On the other hand, he had a dread of London, and Dahlia was surpassingly fair.  He put the case to Robert, in remembrance of what his wife had spoken, hoping that Robert would amorously stop his painful efforts to think fast enough for the occasion.  Robert, however, had nothing to say, and seemed willing to let Dahlia depart.  The only opponents to the plan were Mrs. Sumfit, a kindly, humble relative of the farmer’s, widowed out of Sussex, very loving and fat; the cook to the household, whose waist was dimly indicated by her apron-string; and, to aid her outcries, the silently-protesting Master Gammon, an old man with the cast of eye of an antediluvian lizard, the slowest old man of his time—­a sort of foreman of the farm before Robert had come to take matters in hand, and thrust both him and his master into the background.  Master Gammon remarked emphatically, once and for all, that “he never had much opinion of London.”  As he had never visited London, his opinion was considered the less weighty, but, as he advanced no further speech, the sins and backslidings of the metropolis were strongly brought to mind by his condemnatory utterance.  Policy and Dahlia’s entreaties at last prevailed with the farmer, and so the fair girl went up to the great city.

After months of a division that was like the division of her living veins, and when the comfort of letters was getting cold, Rhoda, having previously pledged herself to secresy, though she could not guess why it was commanded, received a miniature portrait of Dahlia, so beautiful that her envy of London for holding her sister away from her, melted in gratitude.  She had permission to keep the portrait a week; it was impossible to forbear from showing it to Mrs. Sumfit, who peeped in awe, and that emotion subsiding, shed tears abundantly.  Why it was to be kept secret, they failed to inquire; the mystery was possibly not without its delights to them.  Tears were shed again when the portrait had to be packed up and despatched.  Rhoda lived on abashed by the adorable new refinement of Dahlia’s features, and her heart yearned to her uncle for so caring to decorate the lovely face.

One day Rhoda was at her bed-room window, on the point of descending to encounter the daily dumpling, which was the principal and the unvarying item of the midday meal of the house, when she beheld a stranger trying to turn the handle of the iron gate.  Her heart thumped.  She divined correctly that it was her uncle.  Dahlia had now been absent for very many months, and Rhoda’s growing fretfulness sprang the conviction in her mind that something closer than letters must soon be coming.  She ran downstairs, and along the gravel-path.  He was a little man, square-built, and looking as if he had worn to toughness; with an evident Sunday suit on:  black, and black gloves, though the day was only antecedent to Sunday.

“Let me help you, sir,” she said, and her hands came in contact with his, and were squeezed.