The outside of the house had given her a certain impression.  Now, in a flash, that impression was superseded by a new one.  Here was the home of a man of means, the heavy, rich furniture spoke of that, the painting there in the living room into which she glanced, the tastefully papered walls, the thick carpet muffling her footfalls.  If only the curtains were thrown back, if only the sun were looking in upon it all!

And now the man.  Henry Pollard, whom she had not seen since she was a very little girl and then only during his short visit at her father’s house, struck her as being in some way not entirely unlike this habitation of his.  A gentleman gone to seed, was that it?

His manner was courteous, courtly even, his speech soft, his eyes gentle as they rested upon her, gentle and yet eager.  There was something fine about his face, about the eyes and high forehead, and yet alongside it there was something else which drove a little pain into the girl’s eyes.  The mouth was hard, there were deep, set lines about it and about the eyes there was a hint of cruelty which not even his smile hid entirely.  And though she strove to smile back bravely as she came forward to kiss him, she knew that she was disappointed, and a little uneasy.

She knew that Henry Pollard must be about fifty; she saw that he looked to be sixty.  He had pulled himself up against his pillows and had drawn on a dressing gown to cover his shoulders.  He was well groomed; he had had a shave yesterday; he did not look sick.  But he did look old, like a man who had aged prematurely and suddenly; and he did look worried and tired, as though he had not slept well last night.

“I am alone just now,” he smiled.  “Mrs. Riddell is keeping house for me, but I heard her go out a little while ago.  For something for breakfast, I suppose.  You are looking well, Winifred.  I knew you would be pretty.  Now, sit down.”

No word yet of her errand, no query as to its success.  She was grateful to him for that.  She wanted a moment, time in which to feel that she knew him a little bit, before she could tell him.  But she saw in his eyes that he was curbing his eagerness, and that she would have to tell him in a moment.

“I am sorry that you are sick, Uncle Henry,” she said hastily, taking the chair near his bed.  “It isn’t anything serious, is it?”

“No, no.”  His answer was as hasty as her question had been.  “Just rheumatism, Winifred.  I’m subject to it here of late.”

Then she saw that he had sat stiffly, that his shoulder, the left shoulder, was carried awkwardly and was evidently bandaged.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.  And then, determined to tell him before he should ask, “Uncle, I....”  Oh, it was so hard to say with him looking at her with those keen, bright eyes of his!  “You should have got some one else to help you.  I have failed....  I have lost your money for you!”

She dropped her face into her hands, trembling, striving to keep her tears back, feeling now, as she had not felt before, as if she had been altogether to blame for all that had happened, as though it had been her carelessness that had cost her uncle his five thousand dollars.  And when at last he did not speak and she looked up again, she saw that his eyes had not changed, that there was no surprise in them, that if he felt anything whatever he hid it.