There are some truths which make themselves felt without being thought out, far less spoken or put into words, and one truth was present to him then. The moment the faintest question of obligation creeps into close relationship between one and another person, and that the suspicion of gratitude becomes _possible_, that moment the character of the subsisting love changes in a subtle way. Between friend and friend it is different; there often one receives, the other gives; but in the case of near relations the expectation of a little gratitude makes the difference between them. Among sisters a sort of communism is one of the uniting ties; a common property, a right to share, and one of the disappointments of life is when from some outside influence or some change in position, this close tie drifts into a relative position of inequality. Mr. Sandford knew that in befriending and adopting his wife's nieces, who were no kin to him, he was acting in a kind, if not a generous, way; he had helped to educate them and he had offered them a home. For these things he deserved that they should consider him and be grateful to him. But, on the other hand, if he made the home intolerable to them, he neutralized the gift and spoiled its flavour. Besides that fondness for power, which was part of his very character, he conceived that he had obtained by his spontaneous actions a certain right over them, and he fully intended exercising that right. Then, with all the unreasonableness of a man who never could see both sides of a question, he was thoroughly disappointed that they did not show him more affection. He wanted to be called "Uncle," but he never said so, and the girls, to whom he had always been an a "unknown quantity," had never thought of so natural an appellation. He liked to be feared; he also wished to be loved, especially by Margaret, towards whom he had the strongest leaning. As he went up to his own house, he missed the calm, sweet gaze of his sister and the gay, girlish voices; the house struck him painfully, it was so cheerless and so dull. He was expected, but not so soon. In the drawing-room was silence and chilliness; there was no fire in the grate, the rug was rolled up, all looked as though almost there had been a death; and with a shiver and a great sinking and depression he went to his own room--that small room downstairs where his plans were made, and his successes, and his failures, faced and mastered. Here a fire was slowly beginning to light, and the room was cold. Anne would have seen to this, he thought, forgetting that he had returned some hours before he had intended, finding that a person he wanted to see on business, had gone South.