Jeremiah Pamflett was in the miser's room when Phoebe entered. Miser Farebrother looked very ill; his face was white and pinched, his lips were drawn in. Phoebe's heart sank, and a feeling of remorse shot through her as she gazed upon his suffering face. She was his daughter--his only child--and he had a claim upon her love and obedience. Was it not her dear aunt Leth who had said as much? She knew that this plain setting forth of a child's duty to her parents was no false declaration; it was her aunt's belief. Well, she would perform her duty to the uttermost of her strength; but to one thing she was resolved. "Sit here," said Miser Farebrother. Phoebe took the chair he indicated; it was between him and Jeremiah Pamflett, and as she passed her enemy she drew herself carefully from him. He noted this avoidance, but made no comment upon it. At present his case was in his master's hands. "You are well?" asked Miser Farebrother. "Not quite well, father," said Phoebe. "But well enough," he retorted. "You have a long life before you. Look at me. How long do you think I shall live?" "Many years, I hope, father." "We shall see whether you do hope it. It must be plain to you that I am ill--seriously ill." "I am very sorry, father." "We shall see whether you are sorry. What is a man to believe in? Words? No. Actions speak, not words. False sympathy, lying protestations--what are they worth? Those who use them ought to be trodden in the mud. You hope I shall live many years. We shall see. I have not long to live, I tell you; but you can hasten my death; you can murder me." "Father!" cried Phoebe, in terror. "Murder you!" "Murder me. You can do it. If I were to implore you to spare me--to let me live, would you grant my prayer, or would you carry out your wicked designs? We shall see--we shall see. You perceive that I am suffering, and you say you are sorry. Your dead mother knows how far you are speaking the truth; I do not--as yet. It has to be made clear to me. You are my daughter, are you not?" "Yes, father." "What kind of love have you given me? What kind of care have you bestowed upon me? For years I have been groaning and suffering here, and you--what have you been doing? Have you attended to me, have you nursed me, have you shown one spark of a daughter's proper feelings? No, not one--not one. Gadding about, going to theatres, dancing, making light friends, laughing, singing, ministering to your vanities, while I, your father, have lain here, cut to the soul by your coldness and want of decent feeling. If it was not in you, you might have pretended it was, and I should have been deceived. It would have made it no better for you, but it might have been better for me. You know that I have a doctor attending me?" "Yes, father."