Her eyes wandered away, far up among the trees, where Arnold still slowly paced up and down. In the cause of pride her father might even be induced to give up the Firs. Was love, then, to weigh nothing in the scale?

She turned suddenly to the father.

"You must rest now," she said. "You need not be the least anxious on your own account any more. You must rest and take things quietly, and do your best not to get ill. It would be very bad for you to be ill now, for there would be no one to nurse you. Remember that, and be careful.

Now go and sit in the parlor and keep out of draughts. I can not read to you this morning, for I shall be very busy, and you must not call me nor send for me unless it is absolutely necessary. Now, good-bye for the present."

Frances did not, as her usual custom was, establish her father in his easy-chair; she did not cut his morning paper for him, nor attend to the one or two little comforts which he considered essential; she left him without kissing him, only her full, grave, sorrowful eyes rested for one moment with a look of great pathos on his wrinkled, discontented old face, then she went away.

The squire was alone; even the irritating strain of "Sweethearts" no longer annoyed him. Fluff had ceased to play--Fluff's gay little figure was no longer visible; the man who had paced up and down under the distant trees had disappeared; Frances's gray dress was nowhere to be seen.

The whole place was still, oppressively still--not a bee hummed, not a bird sung. The atmosphere was hot and dry, but there was no sunshine; the trees were motionless, there was a feeling of coming thunder in the air.

The squire felt calmed and triumphant, at the same time he felt irritated and depressed. His anxiety was over; his daughter had done what he wished her to do--the Firs was saved, at least for his lifetime--the marriage he so dreaded was never to be. At the same time, he felt dull and deserted; he knew what it was to have his desire, and leanness in his soul. It would be very dull at the Firs without Frances; he should miss her much when she went away. He was a feeble old man, and he was rapidly growing blind. Who would read for him, and chat with him, and help to while away the long and tedious hours? He could not spend all his time eating and sleeping. What should he do now with all the other hours of the long day and night? He felt pleased with Frances--he owned she was a good girl; but at the same time he was cross with her; she ought to have thought of some other way of delivering him. She was a clever woman--he owned she was a clever woman; but she ought not to have effected his salvation by deserting him.

The squire mumbled and muttered to himself. He rose from his arm-chair and walked to the window; he went out and paced up and down the terrace; he came in again. Was there ever such a long and tiresome morning? He yawned; he did not know what to do with himself.

A little after noon the door of the south parlor was quickly opened and Arnold came in.

"I have just come to say good-bye, sir."

The squire started in genuine amazement. He did not love Arnold, but after two hours of solitude he was glad to hear any human voice. It never occurred to him, too, that any one should feel Frances such a necessity as to alter plans on her account.

"You are going away?" he repeated. "You told me yesterday you would stay here for at least another week or ten days."

"Exactly, but I have changed my mind," said Arnold. "I came here for an object--my object has failed. Good-bye."

"But now, really--" the squire strove to retain the young man's hand in his clasp. "You don't seriously mean to tell me that you are leaving a nice place like the Firs in this fine summer weather because Frances has refused you."

"I am going away on that account," replied Arnold, stiffly. "Good-bye."

"You astonish me--you quite take my breath away. Frances couldn't accept you, you know. She had me to see after. I spoke to you yesterday about her, and I suggested that you should take Fluff instead. A dear little thing, Fluff. Young, and with money; who would compare the two?"

"Who would compare the two?" echoed Arnold. "I repeat, squire, that I must now wish you good-bye, and I distinctly refuse to discuss the subject of my marriage any further."

Arnold's hand scarcely touched Squire Kane's. He left the south parlor, and his footsteps died away in the distance.

Once more there was silence and solitude. The sky grew darker, the atmosphere hotter and denser--a growl of thunder was heard in the distance--a flash of lightning lighted up the squire's room. Squire Kane was very nervous in a storm--at all times he hated to be long alone--now he felt terrified, nervous, aggrieved. He rang his bell pretty sharply.

"Jane," he said to the servant who answered his summons, "send Miss Kane to me at once."

