uld: now all is
said. It is for you to judge whether it was worth the trouble or not."

He got up from his seat in a hurried way. "You would have me as--mad as
yourself," he said, then sat down again as quickly. "Come, Phil: if it
will please you, not to make a breach,--the first breach between us,--you
shall have your way. I consent to your looking into that matter about the
poor tenants. Your mind shall not be upset about that, even though I
don't enter into all your views."

"Thank you," I said; "but, father, that is not what it is."

"Then it is a piece of folly," he said angrily. "I suppose you mean--but
this is a matter in which I choose to judge for myself."

"You know what I mean," I said, as quietly as I could, "though I don't
myself know; that proves there is good reason for it. Will you do one
thing for me before I leave you? Come with me into the drawing-room--"

"What end," he said, with again the tremble in his voice, "is to be
served by that?"

"I don't very well know; but to look at her, you and I together, will
always do something for us, sir. As for breach, there can be no breach
when we stand there."

He got up, trembling like an old man, which he was, but which he never
looked like save at moments of emotion like this, and told me to take the
light; then stopped when he had got half-way across the room. "This is a
piece of theatrical sentimentality," he said. "No, Phil, I will not go. I
will not bring her into any such--Put down the lamp, and, if you will
take my advice, go to bed."

"At least," I said, "I will trouble you no more, father, to-night. So
long as you understand, there need be no more to say."

He gave me a very curt "good-night," and turned back to his papers,--the
letters with the black edge, either by my imagination or in reality,
always keeping uppermost. I went to my own room for my lamp, and then
alone proceeded to the silent shrine in which the portrait hung. I at
least would look at her to-night. I don't know whether I asked myself,
in so many words, if it were she who--or if it was any one--I knew
nothing; but my heart was drawn with a softness--born, perhaps, of the
great weakness in which I was left after that visitation--to her, to look
at her, to see, perhaps, if there was any sympathy, any approval in her
face. I set down my lamp on the table where her little work-basket still
was; the light threw a gleam upward upon her,--she seemed more than ever
to be stepping