"Maybe yes, and maybe no," Mary answered. "Don't you be too sure, Mr. Meads. There's often a deal more known by folks around than you think for. You needn't look at me like that. I don't know where you keep your hoard,—no, nor I don't want to. The gold that can kill your love for your own child has a curse upon it, and I wouldn't finger it if I could. But it'll be taken from you some day, or you'll be taken from it. And what'll you have then?" Daisy's tears were at an end. She had lain silently listening thus far, and now she stretched out both hands to him, saying, "Father, don't you love me?" Isaac made no answer. He stared fixedly at Mary Davis, muttering, "I've got it safe." "Then keep it safe, if you will," answered Mary, who was losing patience. "But don't make believe you haven't got pence when you've got pounds, for I can't stand it." "Nursie, don't be angry with him," said Daisy softly. "He can't understand." "I'm angry with him for your sake, Daisy," Mary answered, drawing a long breath. "How ever you stand it all as you do, passes me. I don't feel like a Christian when I see him." "But you must," said Daisy quietly; and then again she asked, "Father, don't you love me at all?" Isaac made no response. He did not seem to take in the sense of Daisy's question, for Mary's words were still haunting him, and he could only think of one thing at a time. Daisy's lips quivered, and her eyes filled anew, and Mary thought the scene had lasted long enough for her. "Come, Mr. Meads," she said, "it's time you should go. Say good-bye to Daisy." "Good-bye, father," Daisy said submissively. "You'll come again, to-morrow, won't you?" Isaac made no attempt to remain. He went slowly back into the parlour, and there sat until bed-time, lost in helpless thought. What could Mary Davis mean? How should anybody be aware of his carefully-guarded hoard? Mary Davis had spoken, on the impulse of the moment, that which her womanly common-sense dictated to her. She had no doubt whatever that Mr. Meads really did possess a considerable amount of money. She knew that the conjectures of other people on this head amounted to almost certainty. She felt it to be by no means unlikely that an attempt might some day be made by evil-disposed persons to discover his supposed hoards. She remembered that at his age he must in any case soon leave all that he had. Her words were the outcome of these thoughts. Mary spoke under impulse, not at all expecting to make so deep an impression on him. But a strange thing happened, following upon her words,—especially strange in that it did so closely follow after them. Isaac retired at his usual time, taking his solitary candle to the bedroom, bolting the door, drawing the window-curtains closer, peering suspiciously under the bed and the wardrobe.