a visit to
certain other friends; shortly after six o'clock they took their
departure. While Emily and Mrs. Hood were seeing them away at the door,
Hood went upstairs to his laboratory.

'Emily, come here,' Mrs. Hood said, with anxious earnestness, leading
the way back into the sitting-room. And, when the door was closed--

'My dear, what _is_ the matter with him? Don't you notice his
strangeness?'

'Yes, mother, I do.'

'Can he have--It's a thing he never does! You know what I mean? That
Cheeseman has been taking him to a public-house; I am sure of it.'

Emily had had no such thought. To her a squalid horror clung about the
suggestion. To picture her father in such circumstances was to realise a
fresh fall into degradation, no doubt the inevitable consequence of that
she already knew of. There was a painful stricture at her heart; a cry
of despair all but found utterance.

Her father's voice was calling from the stair-head--'Emily!' She darted
to the door in momentary terror and replied.

'Will you come up?' Hood said; 'I want you.'

She ascended to the garret. Hood was standing with his back to the
little window, so that his face was shadowed. Emily moved to the table,
and, with her hands resting upon it, her eyes bent, stood waiting.

'Emily,' he began, still with a remnant of artificial pleasantry, though
his voice was not entirely under control, 'I want to explain that
money-matter to you. It doesn't look well; I am a good deal ashamed of
myself; if I was a boy I should deserve a whipping for telling a fib,
shouldn't I?'

It was impossible to make reply to such words.

'The truth is this,' he went on more nervously; 'we've been in a little
difficulty, your mother and I, that we didn't see any good in troubling
you about. In fact, there's a raising of rent, and one or two other
little things. When I was in Hebsworth yesterday I had an opportunity of
borrowing ten pounds, and I thought it better to do so. Then I met
Cheeseman, and it was his mention of the debt put into my head the
stupid thought of trying to spare your mother anxiety. Of course, such
tricks never succeed; I might have known it. But there, that's the truth
of the matter, and I'm easier now--now I've told it.'

Her heart bled for him, so dreadful to her ears was the choking of his
voice upon the last words. At the same time she was hot with anguish of
shame. He stood before her a wretched culprit, hiding his guilt with lie
upon lie; he,