uch kindness to the girls,--a
kindness that was more akin to the gentleness of love than had
ever come from him before. Lily's fate had seemed to melt even his
sternness, and he had striven to be tender in his words and ways.
And now he spoke as though he had loved the girls, and had loved
them in vain. Doubtless he had been a disagreeable neighbour to his
sister-in-law, making her feel that it was never for her personally
that he had opened his hand. Doubtless he had been moved by an
unconscious desire to undermine and take upon himself her authority
with her own children. Doubtless he had looked askance at her from
the first day of her marriage with his brother. She had been keenly
alive to all this since she had first known him, and more keenly
alive to it than ever since the failure of those efforts she had made
to live with him on terms of affection, made during the first year or
two of her residence at the Small House. But, nevertheless, in spite
of all, her heart bled for him now. She had gained her victory over
him, having fully held her own position with her children; but now,
that he complained that he had been beaten in the struggle, her heart
bled for him.

"My brother," she said, and as she spoke she offered him her hands,
"it may be that we have not thought as kindly of each other as we
should have done."

"I have endeavoured," said the old man. "I have endeavoured--" And
then he stopped, either hindered by some excess of emotion, or unable
to find the words which were necessary for the expression of his
meaning.

"Let us endeavour once again,--both of us."

"What, begin again at near seventy! No, Mary, there is no more
beginning again for me. All this shall make no difference to the
girls. As long as I am here they shall have the house. If they marry,
I will do for them what I can. I believe Bernard is much in earnest
in his suit, and if Bell will listen to him, she shall still be
welcomed here as mistress of Allington. What you have said shall make
no difference;--but as to beginning again, it is simply impossible."

After that Mrs Dale walked home through the garden by herself. He had
studiously told her that that house in which they lived should be
lent, not to her, but to her children, during his lifetime. He had
positively declined the offer of her warmer regard. He had made her
understand that they were to look on each other almost as enemies;
but that she, enemy as she was, should still be a