s; perhaps he saw therein the wife who had
died when Nathanael was born, and whose death, people said, had chilled
the father's heart strangely against the poor babe.

"My son," he said, "you have been away from me nearly all your life--and
where I have given little, I can require little. But I am an old man.
Do not let me feel that you too are setting yourself against my grey
hairs."

"God knows, father, I would not for worlds! But what can I do? Anne,
what can I do?"

Anne rose, and leant over Mr. Harper's chair, like a privileged eldest
daughter who secretly strengthened with her judgment the wisdom that
was growing feeble through old age; doing it reverently, as we all would
wish our children to do when our own light grows dim. For, alas! the
wisest and firmest of us may come one day to mutter in the ears of
a younger generation the senile cry, "I am old and foolish--old and
foolish."

"Dear friend--if Nathanael follows out this plan, it will be for the
comfort and not the disquiet of your grey hairs. Think how pleasant
always to have a son at hand, and a young, pretty Mrs. Harper to
brighten Kingcombe Holm."

This was a wise thrust--the old gentleman looked in his
daughter-in-law's fair face, and bowed complacently.

"Then, too, your son will live in the country, lead the life that he
loves, and that you love--the very life which all these years you have
been vainly planning for his brother."

The Squire turned sharply round. "On that subject, if you please, we
will be silent. Anne, Anne," he added, "do you want again to turn my
plans aside? Would you take from me my other son also?"

She drew back, much wounded.

"No, no, my dear, I did not mean that. It was not your fault--you
two were not suited for each other. Nevertheless, in spite of your
wilfulness, in nothing but the name did I lose a daughter. Forgive me,
Anne!"

"My dear old friend," she whispered, and stole her fingers into the
withered palm of the Squire. He kissed them with the grace of an old
courtier: the tenderness of a father. She, though moved at his kindness,
betrayed no stronger emotion; and Agatha, who had watched intently
this little episode, confirmatory of an old suspicion of her own, was
considerably puzzled thereby. If Anne Valery's life contained any sad
secret, it was evidently not this. She had not remained an old maid for
love of Major Harper.

"Nathanael," said the old man, returning with dignity to the former
conversa