looked at her in that way before, and now he would never look
with the old kindness. What a change had been wrought in these few
minutes!

And Sidney never anything but her friend--cold, meaningless word! If he
knew how she had fallen, would that be likely to bring him nearer to
her? She had lost both things, that was all.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE DEBT REPAID

She rose early, in the murky cola of the winter morning. When, at eight
o'clock, she knocked as usual at her grandfather's door his answer made
her tremble.

'I shall be down in a few minutes, Jane; I'll have breakfast with you.'

It was long since he had risen at this hour. His voice sounded less
like that of an old man, and, in spite of his calling her by her name,
she felt the tone to be severe. When he reached the parlour he did not
offer to take her hand, and she feared to approach him. She saw that
his features bore the mark of sleeplessness. Hers, poor girl! were yet
more woeful in their pallor.

Through the meal he affected to occupy himself with the book Miss Lant
had sent--the sight of which was intolerable to Jane. And not for a
full hour did he speak anything but casual words. Jane had taken her
sewing; unexpectedly he addressed her.

'Let's have a word or two together, Jane. I think we ought to, oughtn't
we?'

She forced herself to regard him.

'I think you meant what you said last night?'

'Grandfather, I will do whatever you bid me. I'll do it faithfully. I
was ungrateful. I feel ashamed to have spoken so.'

'That's nothing to do with it, Jane. You're not ungrateful; anything
but that. But I've had a night to think over your words. You couldn't
speak like that if you weren't driven to it by the strongest feeling
you ever knew or will know. I hadn't thought of it in that way; I
hadn't thought of you in that way.'

He began gently, but in the last words was a touch of reproof, almost
of scorn. He gazed at her from under his grey eyebrows, perhaps hoping
to elicit some resistance of her spirit, some sign of strength that
would help him to reconstruct his shattered ideal.

'Grandfather, I'll try with all my strength to be what you wish--I
will!'

'And suppose the strength isn't sufficient, child?'

Even in her humility she could not but feel that this was unjust. Had
she ever boasted? Had she ever done more than promise tremblingly what
he demanded? But the fear was legitimate. A weak thing, all but
heart-broken, could she hope t