it was a quarter of an hour before i reached the parlor, for i did mend my frock in spite of my bit of temper. the cloth was laid for dinner—a spotless cloth, for mother was very particular about her table-linen—and the bright glass and the dinner-ware shone in the sunlight. i can see the room now: a long, low room, with four lattice-windows abreast, and a seat running the length of the windows; opposite the windows a huge fireplace, across which ran one heavy oaken beam bearing the date and the name of the maliphants, and supported by two stout masonry pillars, fashioned, tradition said, out of that same soft stone of which a great part of the abbey was built. two high-backed wooden chairs, with delicate spindle-rails, highly polished, and very elegant, stood close to the blaze. there was also a pretty inlaid satinwood table in the far corner that had belonged to mother's grandfather, and had been left to her; but the rest of the furniture was plain dark oak, and had been in the house ever since the maliphants had owned it. it was a sweet, cosey room, and if the windows, being old-fashioned and somewhat small, did not admit all the sunlight they might, they also did not let in the wind, of which there was plenty, for the parlor faced towards the sea, and the gales in winter were sometimes terrific.

we had another best-parlor, looking on the road, where were the piano and the upholstered furniture, covered in brown holland on common days; but though the pale yellow tabaret chairs and curtains looked very pretty when they were all uncovered, we none of us ever felt quite comfortable excepting in the big dwelling-room that looked over the marsh. how well i remember it that day when we were all there together! father sat by the fire with his boots and gaiters still on. he had been out for the first time after a severe attack of his complaint, and he was very irritable. i thought joyce might have helped him off with the heavy things, but no doubt he had refused; any offer of help was almost an insult to him. they used to say i took after father in that. he was bending over the fire that day, stretching out his fingers to the blaze—a powerful figure still, though somewhat worn with hard work and the sufferings which he never allowed to gain the upper-hand. but his back was not bent—an out-door life, whatever other marks it may leave, spares that one; his head was erect still—a remarkable head—the gray hair, thick and strong, sticking up in obstinate little tufts without any attempt at order or smoothness. it was not beautiful hair, for the tufts were quite straight, but at least it was very characteristic; i have never seen any quite like it. it was in keeping with the bushy eyebrows that had just the same defiant expression as the tufts of hair. the brow was high and prominent, the eyes keen and quick to change, the jaw heavy and somewhat sullen. at first sight it might not have been called a lovable face; it might rather have been called a stern, even an unbending one; but that it was really lovable is proved by the sure love and confidence with which it always inspired little children. they came to father naturally as they would have gone to the tenderest woman, and smiled in his face as though certain beforehand of the smile that would answer theirs in return. but father's face was sullen sometimes to a grown-up person. it looked very sullen as he sat by the fire that day. i knew in a moment that something had ruffled him.

mother seemed to be doing her best, however, to make up for the ill reception which her husband was giving his guest; and mother's best was a very pretty thing. she was a very pretty woman, and she looked her prettiest that day. she was tall—we were a tall family, i was the shortest of us all—and her height looked even greater than it was in the straight folds of the soft gray dress that suited so well with her fair skin. she had a fresh white cap on; the soft fluted frills came down in straight lines just below her ears, framing her face; and the bands of snow-white hair, that looked so pretty beside the fresh skin, were tucked away smoothly beneath it. mother's face was a young face still—as dainty in color as a little child's. joyce took her beauty from her.

mother was standing up in the middle of the room talking to the squire, who apparently was about to take his leave. joyce was putting the last touches to the dinner-table. she looked up at me in an appealing kind of way as i came in, and i felt sure that there had been some sort of difference between father and the squire. they often did have little differences, though they were the best of friends in reality; but i always secretly took father's side in every argument, and i never liked to see mother, as it were, making amends for what father had said. yet it was what she was doing now. "i'm sure, squire broderick," she was saying, "we take it very kindly of you to interest yourself in our affairs. laban is a little tetchy just now, but it's because he ain't well. he feels just as i do really."

father made an impatient sound with his lips at this, but mother went on just the same.

