"Father was worried about something," she said to herself. "I dare say Uncle Jacob—I mean Mr. Weightman—had been at him. It will be all right to-morrow. I didn't leave all the work for mother, and she knows I didn't; and anyhow, I am glad she liked the shirts." But Rhoda did not find it all right on the morrow, nor for a good many succeeding days. She could not tell what was the matter, though she taxed herself in every way to see whether she were to blame, and told herself again and again that she was growing jealous and fanciful; but all was of no use. There was certainly a great change. Mrs. Bowers alternated between fondness and fretfulness. One day she told Rhoda that she slighted her work, and that she ought to do more about the house; the next perhaps she found fault with her for neglecting her book, telling her that there was no saying how long she might have a chance for study. At times she seemed unwilling to have Rhoda out of her sight, and again she appeared to seek excuses for getting rid her. Mr. Bowers was almost uniformly cold and repellent in his manners toward her, though he too now and then melted into tenderness, especially once, when Mr. Weightman had been away for several days. "Father," said Rhoda, taking courage to speak out what was in her mind, "have I done wrong or offended you in any way?" "No, child, no," answered Mr. Bowers, hastily; "why should you think so?" "Because you are so different from what you used to be," answered Rhoda. "You don't seem the same person sometimes—not a bit like my father," she added, putting her arms round his neck and sitting down on his knee as she used to do when a child. Mr. Bowers started as if stung. "You mustn't let such notions come into your head," he said, kissing her with something of his old affection. "I have been worried about business and other things—no matter what. Nothing that need trouble you." "I can't help being worried when I see you so different, papa," said Rhoda. "I think you ought to tell me about business now," she added, with a pretty little assumption of dignity. "I am not the baby any longer: I am the elder daughter." Mr. Bowers's moustache twitched a little, and his voice was somewhat husky as he answered,— "You are a dear good girl, and always have been, Rhoda. I am sure you have been the same as our own ever since you came to us." "I never remember that I am not your own unless somebody puts me in mind of it," said Rhoda. "I never think of belonging to anybody else." "Not even to Aunt Annie?" asked Mr. Bowers. "Didn't you want to go and be Aunt Annie's girl?"