“I am Miss Melrose,” she said, with composure, “Felicia Melrose.  You knew me when I was a child.  And I wish to see my father.”

Mrs. Dixon’s face seemed to have fallen into chaos under the shock.  She stood staring at the visitor, her mouth working.

“Muster Melrose’s daeater!” she said, at last.  “T’ baby—­as was!  Aye—­yo’ feature him!  An’ yo’re stayin’ ower ta Duddon—­wi’ her ladyship.  I know.  Dixon towd me.  Bit yo’ shouldna’ coom here, Missie!  Yo’ canno’ see your feyther.”

“Why not?” said Felicia imperiously.  “I mean to see him.  Here I am in the house.  Take me to him at once!”

And suddenly closing the entrance door behind her, she moved on toward an inner passage dimly lit, of which she had caught sight.

Mrs. Dixon clung to her arm.

“Noa, noa!  Coom in here, Missie—­coom in here!  Dixon!—­where are yo’?  Dixon!”

She raised her voice.  A chair was pushed back in the kitchen, on the other side of the passage.  An old man who, to judge from his aspect, had been roused by his wife’s call from a nap after his tea, appeared in a doorway.

Mrs. Dixon drew Felicia toward him, and into the kitchen, as he retreated thither.  Then she shut and bolted the door.

“This is t’ yoong lady!” she said in a breathless whisper to her husband.  “Muster-Melrose’s daeater!  She’s coom fra Duddon.  An’ she’s fer seein’ her feyther.”

Old Dixon had grown very pale.  But otherwise he showed no surprise.  He looked frowning at Felicia.

“Yo’ canno’ do that, Miss Melrose.  Yo’r feyther wunna see yo’.  He’s an owd man noo, and we darena disturb him.”

Felicia argued with the pair, first quietly, then with a heaving breast, and some angry tears.  Dixon soon dropped the struggle, so far as words went.  He left that to his wife.  But he stood firmly against the door, looking on.

“You shan’t keep me here!” said Felicia at last with a stamp.  “I’ll call some one!  I’ll make a noise!”

A queer, humorous look twinkled over Dixon’s face.  Then—­suddenly—­he moved from the door.  His expression had grown hesitating—­soft.

“Varra well, then.  Yo’ shall goa—­if you mun goa.”

His wife protested.  He turned upon her.

“She shall goa!” he repeated, striking the dresser beside him.  “Her feyther’s an old man—­an’ sick.  Mebbe he’ll be meetin’ his Maeaker face to face, before the year’s oot; yo’ canno’ tell.  He’s weakenin’ fasst.  An’ he’s ben a hard mon to his awn flesh and blood.  There’ll be a reckonin’!  An’ the Lord’s sent him this yan chance o’ repentance.  I’ll not stan’ i’ the Lord’s way—­whativer.  Coom along, Missie!”

And entirely regardless of his wife’s entreaties, the old Methodist resolutely opened the kitchen door, and beckoned to Felicia.  He was lame now and walked with a stick, his shoulders bent.  But he neither paused, nor spoke to her again.  Murmuring to himself, he led her along the inner passage, and opened the door into the great gallery.