h better--'

'What does she mean by behaving in this way?' resumed the angry voice,
before Mary had read to the end. 'What does she mean by it? Who gave her
leave to stay longer? Not a word of explanation. How does she know it
will make no difference to me? What does she mean by it?'

'The fine weather has tempted them,' replied Mary. 'I daresay they want
to go somewhere.'

'What right has she to make the change at a moment's notice?'
vociferated the father, his voice suddenly recovering its old power,
his cheeks and neck suffused with red wrath. 'And hopes she will find me
better. What does _she_ care whether she finds me alive or dead?'

'Oh, don't say that! You wouldn't let her know that you were worse.'

'What does it mean? I hate this deceitful behaviour! She knew before, of
course she knew; and she left it to the last moment, so that I couldn't
write and prevent her from staying. As if I should have wished to! As
if I cared a brass farthing how long she stays, or, for that matter,
whether I ever see her again!'

He checked the course of his furious speech, and stood staring at the
letter.

'What did you say?' He spoke now in a hoarse undertone. 'You thought
they were going somewhere?'

'Last year there used to be steamers that went to places on certain
days--'

'Nonsense! She wouldn't alter all their plans for that. It's something I
am not to know--of course it is. She's deceitful--like all women.'

He met Mary's eye, suddenly turned upon him. His own fell before it, and
without speaking again he went into the house.

In half-an-hour's time his bell rang, and not Mary, but the young
servant responded. According to her directions, she knocked at the door,
and, without opening it, asked her master's pleasure. Mr. Lord said that
he was going out, and would not require a meal till late in the evening.

It was nearly ten o'clock when he returned. Mary, sitting in the front
room, rose at his entrance.

'I want nothing,' he said. 'I've been to the Barmbys'.' Voice and
movements proved how the effort had taxed him. In sitting down,
he trembled; fever was in his eyes, and pain in every line of his
countenance.

Mary handed him a letter; it came from Horace, and was an intimation
that the young gentleman would not return to-night, but to-morrow. When
Mr. Lord had read it, he jerked a contemptuous laugh, and threw the
sheet of note-paper across the table.

'There you are. Not much to choose between daughte