Daddy's Girl

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Ogilvie knew why, but as soon as Sibyl entered the room it seemed ridiculous for them to quarrel. Mrs. Ogilvie turned with an effort, said something kind to her husband, he responded courteously, then the dinner gong sounded, and the three entered the dining-room.

It was one of the customs of the house that Sibyl, when they dined alone, should always sit with her parents during this hour. Mrs. Ogilvie objected to the plan, urging that it was very bad for the child. But Ogilvie thought otherwise, and notwithstanding all the mother’s objections the point was carried. A high chair was placed for Sibyl next her father, and she occupied it evening after evening, nibbling a biscuit from the dessert, and airing her views in a complacent way on every possible subject under the sun.

“I call Miss Winstead crosspatch now,” she said on this occasion. “She is more cranky than you think. She is, really, truly, father.”

“You must not talk against your governess, Sibyl,” said her mother from the other end of the table.

“Oh, let her speak out to us, my dear,” said the father. “What was Miss Winstead cross about to-day, Sibyl?”

“Spelling, as usual,” said Sibyl briefly, “but more special ’cos Lord Jesus made me pretty.”

“Hush!” said the mother again.

Sibyl glanced at her father. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes which he could scarcely keep back.

“My dear,” he said, addressing his wife, “do you think Miss Winstead is just the person – ”

“I beg of you, Philip,” interrupted the mother, “not to speak of the child’s teacher before her face. Sibyl, I forbid you to make unkind remarks.”

“It’s ’cos they’re both so perfect,” thought Sibyl, “but it’s hard on me not to be able to ’splain things. If I can’t, what is to be done?”

She munched her biscuit sorrowfully, and looked with steadfast eyes across the room. She supposed she would have to endure Miss Winstead, crosspatch as she was, and she did not enjoy the task which mother and Lord Jesus had set her.

The footman was in the act of helping Mr. Ogilvie to champagne, and Sibyl paused in her thoughts to watch the frothy wine as it filled the glass.

“Is it nice?” she inquired.

“Very nice, Sibyl. Would you like to taste it?”

“No, thank you, father. Nurse says if you drink wine when you’re a little girl, you grow up to be drunk as a hog.”

“My dear Sibyl,” cried the mother, “I really must speak to nurse. What a disgraceful thing to say!”

“Let us turn the subject,” said the father.

Sibyl turned it with a will.

“I ’spect I ought to ’fess to you,” she said. “I was cross myself to-day. Seems to me I’m not getting a bit perfect. I stamped my foot when Miss Winstead made me write all my spelling over again. Father, is it necessary for a little girl to spell long words?”

“You would not like to put wrong spelling into your letters to me, would you?” was the answer.

“I don’t think I’d much care,” said Sibyl, with a smile. “You’d know what I meant, wouldn’t you, whether I spelt the words right or not? All the same,” she added, “I’ll spell right if you wish it – I mean, I’ll try.”

“That’s a good girl. Now tell me what else you did naughty?”

“When Sibyl talks about her sins, would it not be best for her to do so in private?” said the mother again.

“But this is private,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “only her father and mother.”

Mrs. Ogilvie glanced at a footman who stood not far off, and who was in vain endeavoring to suppress a smile.

“I washed my doll’s clothes, although nurse told me not,” continued Sibyl, “and I made a mess in the night nursery. I spilt the water and wetted my pinny, and I would open the window, although it was raining. I ran downstairs, too, and asked Watson to give me a macaroon biscuit. He wasn’t to blame – Watson wasn’t.”

The unfortunate footman whose name was now introduced hastily turned his back, but his ears looked very red as he arranged some glasses on the sideboard.

“Father,” whispered Sibyl, “do you know that Watson has got a sweetheart, and – ”

“Hush! hush!” said Mr. Ogilvie, “go on with your confessions.”

“They’re rather sad, aren’t they, father? Now I come to think of it, they are very, very sad. I didn’t do one right thing to-day ’cept to make myself pretty. Miss Winstead was so angry, and so was nurse, but when I am with them I don’t mind a bit being naughty. I wouldn’t be a flabby good girl for all the world.”

“Oh, Angel, what is to become of you?” said her father.

Sibyl looked full at him, her eyes sparkled, then a curious change came into them. He was good – perfect; it was lovely to think of it, but she felt sure that she could never be perfect like that. All the same, she did not want to pain him. She slipped her small hand into his, and presently she whispered:

“I’ll do anything in all the world to please you and mother and Lord Jesus.”

“That is right,” said the father, who gave a swift thought at the moment to the temptation which he knew was already on its way, and which he would never yield to but for the sake of the child.

The rest of the dinner proceeded without many more remarks, and immediately afterwards Sibyl kissed both her parents and went upstairs.

“Good-night, little Spring,” said her father, and there was a note of pain in his voice.

She gave him an earnest hug, and then she whispered —

“Is it ’cos I’m a wicked girl you’re sad?”

“No,” he answered, “you are not wicked, my darling; you are the best, the sweetest in all the world.”

“Oh, no, father,” answered Sibyl, “that is not true. I am not the best nor the sweetest, and I wouldn’t like to be too good, ’cept for you. Good-night, darling father.”

Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie returned to the drawing-room.

“You spoil that child,” said the wife, “but it is on a par with everything else you do. You have no perception of what is right. I don’t pretend to be a good mother, but I don’t talk nonsense to Sibyl. She ought not to speak about nurse and governess before servants, and it is disgraceful of her to drag the footman and his concerns into the conversation at dinner. She ought not, also, to boast about doing naughty things.”

“I wish you would leave the child alone,” said Ogilvie in an annoyed voice; “she is good enough for me, little pet, and I would not have her altered for the world. But now, Mildred, to return to our cause of dissension before dinner, we must get this matter arranged. What do you mean to do about your invitation to Grayleigh Manor?”

“I have given you my views on that subject, Philip; I am going.”

“I would much rather you did not.”

“I am sorry.” Mrs. Ogilvie shrugged her shoulders. “I am willing to please you in all reasonable matters; this is unreasonable, therefore I shall take my own way.”

“It is impossible for me to accompany you.”

“I can live without you for a few days, and I shall take the child.”

“Sibyl! No, I do not wish it.”