."

"Good gracious, Frances, I do hope that though adversity has come to the
house of Kane, you are not going so far to forget yourself as to stoop
to menial work at Arden. Why, rather than that--rather than that, it
would be better for us to give up the home of our fathers."

"No work need be menial, done in the right spirit," responded Frances.

Her eyes wandered away, far up among the trees, where Arnold still
slowly paced up and down. In the cause of pride her father might even be
induced to give up the Firs. Was love, then, to weigh nothing in the
scale?

She turned suddenly to the father.

"You must rest now," she said. "You need not be the least anxious on
your own account any more. You must rest and take things quietly, and
do your best not to get ill. It would be very bad for you to be ill now,
for there would be no one to nurse you. Remember that, and be careful.
Now go and sit in the parlor and keep out of draughts. I can not read to
you this morning, for I shall be very busy, and you must not call me nor
send for me unless it is absolutely necessary. Now, good-bye for the
present."

Frances did not, as her usual custom was, establish her father in his
easy-chair; she did not cut his morning paper for him, nor attend to the
one or two little comforts which he considered essential; she left him
without kissing him, only her full, grave, sorrowful eyes rested for one
moment with a look of great pathos on his wrinkled, discontented old
face, then she went away.

The squire was alone; even the irritating strain of "Sweethearts" no
longer annoyed him. Fluff had ceased to play--Fluff's gay little figure
was no longer visible; the man who had paced up and down under the
distant trees had disappeared; Frances's gray dress was nowhere to be
seen.

The whole place was still, oppressively still--not a bee hummed, not a
bird sung. The atmosphere was hot and dry, but there was no sunshine;
the trees were motionless, there was a feeling of coming thunder in the
air.

The squire felt calmed and triumphant, at the same time he felt
irritated and depressed. His anxiety was over; his daughter had done
what he wished her to do--the Firs was saved, at least for his
lifetime--the marriage he so dreaded was never to be. At the same time,
he felt dull and deserted; he knew what it was to have his desire, and
leanness in his soul. It would be very dull at the Firs without Frances;
he should miss her much when she went aw