He stood shivering and frowning and muttering. Then a change came over him.

"There is a secret, and I mean to discover it," he said to himself; "and until I do I shall say nothing. I shall find out who E. W. is, where those trunks came from, what money Sylvia stole to purchase those awful and ridiculous and terrible garments. I shall find out before I act.

Sylvia thinks that she can make a fool of her old father; she will discover her mistake."

The postman's ring was heard at the gate. The postman was never allowed to go up the avenue. Mr. Leeson kept a box locked in the gate, with a little slit for the postman to drop in the letters. He allowed no one to open this box but himself. Without even putting on his greatcoat, he went down the snowy path now, unlocked the box, and took out a letter.

He returned with it to the house; it was addressed to himself, and was from his broker in London. The letter contained news which affected him pretty considerably. The gold mine in which he had invested nearly the whole of his available capital was discovered to be by no means so rich in ore as was at first antic.i.p.ated. Prices were going down steadily, and the shares which Mr. Leeson had bought were now worth only half their value.

"I'll sell out-I'll sell out this minute," thought the wretched man; "if I don't I shall lose all."

But then he paused, for there was a postscript to the letter.

"It would be madness to sell now," wrote the broker. "Doubtless the present scare is a pa.s.sing one; the moment the shares are likely to go up then sell."

Mr. Leeson flung the letter from him and tore his gray hair. He paced up and down the room.

"Disaster after disaster," he murmured. "I am like Job; all these things are against me. But nothing cuts me like Sylvia. To buy those things-two trunks full of useless finery! Oh yes, I have money on the premises-money which I saved and never invested; I wonder if that is safe. For all I can tell--But, oh, no, no, no! I will not think that.

That way madness lies. I will bury the canvas bag to-night; I have delayed too long. No one can discover that hiding-place. I will bury the canvas bag, come what may, to-night."

Mr. Leeson wrote to his broker, telling him to seize the first propitious moment to sell out from the gold-mine, and then sat moodily, getting colder and colder, in front of the empty grate.

Sylvia came in presently.

"Dinner is ready, father," she said.

"I don't want dinner," he muttered.

She went up to him and laid her hand on his arm.

"Why are you like ice?" she said.

He pushed her away.

"The fire is out," she continued; "let me light it."

"No!" he thundered. "Leave it alone; I wish for no fire. I tell you I am a beggar, and worse; and I wish for no fire!"

"Oh father-father darling!" said the girl.

"Don't 'darling' me; don't come near me. I am displeased with you. You have cut me to the quick. I am angry with you. Leave me."

"You may be angry," she answered, "but I will not leave you ; and if you are cold-cold to death-and cannot afford a fire, you will warm yourself with me. Let me put my arms round you; let me lay my cheek against yours. Feel how my cheek glows. There, is not that better?"

He struggled, but she insisted. She sat on his knee now and put the cloak she was wearing, thin and poor enough in itself, round his neck.

Inside the cloak she circled him with her arms. Her dark luxuriant hair fell against his white and scanty locks; she pressed her face close to his.

"You may hate me, but I am going to stay with you," she said. "How cold you are!"

Just for a minute or two Mr. Leeson bore the loving caress and the endearing words. She was very sweet, and she was his-his only child-bone of his bone. Yes, it was nicer to be warm than cold, nicer to be loved than to be hated, nicer to--But was he loved? Those trunks up-stairs; that costly, useless finery; those initials which were not Sylvia's!

"Oh that I could tell her!" he said to himself. "She pretends; she is untrue-untrue as our first mother. What woman was ever yet to be trusted?"

"Go, Sylvia," he replied vehemently; and he started up and shook her off cruelly, so that she fell and hurt herself.

She rose, pushed her hair back from her forehead and gazed at him in bewilderment. Was he going mad?

"Come and eat your dinner before it gets cold," she said. "It is extravagant to waste good food; come and eat it."

"Made from some of those old fowls?" he queried; and a scornful smile curled his lips.

"Come and eat it; it costs you practically nothing," she added. "Come, it is extravagant to waste it."

He pondered in his own mind; there were still about three fowls left. He would not take her hand but he followed her into the dining-room. He sat down before the dainty dish, helped her to a small portion, and ate the rest.

"Now you are better," she said cheerfully.

He gave her a glance which seemed to her to be one of almost venom.

"I am going into my sitting-room," he said; "do not disturb me again to-day."

"But you must have a fire!"

"I decline to have a fire."

"You will die of cold."

"Much you care."

"Father!"

"Yes, Sylvia, much you care; you are like the one who gave you being. I will not say any more."

She started away at this; he knew she would. She was patient with him almost beyond the limits of human patience, but she could not stand having her mother abused.

He went down the pa.s.sage, and locked himself in his sitting-room.

"Now I can think," he thought; "and to-night when Sylvia is in bed I will bury the last canvas bag."

When Sylvia went into the kitchen Jasper asked her at once what was the matter. She stood for a moment without speaking; then she said in a low, broken-hearted voice:

"Father sometimes gets these moods, but I never saw him as bad before.

He refuses to have a fire in the parlor; he will die of this cold."

"Let him," muttered Jasper under her breath. She did not say these words aloud; she knew Sylvia too well by this time.

"What has put him into this state of mind?" she asked as she dished up a hot dinner for Sylvia and herself.

"It was my dress, Jasper; I ought not to have allowed you to make it for me. I ran in to put it on to go to church on Sunday; and he saw me and drew his own conclusions, as he said. He asked me where I got it, and I refused to tell him."