her usual early hour, and, going down-stairs, occupied
herself first in the house, and then with Watkins in the garden. She
rather dreaded Philip's appearance, but if he were up early he did not
come out, and when Frances met him at breakfast his face wore a tired,
rather bored expression. He took little or no notice of her, but he
devoted himself to Fluff, laughing at her gay witty sallies, and trying
to draw her out.

After breakfast Frances had a long conversation with her father. She
then told him what she meant to do in order that he might continue to
live at the Firs. She told her story in a very simple, ungarnished
manner, but she said a few words in a tone which rather puzzled the
squire at the end.

"I will now tell you," she said, "that when Philip wrote to me asking me
to be his wife I was very, very glad. For all the long years of his
absence I had loved him, and when I thought he was dead I was
heart-broken. I meant to marry him after he wrote me that letter, but I
would not say so at once, for I knew that I had grown much older, and I
thought it quite possible that when he saw me he might cease to love me.
That is not the case; last night he let me see into his heart, and he
loves me very, very deeply. Still, if your creditor consents to the
arrangement I have proposed, I can not marry Philip--I shall then
absolutely and forever refuse him. But I do this for you, father, for my
heart is Philip's. I wish you to understand, therefore, that I could not
give up more for you than I am doing. It would be a comfort for me if,
in return, you would give me a little affection."

Frances stood tall and straight and pale by her father's side. She now
looked full into his face. There were no tears in her eyes, but there
was the passion of a great cry in the voice which she tried to render
calm.

The squire was agitated in spite of himself; he was glad Fluff was not
present. He had an uneasy consciousness of certain words Fluff had said
to him yesterday.

"You are a good girl, Frances," he said, rising to his feet and laying
his trembling old hand on her arm. "I love you after my fashion,
child--I am not a man of many words. By and by, when you are old
yourself, Frances, you won't regret having done something to keep your
old father for a short time longer out of his grave. After all, even
with your utmost endeavor, I am not likely to trouble any one long. When
I am dead and gone, you can marry Philip Arnold, Fra