"i'm quite of your mind," she declared, shaking her head. "i've often said so to laban myself. we can't go against providence, and we must learn to take help where we can get it, though i know ofttimes it's just the hardest thing we have to do."

what could this speech mean? i was puzzled. i glanced at father. he sat quite silent, tapping his foot. i glanced at joyce. there was nothing in her manner to show that the subject under discussion had anything whatever to do with her. the squire had turned round as i came into the room, but mother kept him so to herself that he could do no more than give me a smile as i walked across and sat down in the window-seat.

"i know it would be the best in the end," mother went on, with a distressed look on her sweet old face.

it rather annoyed me at the time, simply because i saw that she was siding with the squire against father; but i have often remembered that, and many kindred looks since, and have wondered how it was that i never guessed at the anxiety of that tender spirit that labored so devotedly to cope with problems that were beyond its grasp.

"however," added mother, with the pretty smile that, after all, i remember more often than the knitted brow, "he'll come round himself in time. he always does see things the way you put them after a bit."

she said these words in a whisper, although they were really quite loud enough for any one to hear. i saw father smile. he was so fond of mother, and the words were so far from accurate, that he could afford to smile; for there were very few instances in which he came round to the squire's way of seeing things at that time, although he was very fond of the squire. the squire himself laughed aloud. he had a rich, rippling laugh; it did one good to hear it.

"no, no, ma'am," he said, "i can't agree to that; and no reason why it should be so either." he held out his hand to mother as he spoke.

"i must be off now," he added. "i ought to have gone long ago. we'll talk it over again another time."

"oh, won't you stay and have a bit of dinner with us, squire?" cried mother, in a disappointed voice. "it's just coming in. i know it's not what you have at home, but it is a fine piece of roast beef to-day."

"fie, fie, mrs. maliphant! don't you be so modest," said the squire, with his genial smile, buttoning up his overcoat as he spoke.

he always had a gay, easy manner towards the mother—something, i used to fancy, like what her own younger brother might have had towards her, or even her own son, although at that time i should have thought it impossible for a man as old to be mother's son at all. i suppose it was in consequence of that sad time in the past that he had grown to love her as i know he did.

"i don't often get a dinner such as i get at your table," added he; "but i can't stay to-day, for i'm due at home."

just the words that young man had used at the foot of the village street. i was determined to find out before the squire left whether that young man was staying at the manor or not.

"perhaps mr. broderick has visitors, mother," i suggested.

i glanced at joyce as i spoke. her cheeks were poppies.

"what makes you think so?" asked the squire, turning to me and frowning a little.

"we met a gentleman in town," said i, boldly, although my heart beat a little; "he helped us with the mare when she reared, and he said he was a friend of yours."

mother looked at me, and joyce blushed redder than ever. certainly, for a straightforward and simple young woman who had no more than her legitimate share of vanity, joyce had a most unfortunate trick of blushing. i know it was admired, but i never could see that folk must needs be more delicate of mind because they blushed, or more sensitive of heart because they cried. the squire frowned a little more and bit his lip.

"ah, it must have been frank," said he. "he did say he was going to walk into town this morning. my nephew," added he, in explanation, turning to mother. "captain forrester."

"your nephew!" exclaimed mother, quite reassured. "he must be but a lad."

"oh, not at all; he's a very well-grown man, and of an age to take care of himself," answered the squire, and it did not strike me then that he said it a little bitterly. "my sister is a great deal older than i am."

"of course i have seen mrs. forrester," said mother, "and i know she's a deal older than you are, but i never should have thought she had a grown-up son—and a captain, too!"

"oh yes, he's a captain," repeated the squire, and he took up his hat and stick from the corner of the room and put his hand on the door-knob. "good-bye, mr. maliphant," cried he, cheerily, without touching any more on the sore subject.

father did not reply, and he turned to me and held out his hand. "good-bye," he said, more seriously than it seemed to me the subject required. "i'm sorry the mare reared."

"see the squire to the door, joyce," said the mother. and joyce, blushing again, glided out into the hall and lifted the big latch.