“Doan’t ’e taake on ’bout Will, dearie; you’ll come to knaw un better bimebye.  I ban’t gwaine so far arter all; an’ it’s got to be.”

Then the miller worked himself into a passion, dared Chown to take his daughter’s boxes, and made a scene very painful to witness and quite futile in its effect.  Phoebe could be strong at times, and a life’s knowledge of her father helped her now.  She told Chown to get the boxes and bade Billy help him; she then followed Mr. Lyddon, who was rambling away, according to his custom at moments of great sorrow, to pour his troubles into any ear that would listen.  She put her arm through his, drew him to the riverside and spoke words that showed she had developed mentally of late.  She was a woman with her father, cooed pleasantly to him, foretold good things, and implored him to have greater care of his health and her love than to court illness by this display of passion.  Such treatment had sufficed to calm the miller in many of his moods, for she possessed great power to soothe him, and Mr. Lyddon now set increased store upon his daughter’s judgment; but to-day, before this dreadful calamity, every word and affectionate device was fruitless and only made the matter worse.  He stormed on, and Phoebe’s superior manner vanished as he did so, for she could only play such a part if quite unopposed in it.  Now her father silenced her, frightened her, and dared her to leave him; but his tragic temper changed when they returned to the farm and he found his daughter’s goods were really gone.  Then the old man grew very silent, for the inexorable certainty of the thing about to happen was brought home to him at last.

Before a closed hackney carriage from the hotel arrived to carry Phoebe to Newtake, Miller Lyddon passed through a variety of moods, and another outburst succeeded his sentimental silence.  When the vehicle was at the gate, however, his daughter found tears in his eyes upon entering the kitchen suddenly to wish him “good-by.”  But he brushed them away at sight of her, and spoke roughly and told her to be gone and find the difference between a good father and a bad husband.

“Go to the misery of your awn choosin’; go to him an’ the rubbish-heap he calls a farm!  Thankless an’ ontrue,—­go,—­an’ look to me in the future to keep you out of the poorhouse and no more.  An’ that for your mother’s sake—­not yourn.”

“Oh, Faither!” she cried, “doan’t let them be the last words I hear ’pon your lips.  ’T is cruel, for sure I’ve been a gude darter to ’e, or tried to be—­an’—­an’—­please, dear faither, just say you wish us well—­me an’ my husband.  Please say that much.  I doan’t ax more.”

But he rose and left her without any answer.  It was then Phoebe’s turn to weep, and blinded with tears she slipped and hurt her knee getting into the coach.  Billy thereupon offered his aid, helped her, handed her little white fox terrier m after her, and saw that the door was properly closed.