"I know that room well. See that my luggage is taken to a bedroom, and
pay the driver."

Mrs. Dolman entered the old house briskly. It felt quiet, remarkably
quiet, seeing that there was a large staff of servants and four
vigorous, healthy children to occupy it.

"Poor little orphans, I suppose they are dreadfully overcome," thought
the good lady to herself. "Well, I am glad I have appeared on the
scene. Poor David is just the sort of man who would forget everybody
else when he is in a state of grief. Of course I know he was
passionately attached to Evangeline, and she certainly was a charming,
although _quite_ incapable, creature. I suppose she was what would be
termed 'a man's woman.' Now, I have never any patience with them, and
when I think of those acres of land and--but, dear me! sometimes a
matter-of-fact, plain body like myself is useful in an emergency. The
emergency has arrived with a vengeance, and I am determined to take
the fortress by storm."

The little lady trotted down one or two passages, then turned abruptly
to her left, and knocked at a closed door. A voice said, "Come in."
She opened the door and entered. A man was standing with his back to
her in the deep embrasure of a mullioned window. His hands were
clasped behind his back; he was looking fixedly out. The window was
wide open.

"There, David, there! I knew you would take it hard; but have the
goodness to turn round and speak to me," said Mrs. Dolman.

When he heard these unexpected words, the master of Delaney Manor
turned with a visible start.

"My dear Jane, what have you come for?" he exclaimed. He advanced to
meet his sister, dismay evident on every line of his face.

"I knew you would not welcome me, David. Oh, no prevarications! if you
please. It is awful to think how many lies people tell in the cause of
politeness. When I undertook this wearisome journey from the north of
England, I knew I should not be welcome, but all the same I came; and,
David, when I have had a little talk with you, and when you have
unburdened your heart to me, you will feel your sorrow less."

"I would rather not touch on that subject," said Mr. Delaney. He
offered his sister a chair very quietly, and took another himself.

Father, as Iris used to say, was not the least like mother. Mother
had the gentlest, the sweetest, the most angelic face in the world;
she never spoke loudly, and she seldom laughed; her voice was low and
never was heard to rise to a