not taught her to remember and love her father too?
Surely, she thought, her grandmother must have done so—of course she had, and she, undutiful child, must have forgotten it. It would all come back to her by and by—she should be able to remember what grannie had told her about her father; and she taxed her memory to the utmost to try to recall any such information—any allusion, even, to such a person having ever existed. It was all in vain; but as she thus explored the uttermost limits of her childish recollections, there came up a dim, shadowy remembrance of that vague suspicion which had been awakened long ago, when she was but a little child, and had dressed her hair with the purple flowers, and grandmother had seemed so displeased with her—she did not know why. She did not understand it then, and she did not understand it any better now. It was all so hazy and dim, she could make nothing of it.
Turning away in despair from that vain research, the restless thoughts took a new direction, and she began to wonder who and
