Bessie went over to her father, and put her arms round him, but he thrust her away. She looked appealingly to her brother, but Anthony did not catch her eye. "I do not see what you have against Urith," said Anthony, after a long pause, during which the old man sat quivering with excitement, working his hands up and down on the arms of his chair, as though polishing them. "That she is not rich is no fault of hers. I have seen her often, and have now and then exchanged a word with her, though only yesterday came to see much of her, and have a long talk with her. I did her a great wrong by my desecration of her father's grave." "Oh! you would make that good by marrying the daughter. Well, you have put out Fox's eye. Patch that up by marrying his sister." The old man's voice shook with anger. Anthony exercised unusual self-control. He knew that he had reached a point in his life when he must not act with rashness; he saw that his father's opposition was more serious than he had anticipated. Hitherto he had but to express a wish, and it was yielded to. Occasionally he had had differences with the old man, but had invariably, in the end, carried out his own point. He did not doubt, even now, that finally his father would give way, but clearly not till after a battle of unusual violence; but it was one in which he was resolved not to yield. His passion for Urith was of sudden and also rapid growth, but was strong and sincere. Moreover, he had pledged himself to her, and could not draw back. Bessie was resolved, at all costs, to divert the wrath of her father from Anthony, if possible to turn his thoughts into another channel; so she said, stooping to his ear, "Father; dear father! We met to-day our grandmother in the churchyard." The old man looked inquiringly at her. "Madame Penwarne," exclaimed Bessie. He had forgotten for the moment that she could have a grandmother on any other side than his own, and he knew that his mother was long dead. "Yes, father," said Bessie. "And she says Anthony is the living image of our dear, dear mother." The old man turned his eyes slowly on his son. The light of the candle was on his face, bold, haughty, defiant, and wonderfully handsome. Yes! he was the very image of his mother, and that same defiant smile he had inherited from her. The old man in a moment recalled many a wild scene of mutual reproach and stormy struggle. It was as though the dead woman's spirit had risen up against him to defy him once more, and to strike him to the heart. Then Anthony said, "It is true, father. We both of us met her; and it is unfit that she should find a shelter elsewhere than in this house. Something must be done for her." "Oh! you will teach me my duty! She is naught to me." "But to us she is. She is the mother of our mother," answered Anthony, looking straight into his father's eyes, and the old man lowered his; he felt the reproach in his son's words and glance.