Sidney reassured him. She was her gay bright self that evening, resolutely suppressing all the tide of anger that rose within her, and trying with all her might to keep her father cheerful. She did not like the look of patient endurance upon his face, the weary dejection in his eyes. She sang some of her old songs to him after dinner, she related their town experiences with great animation, and never let the conversation flag for a moment. Then, when her father went back to his study, she went with him, and sat down on the hearthrug, leaning her head on his knee. "I did not think it would be so difficult," said her father slowly. "To leave this, dad? It won't be. We must find a nice little house somewhere in the neighbourhood." "They say a woman is wrapped up in her possessions," said her father in the same slow, grave way, "but I begin to feel I must be getting like her. If we go, Sidney, all of it will be new. I don't know why my heart fails me. I had hoped to carry away my books and some of our family heirlooms—my mother's picture amongst them, and my wife's miniature. She evidently does not know who it is. But she is quite right—the house, with its contents, was left to Ted. If he has it, he has it all." "You have me," said Sidney, trying to laugh, but a lump rose in her throat, and a choke was in her voice. Her father caressed her hair gently with his hand. "Yes, my little Sid. You will never fail me. What is that verse? 'A man's life consisteth not in what he hath.' Is that how it goes?" "'A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth,'" quoted Sidney. "But, father dear, there are quantities of things in the house which are really yours, and which we can take. We won't worry about it to-night. You are looking so tired. Don't sit up late, will you? And if you would rather stay on here, don't think of me. I will willingly do it." "No; it is only that I feel my age to-night. I have not the buoyancy I had. The thought of a move into a strange house is not a cheerful one. But I dare say I am tired with the journey. I shall be more myself to-morrow, and we can discuss the question then." Sidney kissed her father passionately when she wished him good-night. She was very near tears herself. She could bear slights to herself, but not to her father, and when she met Mrs. Urquhart in the hall her head was high and her voice remote and distant in its tone. "I shall be glad if you will return my mother's picture. It was over the mantelpiece in the study. That does not belong to Uncle Ted."