It had grown dark, and the lady herself had lighted the candles on the mantelpiece. He was sitting immediately under a little group of lights in a florid branched candlestick, which threw a glow upon his baldness. Cara, unfavourably disposed, thought there was a sneer instead of a smile upon his face, which was partially in shade. ‘I have never been to school,’ said the girl, unreasonably angry at the imputation; and just then someone else came in--another gentleman, with whom Mrs. Meredith, who had advanced to meet him, lingered near the door. Mr. Somerville watched over Cara’s head, and certainly his smile had more amusement than benevolence in it. ‘Ah!’ he said again, ‘then you miss the delight of feeling free: no girl who has not been at school can understand the pleasure of not being at school any longer. Where have you been, then, while your father has been away?’ ‘With my aunts, at Sunninghill,’ said Cara, unnecessarily communicative, as is the habit of youth. ‘Ah, yes, with your aunts! I used to know some of your family. Look at her now,’ said the critic, more to himself than to Cara--‘this is a new phase. This one she is smoothing down.’ Cara could not help a furtive glance. The new comer had said something, she could not hear what, and stood half-defiant at the door. Mrs. Meredith’s smile spoke volumes. She held out her hand with a deprecating, conciliatory look. They could not hear what she said; but the low tone, the soft aspect, the extended hand, were full of meaning. The old gentleman burst into a broken, hoarse laugh. It was because the new-comer, melting all at once, took the lady’s hand and bowed low over it, as if performing an act of homage. Mr. Somerville laughed, but the stranger did not hear. ‘This is a great deal too instructive for you,’ he said. ‘Come and tell me about your aunts. You think me quite an old man, eh? and I think you quite a little girl.’ ‘I am not so young! I am seventeen.’ ‘Well! And I am seven-and-fifty--not old at all--a spruce and spry bachelor, quite ready to make love to any one; but such are the erroneous ideas we entertain of each other. Have you known Mrs. Meredith a long time? or is this your first acquaintance?’ ‘Oh, a very long time--almost since ever I was born!’ ‘And I have known her nearly twenty years longer than that. Are you very fond of her? Yes, most people are. So is your father, I suppose, like the rest. But now you are the mistress of the house, eh? you should not let your natural-born subjects stray out of your kingdom o’ nights.’ ‘I have not any kingdom,’ said Cara, mournfully. ‘The house is so sad. I should like to change it if papa would consent.’ ‘That would be very good,’ said the volunteer counsellor, with alacrity. ‘You could not do anything better, and I dare say he will do it if you say so. A man has a great deal of tenderness for his wife’s only child when he has lost her. You have your own love and the other too.’