ch as
him. 'T was my fault for not remindin' you. An' yet I did, now an'
again, but you wouldn't see it. Yet you knawed in your heart, an' I
didn't like to pain 'e dwellin' on it overmuch."

"How did I knaw? I didn't knaw nothin' 't all 'bout it. How should I? Me
grawin' aulder an' aulder, an' leanin' more an' more 'pon 'e at every
turn. An' him no friend to me--he 's never sought to win me--he 's--"

"Doan't 'e taake on 'bout Will, dearie; you'll come to knaw un better
bimebye. I ban't gwaine so far arter all; an' it's got to be."

Then the miller worked himself into a passion, dared Chown to take his
daughter's boxes, and made a scene very painful to witness and quite
futile in its effect. Phoebe could be strong at times, and a life's
knowledge of her father helped her now. She told Chown to get the boxes
and bade Billy help him; she then followed Mr. Lyddon, who was rambling
away, according to his custom at moments of great sorrow, to pour his
troubles into any ear that would listen. She put her arm through his,
drew him to the riverside and spoke words that showed she had developed
mentally of late. She was a woman with her father, cooed pleasantly to
him, foretold good things, and implored him to have greater care of his
health and her love than to court illness by this display of passion.
Such treatment had sufficed to calm the miller in many of his moods, for
she possessed great power to soothe him, and Mr. Lyddon now set
increased store upon his daughter's judgment; but to-day, before this
dreadful calamity, every word and affectionate device was fruitless and
only made the matter worse. He stormed on, and Phoebe's superior manner
vanished as he did so, for she could only play such a part if quite
unopposed in it. Now her father silenced her, frightened her, and dared
her to leave him; but his tragic temper changed when they returned to
the farm and he found his daughter's goods were really gone. Then the
old man grew very silent, for the inexorable certainty of the thing
about to happen was brought home to him at last.

Before a closed hackney carriage from the hotel arrived to carry Phoebe
to Newtake, Miller Lyddon passed through a variety of moods, and another
outburst succeeded his sentimental silence. When the vehicle was at the
gate, however, his daughter found tears in his eyes upon entering the
kitchen suddenly to wish him "good-by." But he brushed them away at
sight of her, and spoke roughly and told