“That letter, my girl, sticks to my skull, as though it meant to say, ‘You’ve not understood me yet.’  I’ve read it a matter of twenty times, and I’m no nearer to the truth of it.  But, if she’s lying, here in this letter, what’s she walking on?  How long are we to wait for to hear?  I give you my word, Robert, I’m feeling for you as I am for myself.  Or, wasn’t it that one?  Is it this one?” He levelled his finger at Rhoda.  “In any case, Robert, you’ll feel for me as a father.  I’m shut in a dark room with the candle blown out.  I’ve heard of a sort of fear you have in that dilemmer, lest you should lay your fingers on edges of sharp knives, and if I think a step—­if I go thinking a step, and feel my way, I do cut myself, and I bleed, I do.  Robert, just take and say, it wasn’t that one.”

Such a statement would carry with it the confession that it was this one for whom he cared this scornful one, this jilt, this brazen girl who could make appointments with gentlemen, or suffer them to speak to her, and subsequently look at him with innocence and with anger.

“Believe me, Mr. Fleming, I feel for you as much as a man can,” he said, uneasily, swaying half round as he spoke.

“Do you suspect anything bad?” The farmer repeated the question, like one who only wanted a confirmation of his own suspicions to see the fact built up.  “Robert, does this look like the letter of a married woman?  Is it daughter-like—­eh, man?  Help another:  I can’t think for myself—­she ties my hands.  Speak out.”

Robert set his eyes on Rhoda.  He would have given much to have been able to utter, “I do.”  Her face was like an eager flower straining for light; the very beauty of it swelled his jealous passion, and he flattered himself with his incapacity to speak an abject lie to propitiate her.

“She says she is married.  We’re bound to accept what she says.”

That was his answer.

“Is she married?” thundered the farmer.  “Has she been and disgraced her mother in her grave?  What am I to think?  She’s my flesh and blood.  Is she—­”

“Oh, hush, father!” Rhoda laid her hand on his arm.  “What doubt can there be of Dahlia?  You have forgotten that she is always truthful.  Come away.  It is shameful to stand here and listen to unmanly things.”

She turned a face of ashes upon Robert.

“Come away, father.  She is our own.  She is my sister.  A doubt of her is an insult to us.”

“But Robert don’t doubt her—­eh?” The farmer was already half distracted from his suspicions.  “Have you any real doubt about the girl, Robert?”

“I don’t trust myself to doubt anybody,” said Robert.

“You don’t cast us off, my boy?”

“I’m a labourer on the farm,” said Robert, and walked away.

“He’s got reason to feel this more ’n the rest of us, poor lad!  It’s a blow to him.”  With which the farmer struck his hand on Rhoda’s shoulder.