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Kiss Me, Too, Papa

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International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, Cal. · Jun 18, 1885

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 11, No. 24.

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Kiss Me, Too, Papa.

"HAND me that collar-button!" cried George Wellsby, turning with an annoyed air toward his little girl. "Learn to let things alone, will you? There, now, tune up and howl!"
"George, please don't speak to the child in that way," said Mrs. Wellsby, depositing a shirt for him on a chair.
"Well, why can't she behave herself? Every time she sees that I am getting ready to go any place, she makes a point of hindering me. Let that cravat alone!"
"Put down papa's cravat, darling," said the mother. "She's too young to know any better, George."
"No, she isn't! Other people's children know better. I am tempted sometimes to wish she had never been born."
"O George," exclaimed his wife, "I wouldn't say that!"
"Confound it! she worries me so. I haven't more than time to catch the train," he responded, hurriedly kissing his wife.
"Kiss me, too, papa!"
"I ought not; you are so bad;" but he stooped and kissed her. "Good-by; I'll be back in three or four days."
Mr. Wellsby is a commercial traveler, a kind and tender-hearted man, but subject at times to nervousness. Seated with several vivacious acquaintances speeding over the country, a little voice would steal in between the merry peals of laughter, saying, "Kiss me, too, papa."
In the sample-room of the village hotel, between the inquiries of purchasers, he could hear the voice; and when he laid down at night he could see the little hands reaching toward him, and could hear, "Kiss me, too, papa."
At morning, when the sunbeams fell across his bed, he thought of the bright little face at home, and said, "God forgive me for wishing that she had never been born!"
On a night train, going home, he could see the little hands, and hear the "Kiss me, too, papa."
"What's the news?" he asked a friend as he stepped upon the platform and called a hackman.
"Nothing, I believe; everything is quiet."
"No scarlet fever or diphtheria raging, is there?"
"No, none that I have heard of."
The familiar scenes brought rest to his mind. He looked back upon his trip with a shudder, as one wakes and contemplates a nightmare through which he has just passed.
"Good-night," he said, paying the hackman.
"A light burning! Julia is expecting me," he mused, ascending the steps.
A ghastly face met him at the door. A voice in agony whispered, "O George, our little girl is dead!"—Sel.