oposed
that she and Maud should take a drive somewhere.

Mrs. Halifax eagerly assented. "Lady Oldtower has been wanting them
both for some time. You would like to go, would you not, for a day or
two?" said she, addressing the governess.

Guy caught at this. "Going away, are you? When?"

He put the question to Miss Silver direct--his eyes blazing right into
her own. She made some confused reply, about "leaving immediately."

"In the carriage, of course? Shall I have the honour of driving you?"

"No," said Edwin, decisively.

A fierce, vindictive look passed between the brothers--a look terrible
in itself--more terrible in its warning of days to come. No wonder the
mother shuddered--no wonder the young betrothed, pale and alarmed,
slipped out of the room. Edwin followed her. Then Guy, snatching up
his sister, lifted her roughly on his knee.

"Come along, Maud. You'll be my girl now. Nobody else wants you. Kiss
me, child."

But the little lady drew back.

"So, you hate me too? Edwin has been teaching you? Very well. Get
away, you cheat!"

He pushed her violently aside. Maud began to cry.

Her father looked up from his book--the book he had not been
reading--though he had seemingly thought it best to take no notice of
what was passing around him.

"Come here, Maud, my child. Guy, you should not be unkind to your
little sister. Try and command yourself, my dear boy!"

The words, though spoken gently, almost in a whisper, were more than
the lad's chafed spirit could brook.

"Father, you insult me. I will not bear it. I will quit the room."

He went out, shutting the door passionately after him. His mother rose
up to follow him--then sat down again. The eyes that she lifted to her
husband were deprecating, beseeching, heavy with a speechless pain.

For John--he said nothing. Not though, as was plain to see, this, the
first angry or disrespectful word he had ever received from any one of
his children, struck him like an arrow; for a moment stirred him even
to wrath--holy wrath--the just displeasure of a father who feels that
the least portion of his child's sin is the sin against him. Perhaps
this very feeling, distinct from, and far beyond, all personal
indignation, all sense of offended dignity, made the anger strangely
brief--so brief, that when the other children, awed and startled,
looked for some ebullition of it--lo! it was all gone. In its stead
was something at which the chil