The child turned away. “No, Sir; my papa was much prettier.”
I covered her with kisses and tears. She tried to escape from my arms,
crying,--
“Sir, you hurt me with your beard.”
Then I replaced her on my knees, devouring her with my eyes, and
continued,--
“Mary, canst thou read?”
“Yes,” she answered, “I can read very well. Mamma makes me read my
letters.”
“Well, then, read a little to me,” said I, pointing to a printed paper
which she held crumpled in one of her dimpled hands.