“What magnificent hair!” she said, as she unrolled it.  “It is a yard long.”

“It is a regular mane, isn’t it?”

She began combing it; the baby crawled under the bed, and coming out with the handkerchief in its hand, crept up to her, trying to make her take it.  She had combed my hair over my face, but I saw it.

“Do I hurt you, Cass?”

“No, do I ever hurt you, Alice?” And I divided the long bands over my eyes, and looked up at her.

“Were any of your family ever cracked?  I have long suspected you of a disposition that way.”

“The child is choking itself with that handkerchief.”

She took it, and, tossing it on the bed, gave Byron to the child to play with, and went on with the hair-dressing.

“There, now,” she said, “is not this a masterpiece of barber’s craft?  Look at the back of your head, and then come down.”

“Yes, I will, for I feel better.”

When I returned to my room again it was like meeting a confidential friend.

A few days after, father came to Rosville.  I invited Ben Somers and Helen to spend with us the only evening he stayed.  After they were gone, we sat in my room and talked over many matters.  His spirits were not as buoyant as usual, and I felt an undefinable anxiety which I did not mention.  When he said that mother was more abstracted than ever, he sighed.  I asked him how many years he thought I must waste; eighteen had already gone for nothing.

“You must go in the way ordained, waste or no waste.  I have tried to make your life differ from mine at the same age, for you are like me, and I wanted to see the result.”

“We shall see.”

“Veronica has been let alone—­is master of herself, except when in a rage.  She is an extraordinary girl; independent of kith and kin, and everything else.  I assure you, Miss Cassy, she is very good.”

“Does she ever ask for me?”

“I never heard her mention your name but once.  She asked one day what your teachers were.  You do not love each other, I suppose.  What hatred there is between near relations!  Bitter, bitter,” he said calmly, as if he thought of some object incapable of the hatred he spoke of.

“That’s Grandfather John Morgeson you think of.  I do not hate Veronica.  I think I love her; at least she interests me.”

“The same creeping in the blood of us all, Cassy.  I did not like my father; but thank God I behaved decently toward him.  It must be late.”

As he kissed me, and we stood face to face, I recognized my likeness to him.  “He has had experiences that I shall never know,” I thought.  “Why should I tell him mine?” But an overpowering impulse seized me to speak to him of Charles.  “Father,” and I put my hands on his shoulders.  He set his candle back on the table.

“You look hungry-eyed, eager.  What is it?  Are you well?”

“No.”

“You are faded a little.  Your face has lost its firmness.”