Right! did she call this right? Whose doing had it been that she had become Emily, the daughter of the old people, in his eyes--not herself, not his mother? And then he gave her a furtive look to see if, perhaps, she looked like his mother now, and was no longer Emily. She met his wistful look with one that was troubled too; but even this expression did not change her. And whose fault was that? He seemed to hear the old people talking of Emily with many unguarded comments. It was like her, they would say. When a letter came, or when they would ramble off into those mutual recollections with which so often, to John’s amusement, they had traced out for him, with glimpses of the half-seen landscape all around, the story of their lives, that name always came in from time to time: ‘Emily said--Emily did--this or that. How like that was to Emily! It was her way of looking at things: for Emily never would see, don’t you know--never made any allowance----’ A hundred such scenes appeared to him, like scenes out of some play suddenly becoming visible without any will of his. How could he help it, if his mind had collected out of all these unconscious portraits an image of Emily, which was more clear than anything else he knew? It was not their fault. Was it not she herself who was to blame if this was how he knew her best, as the daughter whom the old people were half afraid of, whose probable criticism alarmed them, whose thoughts were not as theirs? The fear of her which crept into his own mind was more chill, more overwhelming--for how could he make any stand against her if it was true that he was entirely at her mercy, without any defence or shield. That little quiet parlour, the old people’s room with all its old-fashioned furniture and little prim ornaments! Had it ever beheld such a mute encounter, such a strange struggle before? The boy looked at his mother and she at him. His eyes appealed to her, yet resisted her, while hers--but he could not read what they meant. He was not capable of comprehending, in his youthful inexperienced judgment, the many things he wot not of, the recollections, the sternness, the relentings that were in his mother’s eyes. But no more was said. For just then Sarah came in, pushing open the door with the great tray in her arms to prepare for tea--which was a thing that could not be intermitted, though heaven and earth should be beginning to dissolve and drop away. CHAPTER XVIII. FAREWELL. John went up the village street towards the rectory with a heavy heart.