Saturday was from of old a day of ills.  The charwoman was in the house, and Mrs. Hood went about in a fatigued way, coming now and then to the sitting-room, sinking into a chair, letting her head fall back with closed eyes.  Emily had, of course, begged to be allowed to give assistance, but her mother declared that there was nothing whatever she could do.

‘Shut the door,’ she said, ’and then you won’t hear the scrubbing so plainly.  I can understand that it annoys you; I used to have the same feeling, but I’ve accustomed myself.  You might play something; it would keep away your thoughts.’

‘But I don’t want to keep away my thoughts,’ exclaimed Emily, with a laugh.  ‘I want to help you so that you will have done the sooner.’

’No, no, my dear; you are not used to it.  You’ll tell me when you’d like something to eat if you get faint.’

‘I am not likely t6 grow faint, mother, if I do nothing.’

’Well, well; I have a sinking feeling now and then, I thought you might be the same.’

Just when his dinner in the oven had had time to grow crusty, Mr. Hood arrived.  He was a rather tall man, of sallow complexion, with greyish hair.  The peculiarly melancholy expression of his face was due to the excessive drooping of his eyelids under rounded brows; beneath the eyes were heavy lines; he generally looked like one who has passed through a night of sleepless grief.  He wore a suit of black, which had for several years been his reserve attire, till it grew too seamy for use on Sundays.  The whole look of the man was saddening; to pass him in the street as a stranger was to experience a momentary heaviness of heart.  He had very long slender fingers—­Emily’s matchless hand in a rudimentary form—­and it seemed to be a particular solicitude to keep them scrupulously clean; he frequently examined them, and appeared to have a pleasure in handling things in a dainty way—­the pages of a book, for instance.  When he smiled it was obviously with effort—­a painful smile, for all that an exceedingly gentle one.  In his voice there was the same gentleness, a self-suppression, as it were; his way of speaking half explained his want of success in life.

Emily was standing at the window in expectation of his coming.  As soon as he reached the iron gate in front of the house she ran to open the door for him.  He did not quicken his step, even stopped to close the gate with deliberate care, but if his face could ever be said to light up, it did so as he bent to the girl’s kiss.  She took his hat from him, and went to see that his dinner was made ready.

‘How fine it is!’ he said in his subdued tone, when he came downstairs and stood by the table stroking his newly washed hands.  ’Shall we have a walk before tea-time?  Mother is too busy, I’m afraid.’

Mrs. Hood came into the room shortly, and seated herself in the usual way.

‘Did you bring the cake?’ she asked, when her presence had caused silence for a few moments.