uire's house
Carry Brattle had been nearly two months at the mill. During that
time both Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick had seen her more than once, and at
last she had been persuaded to go to church with her sister. On the
previous Sunday she had crept through the village at Fanny's side,
and had taken a place provided for her in the dark corner of a dark
pew under the protection of a thick veil. Fanny walked with her
boldly across the village street, as though she were not in any
slightest degree ashamed of her companion, and sat by her side, and
then conveyed her home. On the next Sunday the sacrament would be
given, and this was done in preparation for that day.

Things had not gone very pleasantly at the mill. Up to this moment
old Brattle had expressed no forgiveness towards his daughter, had
uttered no word of affection to her, had made no sign that he had
again taken her to his bosom as his own child. He had spoken to her,
because in the narrow confines of their home it was almost impossible
that he should live in the house with her without doing so. Carry had
gradually fallen into the way of doing her share of the daily work.
She cooked, and baked, and strove hard that her presence in the house
should be found to be a comfort. She was useful, and the very fact of
her utility brought her father into a certain state of communion with
her; but he never addressed her specially, never called her by her
name, and had not yet even acknowledged to his wife or to Fanny that
he recognised her as one of the family. They had chosen to bring her
in against his will, and he would not turn their guest from the door.
It was thus that he seemed to regard his daughter's presence in the
mill-house.

Under this treatment Carry was becoming restive and impatient. On
such an occasion as that of going to church and exposing herself to
the eyes of those who had known her as an innocent, laughing, saucy
girl, she could not but be humble, quiet, and awestruck; but at home
she was beginning again gradually to assert her own character. "If
father won't speak to me, I'd better go," she said to Fanny.

"And where will you go to, Carry?"

"I dun' know;--into the mill-pond would be best for them as belongs
to me. I suppose there ain't anybody as 'd have me?"

"Nobody can have you as will love you as we do, Carry."

"Why won't father come round and speak to me? You can't tell what
it is to have him looking at one that way. I sometimes feels like