‘Come and sit down to your dinner, father,’ Annie said, when he became silent.

’Dinner?  I want no dinner.  I’ve no stomach for food when it’s stolen.  What’s Sidney goin’ to have when he comes home?’

’He said he’d do with bread and cheese to-day.  See, we’ve cut some meat for you?’

’You keep that for Sidney, then, and don’t one of you dare to say anything about it.  Cut me a bit of bread, Annie.’

She did so.  He ate it, standing by the fireplace, drank a glass of water, and went into the sitting-room.  There he sat unoccupied for nearly an hour, his head at times dropping forward as if he were nearly asleep; but it was only in abstraction.  The morning’s work had wearied him excessively, as such effort always did, but the mental misery he was suffering made him unconscious of bodily fatigue.

The clinking and grinding of the gate drew his attention; he stood up and saw his son-in-law, returned from Clerkenwell.  When he had heard the house-door grind and shake and close, he called ‘Sidney!’

Sidney looked into the parlour, with a smile.

‘Come in here a minute; I want to speak to you.’

It was a face that told of many troubles.  Sidney might resolutely keep a bright countenance, but there was no hiding the sallowness of his cheeks and the lines drawn by ever-wakeful anxiety.  The effect of a struggle with mean necessities is seldom anything but degradation, in look and in character; but Sidney’s temper, and the conditions of his life, preserved him against that danger.  His features, worn into thinness, seem to present more distinctly than ever their points of refinement.  You saw that he was habitually a grave and silent man; all the more attractive his aspect when, as now, he seemed to rest from thought and give expression to his natural kindliness.  In the matter of attire he was no longer as careful as he used to be; the clothes he wore had done more than just service, and hung about him unregarded.

‘Clara upstairs?’ he asked, when he had noticed Hewett’s look.

’Yes; she’s lying down.  May’s been troublesome all the morning.  But it was something else I meant.’

And John began to speak of Amy’s ill-doing.  He had always in some degree a sense of shame when he spoke privately with Sidney, always felt painfully the injustice involved in their relations.  At present he could not look Kirkwood in the face, and his tone was that of a man who abases himself to make confession of guilt.

Sidney was gravely concerned.  It was his habit to deal with the children’s faults good-naturedly, to urge John not to take a sombre view of their thoughtlessness; but the present instance could not be made light of.  Secretly he had always expected that the girl would be a source of more serious trouble the older she grew.  He sat in silence, leaning forward, his eyes bent down.