“But you will be quite safe with him,” said his wife, in her caressing Highland speech. When she shook hands at parting I noticed the hardness of the little palm;—and I have always hated an old, black alpaca dress. It is such a long way home from the station at Eberwich. We rode part way in the bus; then we walked. It is a very long way for my mother, when her steps are heavy with trouble. Rebecca was out by the rhododendrons looking for us. She hurried to us all solicitous, and asked mother if she had had tea. “But you’ll do with another cup,” she said, and ran back into the house. She came into the dining-room to take my mother’s bonnet and coat. She wanted us to talk; she was distressed on my mother’s behalf; she noticed the blackness that lay under her eyes, and she fidgeted about, unwilling to ask anything, yet uneasy and anxious to know. “Lettie has been home,” she said. “And gone back again?” asked mother. “She only came to change her dress. She put the green poplin on. She wondered where you’d gone.” “What did you tell her?” “I said you’d just gone out a bit. She said she was glad. She was as lively as a squirrel.” Rebecca looked wistfully at my mother. At length the latter said: “He’s dead, Rebecca. I have seen him.” “Now thank God for that—no more need to worry over him.” “Well!—He died all alone, Rebecca—all alone.” “He died as you’ve lived,” said Becky with some asperity. “But I’ve had the children, I’ve had the children—we won’t tell Lettie, Rebecca.” “No ’m.” Rebecca left the room. “You and Lettie will have the money,” said mother to me. There was a sum of four thousand pounds or so. It was left to my mother; or, in default to Lettie and me. “Well, mother—if it’s ours, it’s yours.” There was silence for some minutes, then she said, “You might have had a father——” “We’re thankful we hadn’t, mother. You spared us that.” “But how can you tell?” said my mother. “I can,” I replied. “And I am thankful to you.” “If ever you feel scorn for one who is near you rising in your throat, try and be generous, my lad.” “Well——” said I. “Yes,” she replied, “we’ll say no more. Sometime you must tell Lettie—you tell her.” I did tell her, a week or so afterwards. “Who knows?” she asked, her face hardening. “Mother, Becky, and ourselves.” “Nobody else?” “No.” “Then it’s a good thing he is out of the way if he was such a nuisance to mother. Where is she?” “Upstairs.” Lettie ran to her. CHAPTER V THE SCENT OF BLOOD The death of the man who was our father changed our lives. It was not that we suffered a great grief; the chief trouble was the unanswered crying of failure. But we were changed in our feelings and in our relations; there was a new consciousness, a new carefulness.