He was walking slowly home, avoiding the sidewalk pools that the chill of late afternoon had crusted. His head was bowed, either in thought or to watch his steps, and he did not see Sylvena Willard standing at the gate until she spoke to him. “Phineas, I would not have troubled you, but the matter is of the utmost importance. I do not feel like discussing it by the roadside. Won’t you step to the house?” He glanced at her with a sort of timidity in his demeanour. Her face, half shielded by the shawl caught lightly around her head, was very grave. It seemed to him that her temple locks had more gray in them than when he saw her last. He hesitated only for a moment, then opened the iron gate and accompanied her up the broad path to the porch. Neither spoke on the way. In the big, gloomy parlour, in the corners of which old-fashioned chairs of dark wood seemed to lurk like uncouth animals in the afternoon shadows, he sat gazing at her, still without speaking. Her hands picked restlessly at the fringes of the shawl that she had dropped across her lap. Beyond the closed double doors that shut off the adjoining room there sounded music faintly. It was the tinkly melody of an automatic music box, but the Squire, having no very keen ear for tunes, did not recognise what this one was playing, only vaguely realising that it was something he had heard before, probably at a vestry meeting. It seemed to have a hymn flavour. “I don’t know enough about business to talk this matter over with you as it should be discussed, Phin-eas,” she said at last. “I only know that some dreadful trouble is killing my poor father. And I also know that your brother is at the bottom of it. I have found out that he wants to have father dismissed from office to-morrow. Father is old and childish, Phineas. In the last few months he has grown much more so. He is breaking down. I can see it, for I have a loving daughter’s eyes. I wish he did not care for the office. It is only a little one, I know. But the Willards have been treasurers of the town for many years, and he seems to have set his heart on holding it. It is a small favour for an old man to ask, Phineas, and you know that there is no honour that father thinks as much of as he does an honour from his own people.” She looked at him wistfully. Yet he missed the old-time frank and candid friendship in her eyes. Now it came to him suddenly that the tune on the music box in the other room was, “Where is My Wandering Boy To-night?” “It is King’s mother,” she said, noting his look at the closed door. “She is very lonely nowadays and spends her afternoons with me. She seems to enjoy listening to the little music box that the Sunday-school gave to me. I hope it doesn’t disturb you. We have grown used to it here in the house. As to the office that father----”