John Martin had spared no money in educating Gladys, and she
did him credit. He thought so now, as exhausted from a hard day's
poring over letters, he paused and leaned his back against a tree. A
gentle breeze blew her notes to him, full of melody and mirth; fresh
and young and tender--as tender as the rosebuds and violets that
nestled at her bosom.
"By Jove!" John Martin murmured. "Fancy my having a daughter like
Gladys! I ought to be jolly well pleased. And so I am. The only thing
I fear, is, that she'll marry some one who isn't half good enough for
her! But who would be good enough for her! God alone knows! And God
alone knows whether she or I ought to decide! Gladys!"
"Hulloa!", and the next moment a vision in pink emerged from the
bushes.
"Gladys, I want to confide in you!"
"What's wrong, Daddy, dear?" Gladys said, thrusting an arm through his
and walking him gently along with her through the glade. "You weren't
at all nice to me when we parted this morning, but you look so wearied
that I'll be magnanimous and forgive you. What is it?"
"Why it's like this!'" John Martin said, putting his arm round her and
holding her close to him, as he used to do when, a little girl, she
came sidling up to him for sugar-plums. "Poor Dick's affairs are in a
terrible muddle. Unknown to me he speculated right and left, and he
has not only muddled through everything he had, but he has left a
number of debts, and unfortunately I have to meet them.
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