Rhoda trembled, and raising her eyelids, answered, “Yes.”

“You saw him in the street that morning?”

Dahlia smiled a glittering tenderness too evidently deceitful in part, but quite subduing.

“You saw him, my Rhoda, and he said he was true to me, and sorrowful; and you told him, dear one, that I had no heart for him, and wished to go to hell—­did you not, good Rhoda?  Forgive me; I mean ‘good;’ my true, good Rhoda.  Yes, you hate sin; it is dreadful; but you should never speak falsely to sinners, for that does not teach them to repent.  Mind you never lie again.  Look at me.  I am chained, and I have no repentance in me.  See me.  I am nearer it...the other—­sin, I mean.  If that man comes...will he?”

“No—­no!” Rhoda cried.

“If that man comes—­”

“He will not come!”

“He cast me off at the church door, and said he had been cheated.  Money!  Oh, Edward!”

Dahlia drooped her head.

“He will keep away.  You are safe,” said Rhoda.

“Because, if no help comes, I am lost—­I am lost for ever!”

“But help will come.  I mean peace will come.  We will read; we will work in the garden.  You have lifted poor father up, my dear.”

“Ah! that old man!” Dahlia sighed.

“He is our father.”

“Yes, poor old man!” and Dahlia whispered:  “I have no pity for him.  If I am dragged away, I’m afraid I shall curse him.  He seems a stony old man.  I don’t understand fathers.  He would make me go away.  He talks the Scriptures when he is excited.  I’m afraid he would shut my Bible for me.  Those old men know nothing of the hearts of women.  Now, darling, go to your room.”

Rhoda begged earnestly for permission to stay with her, but Dahlia said: 
“My nights are fevers.  I can’t have arms about me.”

They shook hands when they separated, not kissing.

CHAPTER XLII

Three days passed quietly at the Farm, and each morning Dahlia came down to breakfast, and sat with the family at their meals; pale, with the mournful rim about her eyelids, but a patient figure.  No questions were asked.  The house was guarded from visitors, and on the surface the home was peaceful.  On the Wednesday Squire Blancove was buried, when Master Gammon, who seldom claimed a holiday or specified an enjoyment of which he would desire to partake, asked leave to be spared for a couple of hours, that he might attend the ceremonious interment of one to whom a sort of vagrant human sentiment of clanship had made him look up, as to the chief gentleman of the district, and therefore one having claims on his respect.  A burial had great interest for the old man.

“I’ll be home for dinner; it’ll gi’e me an appetite,” Master Gammon said solemnly, and he marched away in his serious Sunday hat and careful coat, blither than usual.