cia Melrose. You knew
me when I was a child. And I wish to see my father."

Mrs. Dixon's face seemed to have fallen into chaos under the shock. She
stood staring at the visitor, her mouth working.

"Muster Melrose's daeater!" she said, at last. "T' baby--as was! Aye--yo'
feature him! An' yo're stayin' ower ta Duddon--wi' her ladyship. I know.
Dixon towd me. Bit yo' shouldna' coom here, Missie! Yo' canno' see your
feyther."

"Why not?" said Felicia imperiously. "I mean to see him. Here I am in the
house. Take me to him at once!"

And suddenly closing the entrance door behind her, she moved on toward an
inner passage dimly lit, of which she had caught sight.

Mrs. Dixon clung to her arm.

"Noa, noa! Coom in here, Missie--coom in _here_! Dixon!--where are yo'?
Dixon!"

She raised her voice. A chair was pushed back in the kitchen, on the
other side of the passage. An old man who, to judge from his aspect, had
been roused by his wife's call from a nap after his tea, appeared in a
doorway.

Mrs. Dixon drew Felicia toward him, and into the kitchen, as he retreated
thither. Then she shut and bolted the door.

"This is t' yoong lady!" she said in a breathless whisper to her husband.
"Muster-Melrose's daeater! She's coom fra Duddon. An' she's fer seein' her
feyther."

Old Dixon had grown very pale. But otherwise he showed no surprise. He
looked frowning at Felicia.

"Yo' canno' do that, Miss Melrose. Yo'r feyther wunna see yo'. He's an
owd man noo, and we darena disturb him."

Felicia argued with the pair, first quietly, then with a heaving breast,
and some angry tears. Dixon soon dropped the struggle, so far as words
went. He left that to his wife. But he stood firmly against the door,
looking on.

"You shan't keep me here!" said Felicia at last with a stamp. "I'll call
some one! I'll make a noise!"

A queer, humorous look twinkled over Dixon's face. Then--suddenly--he
moved from the door. His expression had grown hesitating--soft.

"Varra well, then. Yo' shall goa--if you mun goa."

His wife protested. He turned upon her.

"She shall goa!" he repeated, striking the dresser beside him. "Her
feyther's an old man--an' sick. Mebbe he'll be meetin' his Maeaker face to
face, before the year's oot; yo' canno' tell. He's weakenin' fasst. An'
he's ben a hard mon to his awn flesh and blood. There'll be a reckonin'!
An' the Lord's sent him this yan chance o' repentance. I'll not stan' i'
the Lord's way--whativer. Co