But she smilingly refused. “No, darling, I won't stop now. I'll come again--” her mother's stretched lips, stomaching what she could not sanction, stood, as it were, before the home doors. He looked wistfully at her--aware, he too, of the sentries at the gate. “You might--we are pretty lonely here, we old people--I should have said you might come back--there's your old room, you know--eating its head off, hey?” Sanchia kissed him. “Darling--we'll see. We'll talk about it soon. But I must go now--to my books. I'm working very hard, at my Italian. I've forgotten--lots.” He had to let her go--but, manlike, he must relieve himself in a man's way. He drew her into his study, bade her “see what she should see.” He went to his desk and sat to his cheque-book. He returned with the slip wet in his hand. “There, my child, there. That will keep the wolf from the door, I hope. For a day or two, you know.” She read, “Miss Sanchia Percival--two hundred pounds sterling.” It brought the tears to her eyes again. It was so exactly like him. “You darling--how ridiculous of you--but how sweet!” He glowed under her praises. “Plenty more where that came from, Sancie,”--then piously added, “Thank God, of course.” Sanchia, in the hall, turned to her mother. “Good-bye, mother,” she said, and held her hand out. Her mother took it, drew her in, and kissed her forehead. “Good-bye, my child”; she could not, for her life, be more cordial than that. The offence itself seemed a pinprick beside the rankle of the wound to her pride. This child had set up for herself, and was now returned--without extenuation, without plea for mercy. Mrs. Percival was one of those people who cannot be happy unless their right to rule be unquestioned. Had the girl humbled herself to the dust, grovelled at her feet, she would have taken her to her breast. But Sanchia stood upright, and Mrs. Percival felt the frost gripe at her heart. It must be so. Her father went with her to the door--his arm about her waist. “Come soon,” he pleaded, and when she promised, whispered in her ear--“Come to The Poultry, if you'd rather: I'm always there--as you know. Come, and we'll lunch together. You'll be like a nosegay in the dusty old place.” “Yes, yes, I shall come--often,” she told him, and nestled to his side. Then she put up her cheek for his kiss. “Good-night, Papa dear,” He wept over her, and let her go. Then he returned to his hearth and his wife. In his now exalted mood he was really master of both, and Mrs. Percival knew it. “You gave her the money, I suppose?” she said; and he, “Yes, my dear, I gave her two hundred pounds.” He had doubled the sum agreed, but Mrs. Percival let it pass. III