part, talked to her as if she had been a woman, expatiating to her on the strange capriciousness of affection that marked her sex. Once or twice he alluded sadly to the apparent estrangement between himself and his daughter.
"Seems almost as if she did n't like me, Corinne; does n't it?" he asked anxiously, watching the child, who was trying to put her doll's skirt on the kitten.
"I don't think so," Corinne responded gravely, holding the cat on its hind legs while she shook down the skirt; "I think she likes you a lot."
"What makes you think that? She does n't ever talk to me much, or tell me things, the way she used."
"She does n't talk to anybody much," said Corinne. "Mr. Nelson said she was the most awful quiet girl he ever knew." Here the cat gave a long, protesting mew, and Corinne's attention became concentrated on its toilet.
"She use n't to be quiet like that. She was the brightest girl! You ought to have seen her, Corinne—just like a picture, and always laughing."
"She don't laugh much now," said Corinne; "I don't think I ever heard her laugh—not once. Keep quiet now, deary"—coaxingly to the cat; "you 're nearly dressed."
"And all because I only tried to please her.
