have been lonely to-night." And poor Dad, who has been lonely—oh, so lonely!—ever since Ninette died, shook hands with him, and said: "If my daughter and I can keep you from feeling lonely, we shall be so glad. We are stopping at The Plaza, and we dine at half past seven." Then Mr. Porter found us a taxi-cab, and away we went. It was good to be in America again. I made Dad stop the car, and have the top put back, even though it was freezing cold, for I had never been in New York before (when I'd gone to France, I had sailed from New Orleans) and I wanted to see everything. The tall buildings, the elevated, even the bad paving till we got to Fifth Avenue, interested me immensely, as they would any one to whom. Paris had been home, and New York a foreign city. Not that I had ever thought of Paris as my real home; home was, where my heart was—with Dad. I tried to make him understand how, happy I was to be with him, how I had missed him, and California. "So you missed your old father; did you, girlie?" "Yes, Dad." "And you'll be glad to go to California?" "Oh, so glad!" "Then," said Dad, "we'll start tomorrow." Our rooms at the hotel were perfect; there was a bed room and bath for me a bed room and bath for Dad, with a sitting room between, all facing the Park. And there were roses everywhere; huge American Beauties, dear, wee, pink roses, roses of flaming red. I turned to Dad, who was standing in the middle of the sitting room, beaming at me. "You delightful old spendthrift!" I cried. "What do you mean by buying millions of roses? And in the middle of January too! You deserve to be disciplined, and you shall be." "Discipline is an excellent thing; even if it does disturb the set of one's tie," Dad remarked thoughtfully, a moment later. "I couldn't help hugging you, Daddy." "My dear, that hug of yours was the sweetest thing that has happened to your dad in many a long year." And then, of course, I had to hug him again. After luncheon (we had it in our sitting room) Dad asked if I would enjoy a drive through the Park.