e eyes did not brighten. Yet hardly should I call him a
masterful man.

"I think it's all right," whispered Hasluck to my father in the
passage--they were the last to go. "What does she think of it, eh?"

"I think she'll be with us," answered my father.

"Nothing like food for bringing people together," said Hasluck.
"Good-night."

The door closed, but Something had crept into the house. It stood
between my father and mother. It followed them silently up the narrow
creaking stairs.

CHAPTER VII.

OF THE PASSING OF THE SHADOW.

Better is little, than treasure and trouble therewith. Better a dinner
of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. None
but a great man would have dared to utter such a glaring commonplace as
that. Not only on Sundays now, but all the week, came the hot joint to
table, and on every day there was pudding, till a body grew indifferent
to pudding; thus a joy-giving luxury of life being lost and but another
item added to the long list of uninteresting needs. Now we could eat and
drink without stint. No need now to organise for the morrow's hash.
No need now to cut one's bread instead of breaking it, thinking of
Saturday's bread pudding. But there the saying fails, for never now were
we merry. A silent unseen guest sat with us at the board, so that no
longer we laughed and teased as over the half pound of sausages or the
two sweet-scented herrings; but talked constrainedly of empty things
that lay outside us.

Easy enough would it have been for us to move to Guilford Street.
Occasionally in the spiritless tones in which they now spoke on all
subjects save the one, my mother and father would discuss the project;
but always into the conversation would fall, sooner or later, some
loosened thought to stir it to anger, and so the aching months went by,
and the cloud grew.

Then one day the news came that old Teidelmann had died suddenly in his
counting house.

"You are going to her?" said my mother.

"I have been sent for," said my father; "I must--it may mean business."

My mother laughed bitterly; why, at the time, I could not understand;
and my father flung out of the house. During the many hours that he was
away my mother remained locked in her room, and, stealing sometimes to
the door, I was sure I heard her crying; and that she should grieve so
at old Teidelmann's death puzzled me.

She came oftener to our house after that. Her mourning added, I think,
to her