Daddy's Girl. Meade L. T.

“I always thank God for you because he made you so beautiful and good.”

      “Well, I am busy now; go to bed, little woman.”

      That was the last Sibyl saw of her father before she went away, for he did not go to see his wife and daughter off, and Mrs. Ogilvie looked decidedly cross as they stepped into the train. But they soon found themselves at Grayleigh Manor.

      Sibyl and her nurse were hurried off to the nursery regions, very much to the little girl’s secret indignation, and Mrs. Ogilvie seemed to be swept into a crowd of people who all surrounded her and talked eagerly and laughed noisily. Sibyl gave them a keen glance out of those very blue eyes, and in her heart of hearts thought they were a poor lot.

      She and nurse had two nice rooms set apart for their own special use, a sitting-room and a sleeping-room, and nurse proceeded to unpack the little girl’s things, and then to dress her in one of her prettiest frocks.

      “You are to go to tea in the schoolroom,” she said. “There are two or three other children there, and I hope you will be very good, Miss Sibyl, and not spoil this beautiful frock.”

      It was a white cashmere frock, very much embroidered and surrounded by little frills and soft laces, and, while absolutely simple and quite suited to the little girl, was really a wonder of expense and art.

      “It’s a beautiful dress,” she said; “you are wearing money now.”

      “Money,” said Sibyl, “what do you mean?”

      “This frock is money; you look very nice in it. Be sure, now, you don’t spot it. It would be wicked, just as if you were throwing sovereigns into the fire.”

      “I don’t understand,” said Sibyl; “I wish it wasn’t a grand frock. Did you bring any of my common, common frocks, nursie?”

      “I should think not, indeed. Your fine lady mother would be angry if she saw you looking a show.”

      “If you speak again in that tone of my mother I’ll slap you,” said Sibyl.

      “Highty-tighty!” said the nurse; “your spirit is almost past bearing. You need to be broke in.”

      “And so do you,” answered Sibyl. “If mother is good you are not, and I’m not, so we both must be broke in; but I’ve got a bit of a temper. I know that. Nursie, when you were a little girl did you have a bit of a temper of your own?”

      “That I did. I was a handful, my mother used to say.”

      “Then we has something in common,” said Sibyl, her eyes sparkling. “I’m a handful, too. I’m off to the schoolroom.”

      “There never was such a child,” thought the woman as Sibyl dashed away, banging the door after her; “she’s not shy, and she’s as sweet as sweet can be, and yet she’s a handful of spirit, of uppishness and contrariness. Well, God bless her, whatever she is. How did that heartless mother come by her? I can understand her being the master’s child, but her mother’s! Dear me, I’m often sorry when I think how mistook the poor little thing is in that woman she thinks so perfect.”

      Sibyl, quite happy, her heart beating high with excitement, poked her radiant little face round the schoolroom door. There were three children already in the room – Mabel, Gus, and Freda St. Claire. They were Lord Grayleigh’s children, and were handsome, and well cared for, and now looked with curiosity at Sibyl.

      “Oh, you’re the little girl,” said Mabel, who was twelve years of age. She raised her voice in a languid tone.

      “Yes, I are the little girl,” said Sibyl. She came forward with bold, confident steps, and looked at the tea table.

      “Where is my place?” she said. “Is it laid for me? I am the visitor.”

      Gus, aged ten, who had been somewhat inclined to sulk when Sibyl appeared, now smiled, and pulled out a chair.

      “Sit down,” he said; “you had better sit there, near Mabel; she’s pouring out tea. She’s the boss, you know.”

      “What’s a boss?” said Sibyl.

      “You must be a silly not to know what a boss is.”

      “I aren’t no more silly than you are,” said Sibyl. “May I have some bread and butter and jam? I’ll ask you some things about town, and perhaps you can’t answer me. What’s a – what’s a – oh, I’ll think of something real slangy presently; but please don’t talk to me too much while I’m eating, or I’ll spill jam on my money frock.”

      “You are a very queer little girl,” said Mabel; but she looked at her now with favor. A child who could talk like Sibyl was likely to be an acquisition.

      “What a silly you are,” said Gus. “What did you put on that thing for? We don’t want frilled and laced-up frocks, we want frocks that girls can wear to climb trees in, and – ”

      “Climb trees! Oh,” cried Sibyl, “are you that sort? Then I’m your girl. Oh, I am glad! My ownest father would be pleased. He likes me to be brave. I’m a hoyden – do you know what a hoyden is? If you want to have a few big larks while I am here, see to ’em quick, for I’m your girl.”

      Gus burst into a roar of laughter, and Mabel smiled.

      “You are very queer,” she said. “I don’t know whether our governess will like our being with you. You seem to use strange words. We never get into scrapes – we are quite ladylike and good, but we don’t wear grand frocks either. Can’t you take that thing off?”

      “I wish I could. I hate it myself.”

      “Well, ask your servant to change it.”

      “But my nurse hasn’t brought a single shabby frock with me.”

      “Are all your frocks as grand as that?”

      “Some of ’em grander.”

      “We might lend her one of our own brown holland frocks,” said Freda.

      “Oh, do!” said Sibyl; “that will be lovely.”

      “We are going to do some climbing this afternoon, so you may as well put it on,” continued Freda.

      Sibyl clapped her hands with delight. “It’s a great comfort coming down to this place,” she said finally, “’cos I can give way a little; but with my father and mother I have to keep myself in.”

      “Why?”

      “It’s mostly on account of my most perfect of fathers.”

      “But isn’t Philip Ogilvie your father?” said Gus.

      “Mr. Ogilvie,” corrected Sibyl, in a very proud tone.

      “Oh, fudge! I heard father call him Philip Ogilvie. He’s not perfect.”

      Sibyl’s face turned white; she looked full at Gus. Gus, not observing the expression in her eyes, continued, in a glib and easy tone:

      “Father didn’t know I was there; he was talking to another man. I think the man’s name was Halkett. I’m always great at remembering names, and I heard him say ‘Philip Ogilvie will do what we want. When it comes to the point he’s not too scrupulous.’ Yes, scrupulous was the word, and I ran away and looked it out in the dictionary, and it means – oh, you needn’t stare at me as if your eyes were starting out of your head – it means a person who hesitates from fear of acting wrongly. Now, as your father isn’t scrupulous, that means that he doesn’t hesitate to act wrong.”

      Sibyl with one swift, unerring bang struck Gus a sharp blow across the cheek.

      “What have you done that for, you little beggar?” he said, his eyes flashing fire.

      “To teach you not to tell lies,” answered Sibyl. She turned, went up the room, and stood by the window. Her heart was bursting, and tears were scorching her eyeballs. “But I won’t shed them,” thought the child, “not for worlds.”

      Sibyl’s action was so unexpected that there was a silence in the room for