That day, when full of a pent-up sorrow I had boldly decided to seek
comfort on my father's knee, is, and ever will be, a living, breathing
present to me. In stifled sobs, I tried to tell my little tale of
grief, and was about to bury my tear-stained face upon his shoulder,
when he raised his eyes impatiently, and brushed away, with a peevish
gesture, one of my salt tears that lay appealingly upon the smooth
broadcloth covering of his arm: he chided me for crying so very
immoderately, saying, he hated "little girls that cried," and drawing
a silver piece from his pocket, he slipped it into my little trembling
hand, and banished me from the room.
I never forgot this, from my dignified, gentlemanly father, although
in my outward conduct there was nothing which insinuated the slightest
reproach for the pain he had given me on that occasion.
When I left his cheerless presence, I remember going back to my
play-room and throwing myself wearily into my little rocking-chair,
where, with my face turned to the wall, I cried as if my baby-heart
would break.
Here I rehearsed each feature of my bitter disappointment, and as my
young spirit rose in proud and angry revolt against a fate that could
wound me so undeservedly, I flung the wretched coin, with which my
thoughtless parent sought to buy his ease and comfort from me,
violently upon the floor.
Through my blinding tears I watched it roll quietly over the carpet
and stop suddenly against the prostrate figure of a doll that lay at a
little distance from where I sat.
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