Page:A daughter of the rich, by M. E. Waller.djvu/286

 just came back to tell you, that this kind of a talk we've had is just as good as the Mount Hunger bedtime-talks. I shan't be homesick any more." And away she ran.

Now John Curtis Clyde was a pew-owner—as had been his father and grandfather before him—in one of the Fifth Avenue churches, and duly made his appearance in that pew every Sunday morning. He entered, too, into the service with hearty voice, and made his responses without, the while, giving undue thought to the world. But when he had said "Our Father" with his little daughter by his side, he had supposed his duty performed to the extent of his needs—of another's, his child's, he gave no thought.

To-night, however, as he sat in the easy-chair where Hazel had left him, it began to dawn upon him slowly that his little daughter, during her fourteen years, might have had other needs, for which he had not provided, nor, perhaps, with all his riches was capable of providing.

The clock chimed twelve,—one,—two;—John Clyde, with a sigh, rose and went up to bed—a wiser and a better man.