"Now, uncle, dear, you don't feel anything of the kind," said Glynne, leaning upon the old gentleman's arm. "I do feel it, and I mean it this time. Now, girl, look here! Why am I such an old idiot--" "Oh, uncle!" "--As to stop here, and let that bullying, farm-labouring, overbearing bumpkin--I beg your pardon, my dear, but he is--father of yours, ride rough-shod over me?" "But, uncle, dear--" "But, niece, dear, he does; and how I can be such an idiot as to stop here, I don't know. If I were his dependent, it couldn't be worse." "But, uncle, dear, I'm afraid you do show a little temper sometimes." "Temper! I show temper! Nothing of the kind," cried the old fellow, angrily, and his grey curls seemed to stand out wildly from his head. "Only decision--just so much decision as a military man should show-- nothing more. Temper, indeed!" "But you are hasty, dear, and papa so soon gets warm." "Warm? Red hot. White hot. He has a temper that would irritate a saint, and heaven knows I am no saint." "It does seem such a pity for you and papa to quarrel." "Pity? It's abominable, my child, when we might live together as peaceably as pigeons. But he shall have it his own way now. I've done. I'll have no more of it I'm not a child." "What are you going to do, uncle?" "Do? Pack up and go, this very day. Then he may come to my chambers and beg till all's blue, but he'll never persuade me to come out here again." "Oh, uncle! It will be so dull if you go away." "No, no, not it, my dear. You've got your captain; and there'll be peace in the house then till he finds someone else to bully. Why, I might be one of his farm labourers; that I might. But there's an end of it now." "But, uncle!" cried Glynne, looking perplexed and troubled, "come back with me into the library. I'm sure, if papa was in the wrong, he'll be sorry." "If he was in the wrong! He _was_ in the wrong. Me go to him? Not I. My mind's made up. I'll not have my old age embittered by his abominable temper. Don't stop me, girl. I'm going, and nothing shall stay me now." "How tiresome it is!" said Glynne, softly, as her broad, white forehead grew full of wrinkles. "Dear uncle; he must not go. I must do something," and then, with a smile dawning upon her perplexed face, she descended the stairs, and went softly to the library door, opened it gently, and found Sir John tramping up and down the Turkey carpet, like some wild beast in its cage. "Who's that? How dare you enter without--Oh, it's you, Glynne." "Yes, papa. Uncle has gone upstairs and banged his door." "I'm glad of it; I'm very glad of it," cried Sir John, "and I hope it's for the last time." "What has been the matter, papa?" said Glynne, laying her hands upon his shoulders. "Sit down, dear, and tell me." "No, no, my dear, don't bother me. I don't want to sit down, Glynne." "Yes, yes, dear, and tell me all about it."