“Aha, I am warm.  I have seen the fire.”

The meaning broke like sunshine from the clouds.  It made Joan laugh.

“Well, of all the funny things,” she said aloud, “and from the Bible, too,” for “Isaiah” was brought into evidence by another rub.  “This house is certainly haunted.”

Just then a sharp knock on the panels of the door, set wide to the sweet summer day, startled Joan and brought her to her feet, with that quivering of the nerves that betokened an almost psychic state.

A tall man stood in the doorway.  His clothes—­good ones, well fashioned—­were wrinkled and travel stained.  They gave the impression of having been slept in.  The man was like his garments—­the worse for wear but, originally, of good material.

Joan recognized that at once—­after she got over the surprise of finding that he was not Clive Cameron.

“Good morning,” she said, quietly, while a familiarity about the stranger puzzled her.  “Come in and sit down, please.”

The man came in, walking stiffly, his eyes fixed upon Joan in a way that confused her.  She felt that she ought to remember him, but could not.

“I’ve tied my horse down by the road,” the stranger said, sitting down by the long table, “I got the beast at the station.  The distance was longer than I imagined and the roads are—­to say the least—­not oiled.”  He laughed and flecked the dust from his coat—­still keeping his eyes on Joan.

“Is your aunt at home?” he continued.  So then, the man should be recognized—­but he still eluded Joan’s memory.

“No, she is not.  She will not be back for some time.  I am sorry that I cannot recall you—­I am sure I have seen you—­but——­”

“You’d have a remarkable memory if you did recall me,” there was a sneer in the laugh that followed the words; “you were very young when you saw me before.  Perhaps I can help you—­you are—­Joan, are you not?”

“Yes.”  Joan sat down opposite the man—­her hands were clasped close.

“I’m George Thornton, formerly of the Philippines, later of South Africa, more recently of New York, where I stayed long enough to learn my way here.  Incidentally, I am your father.”

Had Joan been standing she would have fallen.  As it was, she quickly overcame the dizziness that made the speaker seem to dance about and, by gripping her hands closer, she steadied herself.

“I suppose you have never heard of me before?”

“Oh! yes!” Joan listened to her own voice critically; “Aunt Doris told Nancy and me all about you.”

“All, eh?” Thornton could barely keep the surprise and relief from his voice.  This simplified matters and he could talk freely.

“What do you want?” The question as Joan spoke it sounded brutal.  “I do not suppose you have come here, after all these years, for nothing.”

Thornton flushed angrily, and his resentment of old flamed into speech.