The sudden and unexpected passion of the speaker, the incomprehensible change in his voice, and the utterly disproportionate exaggeration of his attitude towards his daughters, enforced an instantaneous silence. The rain began to drip audibly at the window, the rush of the river sounded distinctly from without, even the shaking of the front part of the dwelling by the distant gale became perceptible. An angry flash sprang for an instant to the young assistant's eye, but it met the cautious glance of his friend, and together both discreetly sought the table. The two girls alone remained white and collected. “Will you go on with my fortune, Mr. Grant?” said Phemie quietly. A certain respect, perhaps not before observable, was suggested in the surveyor's tone as he smilingly replied, “Certainly, I was only waiting for you to show your confidence in me,” and took up the cards. Mr. Harkutt coughed. “It looks as if that blamed wind had blown suthin' loose in the store,” he said affectedly. “I reckon I'll go and see.” He hesitated a moment and then disappeared in the passage. Yet even here he stood irresolute, looking at the closed door behind him, and passing his hand over his still flushed face. Presently he slowly and abstractedly ascended the flight of steps, entered the smaller passage that led to the back door of the shop and opened it. He was at first a little startled at the halo of light from the still glowing stove, which the greater obscurity of the long room had heightened rather than diminished. Then he passed behind the counter, but here the box of biscuits which occupied the centre and cast a shadow over it compelled him to grope vaguely for what he sought. Then he stopped suddenly, the paper he had just found dropping from his fingers, and said sharply,-- “Who's there?” “Me, pop.” “John Milton?” “Yes, sir.” “What the devil are you doin' there, sir?” “Readin'.” It was true. The boy was half reclining in a most distorted posture on two chairs, his figure in deep shadow, but his book was raised above his head so as to catch the red glow of the stove on the printed page. Even then his father's angry interruption scarcely diverted his preoccupation; he raised himself in his chair mechanically, with his eyes still fixed on his book. Seeing which his father quickly regained the paper, but continued his objurgation. “How dare you? Clear off to bed, will you! Do you hear me? Pretty goin's on,” he added as if to justify his indignation. “Sneakin' in here and--and lyin' 'round at this time o' night! Why, if I hadn't come in here to”-- “What?” asked the boy mechanically, catching vaguely at the unfinished sentence and staring automatically at the paper in his father's hand. “Nothin', sir! Go to bed, I tell you! Will you? What are you standin' gawpin' at?” continued Harkutt furiously.