There are further reductions which it is quite possible to make. But come, child-come. How fat and well and strong you look, and how hearty your voice is! You are a merry creature, Sylvia, and the joy of my life.

Were it not for you I should never hold out. And you are so good at pinching and contriving, dear! But there, I give you too many luxuries don't I, my little one? I spoil you, don't I? What did you say was ready?"

"Supper, father-supper."

"Supper!" said Mr. Leeson. "Why, it seems only a moment ago that we dined."

"It is six hours ago, father."

"Now, Sylvia, if there is one thing I dislike more than another, it is that habit of yours of counting the hours between your meals. It is a distinct trace of greediness and of the lower nature. Ah, my child, when will you live high above your mere bodily desires? Supper, you say? I shall not be able to eat a morsel, but I will go with you, dear, if you like. Come, lead the way, my singing-bird; lead the way."

Sylvia took a candle and lighted it. She then went on in front of her father. They traversed a long and dark pa.s.sage, and presently she threw open the door of as melancholy and desolate a room as could be found anywhere in England.

The paper on the wall was scarcely perceptible, so worn was it by the long pa.s.sage of time. The floor was bare of any carpet; there was a deal table at one end of the room; on the table a small white cloth had been placed. A piece of bread was on a wooden platter on this table. There was also a jug of water and a couple of baked potatoes. Sylvia had put these potatoes into the oven before she went out, otherwise there would not have been anything hot at all for the meager repast. The grate was dest.i.tute of any fire; and although there were blinds to the windows, there were no curtains. The night was a bitterly cold one, and the girl, insufficiently clothed as well as unfed, shivered as she went into the room.

"What a palatial room this is!" said Mr. Leeson. "I really often think I did wrong to come to this house. I have not the slightest doubt that my neighbors imagine that I am a man of means. It is extremely wrong to encourage that impression, and I trust, Sylvia, that you never by word or action do so. A lady you are, my dear, and a lady you will look whatever you wear; but that beautiful simplicity which rises above mere dress and mere food is what I should like to inculcate in your nature, my sweet child. Ah! potatoes-and hot! My dear Sylvia, was this necessary?"

"There are only two, father-one for you and one for me."

"Well, well! I suppose the young must have their dainties as long as the world lasts," said Mr. Leeson. "Sit down, my dear, and eat. I will stand and watch you."

"Won't you eat anything, father?" said the girl. A curious expression filled her dark eyes. She longed for him to eat, and yet she could not help thinking how supporting and soothing and satisfying both those potatoes would be, and all that hunch of dry bread.

Mr. Leeson paused before replying:

"It would be impossible for you to eat more than one potato, and it would be a sin that the other should be wasted. I may as well have it."

He dropped into a chair. "Not that I am the least hungry," he added as he took the largest potato and put it on his plate. "Still, anything is preferable to waste. What a pity it is that no one has discovered a use for the skins, for these as a rule have absolutely to be wasted! When I have gone through some abstruse calculations over which I am at present engaged, I shall turn my attention to the matter. Quant.i.ties of nourishing food are doubtless wasted every year by the manner in which potato-skins are thrown away. Ah! and this bread, Sylvia-how long has it been in the house?"

"I got it exactly a week ago," said Sylvia. "It is quite the ordinary kind."

"It is too fresh, my dear. In future we must not eat new bread."

"It is a week old, father."

"Don't take me up in that captious way. I say we must not eat new bread.

It was only to-day I came across a book which said that bread when turning slightly-very slightly-moldy satisfies the appet.i.te far more readily than new bread. Then you will see for yourself, Sylvia, that a loaf of such bread may be made to go nearly as far as two loaves of the ordinary kind. You follow me, do you not, singing-bird?"

"Yes, father-yes. But may I eat my potato now while it is hot?"

"How the young do crave for unnecessary indulgences!" said Mr. Leeson; but he broke his own potato in half, and Sylvia seized the opportunity to demolish hers.

