After her death the room was converted into a parlour, used almost exclusively by the young people.  At the top of the house slept two servants, each in her own well-furnished retreat; one of them was a girl, the other a woman of about forty, named Mary Woodruff.  Mary had been in the house for twenty years; she enjoyed her master’s confidence, and, since old Mrs. Lord’s death, exercised practical control in the humbler domestic affairs.

With one exception, all parts of the abode presented much the same appearance as when Stephen Lord first established himself antiquated, and in primitive taste.  Nancy’s bedroom alone here.  The furniture was old, solid, homely; the ornaments were displayed the influence of modern ideas.  On her twentieth birthday, the girl received permission to dress henceforth as she chose (a strict sumptuary law having previously been in force), and at the same time was allowed to refurnish her chamber.  Nancy pleaded for modern reforms throughout the house, but in vain; even the drawing-room kept its uninviting aspect, not very different, save for the removal of the bed, from that it had presented when the ancient lady slept here.  In her own little domain, Miss.  Lord made a clean sweep of rude appointments, and at small expense surrounded herself with pretty things.  The woodwork and the furniture were in white enamel; the paper had a pattern of wild-rose.  A choice chintz, rose-leaf and flower on a white ground, served for curtains and for bed-hangings.  Her carpet was of green felt, matching in shade the foliage of the chintz.  On suspended shelves stood the books which she desired to have near her, and round about the walls hung prints, photographs, chromolithographs, selected in an honest spirit of admiration, which on the whole did no discredit to Nancy’s sensibilities.

To the best of Nancy’s belief, her father had never seen this room.  On its completion she invited him to inspect it, but Mr. Lord coldly declined, saying that he knew nothing, and cared nothing, about upholstery.

His return to-day was earlier than usual.  Shortly after five o’clock Nancy heard the familiar heavy step in the passage, and went downstairs.

‘Will you have a cup of tea, father?’ she asked, standing by the door of the back room, which was ajar.

‘If it’s ready,’ replied a deep voice.

She entered the dining-room, and rang the bell.  In a few minutes Mary Woodruff appeared, bringing tea and biscuits.  She was a neat, quiet, plain-featured woman, of strong physique, and with set lips, which rarely parted save for necessary speech.  Her eyes had a singular expression of inquietude, of sadness.  A smile seldom appeared on her face, but, when it did, the effect was unlooked for:  it touched the somewhat harsh lineaments with a gentleness so pleasing that she became almost comely.

Having set down the tray, she went to Mr. Lord’s door, gave a soft tap, and withdrew into the kitchen.