Roger Mornington was quite a dandy in his way, and had belonged to a good old stock; but his father ran away when a boy, and went to sea, and disgraced his aristocratic friends; and Roger used to say, that he had all the gentlemanly propensities, minus the cash.
"He doted upon me.

'His dear little jockey!' as he used to call me; and I always ran out to meet him when he came home, with loud shouts of joy.

But there came a night, when Roger Mornington did not return; and several days passed away, and he was at length found dead in a lonely part of the park.

The high-spirited horse he rode had thrown him, and his neck was broken by the fall--and the horse not returning to the stables, but making off to the high road, no alarm had been excited at the absence of his rider.
"My mother was sincerely grieved for his death; he was a kind, indulgent husband to her; and it was the first severe pang of sorrow that my young heart had ever known.
"The day after his funeral, I was sitting crying beside the fire, holding my untasted breakfast on my knee.
"'Don't take on so, child,' said my mother, wiping the tears from her own eyes.

'All the tears in the world won't bring back the dead.' "'And will dear daddy never come home again ?' I sobbed.