His heart went forth to Frances with an infinite tenderness. He had not been a doting father to her; he had even--being himself what the world calls a clever man, much above her mental level--felt himself to condescend a little, and almost upbraided Heaven for giving him so ordinary a little girl. And Constance, it was easy to see, was a brilliant creature, accustomed to take her place in the world, fit to be any man’s companion. But the first result of this revelation was to reveal to him, as he had never seen it before, the modest and true little soul which had developed by his side without much notice from him, whom he had treated with such cruel want of confidence, to whom the shock of this evening’s disclosures must have been so great, but who, even in the moment of discovery, shielded him. All this went through his mind with the utmost rapidity. He did not put his new-found child away from him; but there was less enthusiasm than Constance expected in the kiss he gave her. “I am very glad to have you here, my dear,” he said more coldly than pleased her. “But why instead of Frances? You will be happier both of you for being together.”
Constance did not disengage herself with any appearance of disappointment. She perceived, perhaps, that she was not to be so triumphant here as was usually her privilege. She relinquished her father’s arm after a minute, not too precipitately, and returned to her chair. “I shall like it, as long as it is possible,” she said. “It will be very nice for me having a father and sister instead of a mother and brother. But you will find that mamma will not let you off. She likes to have a girl in the house. She will have her pound of flesh.” She threw herself back into her chair with a laugh. “How quaint it all is; and how beautiful the view must be, and the mountains and the sea! I shall be very happy here--the world forgetting, by the world forgot--and with you, papa.”
“What?” cried Mariuccia, making the small monosyllable sound as if it were the biggest word in her vocabulary.
“She has come to stay. She is my sister; papa’s daughter as much as I am. She has come--home.” Frances was a little uncertain about the word, and it was only “_a casa_” that she said--“to the house,” which means the same.
