But I always dream that he was calling us in his own kind voice, as he used to do when he wanted us to walk with him, or to show us something pretty." Edward was silent, playing with something on the ground.

At last he looked round again, and, having convinced himself that they could not be overheard, he whispered: "Maggie--sometimes I don't think I'm sorry that papa is dead--when I'm naughty, you know; he would have been so angry with me if he had been here; and I think--only sometimes, you know, I'm rather glad he is not." "Oh, Edward! you don't mean to say so, I know.

Don't let us talk about him.
We can't talk rightly, we're such little children.

Don't, Edward, please." Poor little Maggie's eyes filled with tears; and she never spoke again to Edward, or indeed to any one, about her dead father.

As she grew older, her life became more actively busy.