Susan dried her eyes, comforted by the words. "I must not hope for that, uncle," she said, with more composure; "and indeed I could not leave papa, either. He is very unhappy, I am sure. If I only knew what to do for him! And I don't want him to think me stubborn and undutiful. He is angry, and disturbed, and strange this morning. I never saw him so before. Do not speak to him to-day." "Would it be better to-morrow?" said Colonel Sutherland. "No, Susan, especially after what you told me. I must not stay here longer than I can help, and I must see your father before I go; it is about Horace, my love. I have promised to speak of his wishes. I did not know," cried Colonel Sutherland, with a little mortification, "that I should hurt his cause by pleading it; but I ought to see him at anyrate. No, I cannot submit to this without any appeal. I have lived in his house, and eaten his bread, and had never a moment's dispute with him. It is impossible; there must be some mistake." And Colonel Sutherland went to the window, and stood looking out, with his eyebrows puckered, and his hands behind him; while Susan, drying her eyes again, went to stir the neglected fire. Everything was cold, meagre, uncomfortable, and the poor girl's restless curiosity, eager to prove her devotion to himself, yet glancing now and then with terror at the door, as if she feared her father's appearance, and a scene of strife, was not lost upon the Colonel. He stood for some time in silence, considering the whole matter, vexed, and mortified, and indignant, yet feeling more of honest pain for the position of the household, and for unfortunate recluse himself, than offence in his own person. Then, without saying anything to Susan, the old soldier marched silently towards the study-door. It was necessary now, to say what had to be said, at once. CHAPTER XX.