"I know she wasn't good to mother." Then, as Mr. Digby made no reply to this unanswerable statement, she went on;--"She is a hard woman; she didn't help her. She is rich, rich! and we were--She has everything in the world; she can do whatever she likes; she rides about in her beautiful carriage; and we--we were--you know!--we were--if it hadn't been for you--" Rotha had choked and swallowed several times, and then the gathered passion overcame her. Thoughts and feelings and memories came like the incoming waves on a level shore piling up one upon another, until they could bear their own weight and rush no more and broke all together. The girl had striven to command herself and prevent the outbreak which Mr. Digby did not like; and the restraint had acted like the hindrance of the underlying sands, and allowed the tide of feeling to swell till there was no longer any check to it. Restraint was gone now, although Rotha did try to keep her sobs down; passion and grief burst out now and then in a wail of despair, and she struggled with the sobs which seemed to come from a breaking heart. Mr. Digby let the storm have its way, meanwhile feeling a renewed presentiment that the aunt and niece would never get on well together. In the granite of Mrs. Busby's composition there lay, he judged, a good deal of iron, in the rough state of unpurified ore. Waves beat on such rock without making much impression, only breaking themselves to pieces. Would such encounters take place between them? Rotha's character was not soft, and did not lack its iron either; but in another and much more refined form, and in a widely different combination. Had he done well after all? And yet what else could he do? And at any rate it was too late now to go back. He waited till the passion of the storm had somewhat lulled, and then called Rotha gently. Gently, but there was a certain ring in his voice too; and Rotha obeyed. She rose from the floor, dried her eyes and came and stood by the couch. She was in no manner relieved; passion had merely given place to an expression of helpless despair. "Sit down, Rotha," said Mr. Digby. And when she had done it he took her hand again. "You ought not to allow yourself such outbursts," he went on, still very gently. "I could not help it. I tried--" "I believe you tried; and for a time you did help it." "I know it displeases you," she said. "I did not want to do so before you." "It is not because it displeases me, that I want you not to do it; but because it is not right." "Why not right?" she asked somewhat defiantly. "Because it is not right for any one ever to lose command of himself." Rotha seemed to prick up her ears at that, as if the idea were new, but she said nothing. "You will ask me again perhaps why? Rotha, if you lose command of yourself, who takes it?" Rotha's eye carried a startled inquiry now. "I suppose--nobody," she said.