“There, David, there!  I knew you would take it hard; but have the goodness to turn round and speak to me,” said Mrs. Dolman.

When he heard these unexpected words, the master of Delaney Manor turned with a visible start.

“My dear Jane, what have you come for?” he exclaimed.  He advanced to meet his sister, dismay evident on every line of his face.

“I knew you would not welcome me, David.  Oh, no prevarications! if you please.  It is awful to think how many lies people tell in the cause of politeness.  When I undertook this wearisome journey from the north of England, I knew I should not be welcome, but all the same I came; and, David, when I have had a little talk with you, and when you have unburdened your heart to me, you will feel your sorrow less.”

“I would rather not touch on that subject,” said Mr. Delaney.  He offered his sister a chair very quietly, and took another himself.

Father, as Iris used to say, was not the least like mother.  Mother had the gentlest, the sweetest, the most angelic face in the world; she never spoke loudly, and she seldom laughed; her voice was low and never was heard to rise to an angry tone.  Her smile was like the sweetest sunshine, and wherever she appeared she brought an atmosphere of peace with her.  But father, on the other hand, although an excellent and loving parent, was, when in good spirits, given to hearty laughter—­given to loud, eager words, to strong exercise, both physical and mental.  He was, as a rule, a very active man, seldom staying still in one place, but bustling here, there, and everywhere.  He was fond of his children, and petted them a good deal; but the one whom he really worshiped was his gentle and loving wife.  She led him, although he did not know it, by silken cords.  She always knew exactly how to manage him, how to bring out his fine points.  She never rubbed him the wrong way.  He had a temper, and he knew it; but in his wife’s presence it had never been exasperated.  His sister, however, managed to set it on edge with the very first words she uttered.

“Of course, I know you mean well, Jane,” he said, “and I ought to be obliged to you for taking all this trouble.  Now that you have come, you are welcome; but I must ask you to understand immediately that I will not have the subject of my”—­he hesitated, and his under lip shook for a moment—­“the subject of my trouble alluded to.  And I will also add that I should have preferred your writing to me beforehand.  This taking a man by storm is, you know of old, my dear Jane—­not agreeable to me.”

“Precisely, David.  I did not write, for the simple reason that I thought it likely you would have asked me not to come; and as it was necessary for me to appear on the scene, I determined, on this occasion, to take, as you express it, Delaney Manor by storm.”

“Very well, Jane; as you have done it you have done it, and there is no more to be said.”