Alack and alas! when it was finished, every sc.r.a.p of it, scarcely any even of the skin being left, she felt almost more hungry than ever. She stretched out her hand for the bread. Mr. Leeson raised his eyes as she did so and gave her a reproachful glance.

"You will be ill," he said. "You will suffer from a bilious attack. Take it-take it if you want it; I am the last to interfere with your natural appet.i.te."

Sylvia ate; she ate although her father's displeased eyes were fixed on her face. She helped herself twice to the stale and untempting loaf.

Delicious it tasted. She could even have demolished every sc.r.a.p of it and still have felt half-wild with hunger. But she was eating it now to give herself courage, for she had made up her mind-speak she must.

The meal came to an end. Mr. Leeson had finished his potato; Sylvia had very nearly consumed the bread.

"There will be a very small breakfast to-morrow," he said in a mournful tone; "but you, Sylvia, after your enormous supper, will scarcely require a large one."

Sylvia made no answer. She took her father's hand and walked back with him through the pa.s.sage. The fire was out now in the sitting-room; Sylvia brought her father's greatcoat.

"Put it on," she said. "I want to sit close to you, and I want to talk."

He smiled at her and wrapped himself obediently in his coat. It was lined with fur, a relic of bygone and happier days. Sylvia turned the big fur collar up round his ears; then she drew herself close to him.

She seated herself on his lap.

"Put your arm round me; I am cold," she said.

"Cold, my dear little girl!" he said. "Why, so you are! How very strange! It is doubtless from overeating."

"No, father."

"Why that 'No, father'? What a curious expression is in your voice, Sylvia, my dear! Since your mother's death you have been my one comfort.

Heart and soul you have gone with me through the painful life which I am obliged to lead. I know that I am doing the right thing. I am no longer lavishly wasting that which has been entrusted to me, but am, on the contrary, saving for the day of need. My dear girl, you and I have planned our life of retrenchment. How much does our food cost us for a week?"

"Very, very little, father. Too little."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Father, forgive me; I must speak."

"What is wrong?"

Mr. Leeson pushed his daughter away. His eyes, which had been full of kindness, grew sharp and became slightly narrowed; a watchful expression came into his face.

"Beware, Sylvia, how you agitate me; you know the consequences."

"Since mother died," answered the girl, "I have never agitated you; I have always tried to do exactly as you wished."

"On the whole you have been a good girl; your one and only fault has been your greediness. Last night, it is true, you displeased me very deeply, but on your promise never to transgress so again I have forgiven you."

"Father," said Sylvia in a tremulous tone, "I must speak, and now. You must not be angry, father; but you say that we spend too much on housekeeping. We do not; we spend too little."

"Sylvia!"

"Yes; I am not going to be afraid," continued the girl. "You were displeased with me to-night-yes, I know you were-because I nearly finished the bread. I finished it because-because I was hungry; yes, hungry. And, father, I do not mind how stale the bread is, nor how poor the food, but I must-I must have enough. You do not give me enough. No, you do not. I cannot bear the pain. I cannot bear the neuralgia. I cannot bear the cold of this house. I want warmth, and I want food, and I want clothes that will keep the chill away. That is all-just physical things. I do not ask for fun, nor for companions of my own age, nor for anything of that sort, but I do ask you, father, not to oblige me to lead this miserable, starved life in the future."

Sylvia paused; her courage, after all, was short-lived. The look on her father's face arrested her words. He wore a stony look. His face, which had been fairly animated, had lost almost all expression. The pupils of his eyes were narrowed to a pin's point. Those eyes fixed themselves on the girl's face as though they were gimlets, as though they meant to pierce right into her very soul. Alarm now took the place of beseeching.

"Never mind," she said-"never mind; it was just your wild little rebellious Sylvia. Don't look at me like that. Don't-don't! Oh, I will bear it-I will bear it! Don't look at me like that!"

"Go to your room," was his answer, "at once. Go to your room."

She was a spirited girl, but she crept out of the room as though some one had beaten her.