Through the meal he affected to occupy himself with the book Miss Lant had sent—­the sight of which was intolerable to Jane.  And not for a full hour did he speak anything but casual words.  Jane had taken her sewing; unexpectedly he addressed her.

’Let’s have a word or two together, Jane.  I think we ought to, oughtn’t we?’

She forced herself to regard him.

‘I think you meant what you said last night?’

’Grandfather, I will do whatever you bid me.  I’ll do it faithfully.  I was ungrateful.  I feel ashamed to have spoken so.’

’That’s nothing to do with it, Jane.  You’re not ungrateful; anything but that.  But I’ve had a night to think over your words.  You couldn’t speak like that if you weren’t driven to it by the strongest feeling you ever knew or will know.  I hadn’t thought of it in that way; I hadn’t thought of you in that way.’

He began gently, but in the last words was a touch of reproof, almost of scorn.  He gazed at her from under his grey eyebrows, perhaps hoping to elicit some resistance of her spirit, some sign of strength that would help him to reconstruct his shattered ideal.

’Grandfather, I’ll try with all my strength to be what you wish—­I will!’

‘And suppose the strength isn’t sufficient, child?’

Even in her humility she could not but feel that this was unjust.  Had she ever boasted?  Had she ever done more than promise tremblingly what he demanded?  But the fear was legitimate.  A weak thing, all but heart-broken, could she hope to tread firmly in any difficult path?  She hung her head, making no answer.

He examined her, seeming to measure the slightness of her frame.  Sad, unutterably sad, was the deep breath he drew as he turned his eyes away again.

‘Do you feel well this morning, Jane?’

‘Yes, grandfather.’

‘Have you slept?’

’I couldn’t, You were grieving about me.  I hoped never to have disappointed you.’

He fell into reverie.  Was he thinking of that poor wife of his, dead long, long ago, the well-meaning girl of whom he had expected impossible things?  A second time had he thus erred, no longer with the excuse of inexperience and hot blood.  That cry of Jane’s had made its way to his heart.  An enthusiast, he was yet capable of seeing by the common light of day, when his affections were deeply stirred.  And in the night he had pondered much over his son’s behaviour.  Was he being deceived in that quarter also, and there intentionally?  Did Joseph know this child better than he had done, and calculate upon her weakness?  The shock, instead of disabling him, had caused a revival of his strength.  He could walk more firmly this morning than at any time since his accident.  His brain was clear and active; he knew that it behoved him to reconsider all he had been doing, and that quickly, ere it was too late.  He must even forget that aching of the heart until he had leisure to indulge it.