In vain did Honor attempt to turn his thoughts into pleasanter channels. He found a morbid pleasure in being absorbed in the contemplation of his sores. He became churlish towards Honor and refused to be cheered. She had fine speeches on her tongue, but he was a man who preferred deeds to words. A girl of words and not of deeds was like a garden full of weeds. When the weeds began to grow, like the heavens thick with snow, when the snow began to fall—and so on—and so on—he had forgotten the rest of the jingle. Now for the first time, dimly, was Honor conscious of a moral resemblance between her father and Charles. What Charles had become, her father might become. The elements of character were in germ in him that had developed in the son. As likenesses in a family come out at unexpected moments, that had never before been noticed, so was it with the psychical features of these two. Honor saw Charles in her father, and the sight distressed her. Oliver Luxmore did not venture to say out openly what he desired, but his hints, his insinuations, his grumblings, were significant; they pierced as barbed steel, they bruised as blows. Till recently, Oliver had recognised his daughter’s moral superiority, and had submitted. Now his eye was jaundiced. He thought her steadfastness of purpose to be doggedness, her resistance to his wishes to be the result of self-will, and his respect for her faded. Although Honor made no complaint, no defence, she suffered acutely. She had surrendered Larry because her duty tied her to the home that needed her. Was it necessary for her to make a farther sacrifice—a supreme sacrifice for the sake of her father? She had no faith in the verbal promises of Taverner Langford, to stand by and assist her brothers and sisters, but it was in her power to exact from him a written undertaking which he would be unable to shake off. Suppose she were to marry Langford—what then? Then—the dark cloud would lift and roll away. There would be no more struggle to make both ends meet, no more patching and darning of old clothes, no more limiting of the amount of bread dealt out to each child. Her father’s temper would mend. He would recover his kindly humour, and play with the little ones, and joke with the neighbours, and be affectionate towards her. There would be no more need for him to travel with a waggon in all weathers to market, but he would spend his last years in comfort, cared for by his children, instead of exhausting himself for them. However bright such a prospect might appear, Honor could not reconcile herself to it. Her feminine instincts revolted against the price she must pay to obtain it. That evening Oliver Luxmore ate his supper in sulky silence, and went to bed without wishing Honor a good night. When Kate arrived, she found her sister in tears. ’Honor!’ exclaimed the eager, lively girl, ’what is the matter? You have been crying—because you could not go to the dance.’