to divide
the spoil with the proud.'
"'Proud and haughty scorner is his name who dealeth in proud wrath.'
"'A man's pride shall bring him low: but honor shall uphold the humble
in spirit.'
"'The fear of the Lord is to hate evil: pride, and arrogancy, and the
evil way and the forward mouth, do I hate.'"
There was a moment of silence, then Lulu said humbly, tears starting to
her eyes as she spoke, "Papa, I did not know--at least I never thought
about it--that pride was so wicked."
"Yes," he said, "the Bible tells us that everyone proud in heart is an
abomination to the Lord, that God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace
unto the humble; there is much in the Bible against pride and in favor
of humility. We are all sinners, worthy of nothing good at the hands of
God, and what have we to do with pride?"
"Papa, when I say my prayers to-night I will ask God to take away all
the wicked pride out of my heart; and won't you ask him too?"
"I will, my darling, as I have already, very many times, and I hope you
have not neglected to ask him to forgive your wrong thoughts, feelings,
and actions of this morning?"
"I have asked for that, papa, and I will again," she replied.
They were silent again for a little while, the captain looking as if his
thoughts were far away; Lulu was studying his face with eyes that
presently filled with tears.
"Papa," she said low, and half tremulously, "you look so sad. Is it all
because you are grieved over my naughtiness?"
"No, daughter, not all; indeed I was hardly thinking of that at the
moment, but of the grief, sorrow and anxiety at Ion."
"What about, papa?" she queried with a startled look. "Oh, I hope that
nothing bad has happened to Gracie or Mamma Vi, or our little ones?"
"No; I am thankful that all is right with them: but dear Grandma Elsie
is in a very critical condition; I cannot tell you exactly what ails
her, but she has been suffering very much for months past, keeping it to
herself till yesterday, when she told it all to Cousin Arthur, and
learned from him that nothing but a difficult and dangerous surgical
operation could save her life.
"That is to be performed to-morrow, and, whether she lives or dies, will
relieve her from the dreadful agony she is enduring; for no one who
knows her can doubt that she is one of God's dear children. Death will
be gain to her, but a sad loss to all of us."
Before he had finished Lulu's face was hidden on his shoulder and she
was weeping bitterly.
"O papa," she sobbed, "I'm so, so sorry for her, dear, dear Grandma
Elsie! Isn't she frightened almost to death?"
"No, daughter; she is very calm and peaceful, ready to live or die as
God's will shall be; grieving only for those who love her so dearly and
find it so difficult to be reconciled to the thought of losing her; her
efforts are all to comfort them. She has set her house in order and
seems quite ready for either life or death.
"But we will pray--you and I--as the others are praying, that if God's
will be so, she may live and go in and out before us for many years to
come."
"Yes, papa. Oh, I am glad that we may ask our kind heavenly Father for
everything we want! Poor Mamma Vi! how her heart must ache! and is she
going to stay on at Ion now, papa?"
"Yes; certainly till her mother is out of danger or forever done with
sin and suffering. Gracie and our two little ones will stay too; Gracie
amusing the others and keeping them in the grounds, or a part of the
house so distant from Grandma Elsie's room that their noise will not
disturb her."
"And you and I will stay on here, papa?"
"Yes; I must be here a good deal of the time to oversee my workmen, and
shall want my dear eldest daughter to be my companion and helper in
various ways, for I know she loves to be such to her father," he added,
pressing his lips to her cheek.
"Indeed I do, papa! Oh, thank you for letting me!" she exclaimed,
lifting her head and showing eyes shining through tears. "I'd rather be
here with you, than anywhere else, my own dear, dear father!" putting
her arms about his neck and hugging him close. "Only," she added, "I'd
like to see Gracie and the others for a little bit every once in a while
if I may."
"Yes, you shall," he said, returning her embrace. "Perhaps I may be able
to take you over there for a short visit almost every day. And in the
meantime we may hope that lessons and the dressmaking will go on
prosperously."
"Are you going to spend your nights here at home, papa?" she asked with
a wistful, half pleading look.
"Yes, dear child; I could not think of leaving you alone; nor would your
Mamma Vi wish me to do so while she has both her brother and grandfather
near her, to say nothing of the women, children, and servants; you will
have me close at hand every night and the greater part of the day."
"Oh, I am so glad and thankful!" she said, with a sigh of relief. "I
don't think I should be exactly afraid, because God would be with me,
but it is so delightful to have my dear earthly father too. May I sleep
in Gracie'e room to be nearer to you?"
"Yes; and with the door open between it and mine, so that if you want
anything in the night you will only need to call to me and I will go to
you at once.
"Now if there are any more questions you would like answered, let me
hear them."
"There is something I'd like to say, papa, but I'm--almost afraid."
"Afraid of what, daughter?" he asked, as she paused in some
embarrassment, and with a half pleading look into his eyes.
"That you might think it saucy and be displeased with me.
"Do you mean it so, daughter?"
"Oh, no indeed, papa!"
"Then you need not be afraid to let me hear it."
"Papa, it is only that I--I think if you had talked to me this morning,
when you called me to you, about the wickedness of being too proud to
ask Alma's pardon, and reasoned with me as you did a little while ago,
about it all, I--I'd have obeyed you at once; you know you do almost
always show me the reasonableness of your commands before, or when, you
lay them upon me."
"Yes, my child," he said in a kindly tone, "I have done so as a rule,
and should in this instance, but that I was much hurried for time. That
will sometimes happen, and you and all my children must always obey me
promptly, whether you can or cannot at the moment see the reasonableness
of the order given. Is your estimation of your father's wisdom and his
love for you so low that you cannot trust him thus far?"
"O papa, forgive me!" she exclaimed, putting her arms about his neck and
laying her cheek to his. "I do hope I'll never, never again hesitate one
minute to obey any order from you; because I know you love me, and that
you are very wise and would never bid me do anything but what I ought."
"Certainly never intentionally, daughter; and surely your father, who is
so many years older than yourself, should be esteemed by you as somewhat
wiser."
"O papa, I know you are a great, great deal wiser than I," she said
earnestly. "How ridiculous it seems to think of anybody comparing my
wisdom with yours! I know I'm only a silly little girl, and not a good
one either, and it would be a sad thing to have a father no wiser or
better than myself."