You may be sure that we discussed, Milly and I, that occurrence pretty constantly in all sorts of moods.  Limited as had been her experience of human society, she very clearly saw now how far below its presentable level was her hopeful brother.

The fortnight sped swiftly, as time always does when something we dislike and shrink from awaits us at its close.  I never saw Uncle Silas during that period.  It may seem odd to those who merely read the report of our last interview, in which his manner had been more playful and his talk more trifling than in any other, that from it I had carried away a profounder sense of fear and insecurity than from any other.  It was with a foreboding of evil and an awful dejection that on a very dark day, in Milly’s room, I awaited the summons which I was sure would reach me from my punctual guardian.

As I looked from the window upon the slanting rain and leaden sky, and thought of the hated interview that awaited me, I pressed my hand to my troubled heart, and murmured, ’O that I had wings like a dove! then would I flee away, and be at rest.’

Just then the prattle of the parrot struck my ear.  I looked round on the wire cage, and remembered the words, ‘The bird’s name is Maud.’

‘Poor bird!’ I said.  ’I dare say, Milly, it longs to get out.  If it were a native of this country, would not you like to open the window, and then the door of that cruel cage, and let the poor thing fly away?’

‘Master wants Miss Maud,’ said Wyat’s disagreeable tones, at the half-open door.

I followed in silence, with the pressure of a near alarm at my heart, like a person going to an operation.

When I entered the room, my heart beat so fast that I could hardly speak.  The tall form of Uncle Silas rose before me, and I made him a faltering reverence.

He darted from under his brows a wild, fierce glance at old Wyat, and pointed to the door imperiously with his skeleton finger.  The door shut, and we were alone.

‘A chair?’ he said, pointing to a seat.

‘Thank you, uncle, I prefer standing,’ I faltered.

He also stood—­his white head bowed forward, the phosphoric glare of his strange eyes shone upon me from under his brows—­his finger-nails just rested on the table.

’You saw the luggage corded and addressed, as it stands ready for removal in the hall?’ he asked.

I had.  Milly and I had read the cards which dangled from the trunk-handles and gun-case.  The address was—­’Mr. Dudley R. Ruthyn, Paris, via Dover.’

’I am old—­agitated—­on the eve of a decision on which much depends.  Pray relieve my suspense.  Is my son to leave Bartram to-day in sorrow, or to remain in joy?  Pray answer quickly.’

I stammered I know not what.  I was incoherent—­wild, perhaps; but somehow I expressed my meaning—­my unalterable decision.  I thought his lips grew whiter and his eyes shone brighter as I spoke.