"I have only lost, without any other being the gainer," said
papa a little bitterly.
"No, papa, you have not lost; you cannot; I am not changed,
papa, do you not see that I am not changed? I am yours, just
as I always was, - only more, papa."
Papa kissed me, but it cut me to the heart to feel there was
pain in the kiss. I did what my lips could to clear the pain
away.
"Half is not as much as the whole, Daisy," he said at length.
"It may be, papa. Suppose the whole is twice as large as it
used to be?"
"That is a good specimen of woman's reasoning. But you have
not told me all yet, Daisy. Who is it that holds the other
half?"
There was so much soreness and disappointment shown in papa's
words, rather in the manner of them, that it was extremely
difficult for me to carry on the conversation. Tears are a
help, I suppose, to other women. They do not come to me, not
at such times. I stood still in papa's arms, with a kind of
dry heartache. The pain in his words was a terrible trial to
me. He folded me close again and kissed me over and over, and
then whispered, "Who is it, Daisy?"
"Papa, it was at West Point. I never meant it, and never knew
it, until I could not help it."
"At West Point!" said papa.
"Two years ago, when Dr. Sandford took me there."
"It is not Dr. Sandford!"
"Oh, no, papa! He is not to blame. He did everything he could
to take care of me. He knows nothing it all about it."
"Who is it, then?"
"He was a cadet then, papa; he is in the army now."
"Who is he?"
"He is from Vermont; his name is Thorold."
"Not a Southerner?"
"No, papa. Do you care very much for that?"
"Is he in the Northern army, Daisy?"
"He could not help that, papa; being a Vermonter."
Papa let me go; I had been standing in his arms all this
while; and took several turns up and down our little room. I
sat down, for my joints trembled under me. Papa walked and
walked.
"Does your mother know?" he said at last.
"I dared not tell her."
"Who does know?"
"Nobody, papa, but you, and an old friend of mine in New York,
- an aunt of Mr. Thorold's."
"Daisy, what is this young man?"
"Papa, I wish you could know him."
"How comes it that he, as well as you, has kept silence?"
"I don't know, papa. His letter must have miscarried. He was
going to write to you immediately, just before I left
Washington. I was afraid to have him do it, but he insisted
that he must."