"It is not worth one tear, or even an emotion of regret, my child," he said, sitting down beside her. "I shall send it back at once; unread, unless you prefer to have me read it first."
"Very well, then I shall not. But, Elsie, do you not see now that he is quite capable of imitating the handwriting of another?"
"Yes, papa; but that does not prove that he did in the case you refer to."
"And he has acted quite fairly and honestly in using that talent to elude my vigilance and tempt you to deception and disobedience, eh?"
"He is not perfect, papa, but I can't believe him as bad as you think."
"There are none so blind as those that won't see, Elsie; but, remember"--and his tone changed from one of great vexation to another sternly authoritative--"I will be obeyed in this thing."
"Yes, papa," she said, and rising, hastily left the room.
"Try to be very patient with her, dear," said Rose, who had been a silent, but deeply interested spectator of the little scene; "she suffers enough, poor child!"
"Yes, I know it, and my heart bleeds for her; yet she seems so wilfully blind to the strongest proofs of the fellow's abominable rascality that at times I feel as if I could hardly put up with it at all. The very pain of seeing her suffer so makes me out of all patience with her folly."
"Yes, I understand it, but do not be stern with her; she surely does not deserve it while she is so perfectly submissive to your will."
"No, she does not, poor darling," he said with a sigh. "But I must make haste to write some letters that ought to go by the next mail."
He left the room, and Mrs. Dinsmore, longing to comfort Elsie in her trouble, was about to go in search of her, when Mrs. Murray, who was still housekeeper at the Oaks, came to ask advice or direction about some household matters.
Their consultation lasted for half an hour or more, and in the meanwhile Mr. Dinsmore finished his correspondence and went himself to look for his daughter. She was in the act of opening her writing-desk as he entered the room.
"What are you doing, daughter?" he asked.
"I was about to write a letter to Sophy, papa."
"It would be too late for to-day's mail; so let it wait, and come with me for a little stroll into the grounds. Aunt Chloe, bring a garden hat and sunshade. You would like to go, daughter?"