It was Dante. That melodious language which had been her mother’s native tongue had always been dear to Beatrix, though it was only Miss Scales’ English lips from which she had learned it. Her mother had rarely spoken Italian in her presence. She had tried her best to become an Englishwoman. She turned over the familiar pages of the ‘Inferno’ till she came to the story of Paolo and Francesca. ‘Perhaps my mother’s history was like that,’ she said. ‘She may never have loved my father. Poor Francesca! And Dante had known her when she was a happy, innocent child. No wonder that he should write of her with infinite pity.’ Her thoughts wandered back to that dream-like time of childhood, in which her mother had been the chief figure in the picture of life. Poor mother! There was some deep sorrow--some inexpressible grief and mystery mixed up with those early years. Miss Scales brought her some tea, and was full of affectionate fussiness. ‘Dearest, kindest Miss Scales, if you would only go and have your dinner, and leave me quite alone,’ Beatrix entreated. ‘I know that perfect quiet will cure my headache.’ ‘I’ll only stop till you have finished your tea, my dear. Oh, by-the-bye, your papa did have a visitor this afternoon. Quite an event, is it not? Mr. Culverhouse called, and was in the library for the best part of an hour, Peacock tells me. I suppose it was about the schools, or the church, or something.’ ‘I suppose so,’ said Beatrix. Thank Heaven, Miss Scales did not suspect anything. Beatrix could bear anything better than people’s sympathy. There was much of her father’s reserve in her nature. She had never made a confidante of Isabella Scratchell, of whom she was so fond. Miss Scales went away to eat her lonely dinner. That meal was served for the governess and her pupil at half-past five o’clock in the cedar parlour--a pretty old room looking into the garden. Except on Sundays, when there was a dreary make-believe family dinner, Mr. Harefield dined alone at seven o’clock in the spacious dining-room. It would not be good for his daughter to dine so late, he said; and he could not dine earlier. On this pretext he contrived to secure to himself the solitude which his gloomy soul loved. He was a man who took no pleasure in eating or drinking. He consumed his food in an absent-minded manner, for the most part with an open book beside his plate, and could not have told any one what he had had for dinner half an hour after he had dined. Left to herself Beatrix lay upon the sofa, broad awake, with her arms folded above her head, still as a statue--waiting for her doom. That hung in some measure upon her father’s decision of to-day. But it was a resolute young soul which stood thus face to face with destiny--a soul capable of desperate things. Every line in the girl’s face told of decision. The firm lips were closely locked, the large dark eyes looked steadfastly forward, as if looking into the future and facing its worst issues.