"Miss Kane has gone to Martinstown, sir. She drove in in the pony-cart an hour go."

"Oh--h'm--I suppose Mr. Arnold went with her?"

"No, sir. Mr. Arnold took a short cut across the fields; he says the carrier is to call for his portmanteau, and he's not a-coming back."

"H'm--most inconsiderate--I hate parties broken up in a hurry like this.

What a vivid flash that was! Jane, I'm afraid we are going to have an awful storm."

"It looks like it, sir, and the clouds is coming direct this way.

Watkins says as the strength of the storm will break right over the Firs, sir."

"My good Jane, I'll thank you to shut the windows, and ask Miss Danvers to have the goodness to step this way."

"Miss Danvers have a headache, sir, and is lying down. She said as no one is to disturb her."

The squire murmured something inarticulate. Jane lingered for a moment at the door, but finding nothing more was required of her, softly withdrew.

Then in the solitude of his south parlor the squire saw the storm come up--the black clouds gathered silently from east and west, a slight shiver shook the trees, a sudden wind agitated the slowly moving clouds--it came between the two banks of dark vapor, and then the thunder rolled and the lightning played. It was an awful storm, and the squire, who was timid at such times, covered his face with his trembling hands, and even feebly tried to pray. It is possible that if Frances had come to him then he would, in the terror fit which had seized him, have given her her heart's desire. Even the Firs became of small account to Squire Kane, while the lightning flashed in his eyes and the thunder rattled over his head. He was afraid--he would have done anything to propitiate the Maker of the storm--he would have even sacrificed himself if necessary.

But the clouds rolled away, the sunshine came out. Fear vanished from the squire's breast, and when dinner was announced he went to partake of it with an excellent appet.i.te. Fluff and he alone had seats at the board; Arnold and Frances were both away.

Fluff's eyes were very red. She was untidy, too, and her whole appearance might best be described by the word "disheveled." She scarcely touched her dinner, and her chattering, merry tongue was silent.

The squire was a man who never could abide melancholy in others. He had had a fright; his fright was over. He was therefore exactly in the mood to be petted and humored, to have his little jokes listened to and applauded, to have his thrice-told tales appreciated. He was just in the mood, also, to listen to pretty nothings from a pretty girl's lips, to hear her sing, perhaps to walk slowly with her by and by in the sunshine.

Fluff's red eyes, however, Fluff's disordered, untidy appearance, her downcast looks, her want of appet.i.te, presented to him, just then, a most unpleasing picture. As his way was, he resented it, and began to grumble.

"I have had a very dull morning," he began.

"Indeed, sir? I won't take any pease, thank you, Jane; I'm not hungry."

"I hate little girls to come to table who are not hungry," growled the squire. "Bring the pease here, Jane."

"Shall I go up to my room again?" asked Fluff, laying down her knife and fork.

"Oh, no, my love; no, not by any means."

The squire was dreadfully afraid of having to spend as solitary an afternoon as morning.

"I am sorry you are not quite well, Fluff," he said, hoping to pacify the angry little maid; "but I suppose it was the storm. Most girls are very much afraid of lightning. It is silly of them; for really in a room with the windows shut--gla.s.s, you know, my dear, is a non-conductor--there is not much danger. But there is no combating the terrors of the weaker s.e.x. I can fancy you, Fluff, burying that pretty little head of yours under the bed-clothes. That doubtless accounts for its present rough condition. You should have come to me, my love; I'd have done my best to soothe your nervous fears."

Fluff's blue eyes were opened wide.

"I don't know what you are talking about," she said. "I afraid of the storm, and burying my head under the bed-clothes, as if I were a baby or a silly old man! Yes, of course I knew there was a storm, but I didn't notice it much, I was too busy packing."

This last remark effectually distracted the squire's attention.

"Packing! good gracious, child, you are not going away too?"

"Of course I am; you don't suppose I am going to stay here without my darling Francie?"

"But what am I to do, Fluff?"

"I don't know, squire. I suppose you'll stay on at the Firs."

"Alone! Do you mean I'm to stay here alone?"