‘Will you come to the library after breakfast, Sidwell?’ he said, on meeting her in the hall.

She interpreted his tone, and her heart misgave her.  An hour later she obeyed the summons.  Martin greeted her with a smile, but hardly tried to appear at ease.

‘I am obliged to speak to you,’ were his first words.  ’The letter you had yesterday was from Mr. Peak?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘Is he’—­Mr. Warricombe hesitated—­’in these parts again?’

‘No; in Lancashire.’

’Sidwell, I claim no right whatever to control your correspondence; but it was a shock to me to find that you are in communication with him.’

‘He wrote,’ Sidwell replied with difficulty, ’to let me know of a change that has come upon his prospects.  By the death of a friend, he is made independent.’

’For his own sake, I am glad to hear that.  But how could it concern you, dear?’

She struggled to command herself.

‘It was at my invitation that he wrote, father.’

Martin’s face expressed grave concern.

‘Sidwell!  Is this right?’

She was very pale, and kept her eyes unmovingly directed just aside from her father.

‘What can it mean?’ Mr. Warricombe pursued, with sad remonstrance.  ‘Will you not take me into your confidence, Sidwell?’

‘I can’t speak of it,’ she replied, with sudden determination.  ‘Least of all with you, father.’

‘Least of all?—­I thought we were very near to each other.’

’For that very reason, I can’t speak to you of this.  I must be left free!  I am going away with Sylvia, for a year, and for so long I must be absolutely independent.  Father, I entreat you not to’——­

A sob checked her.  She turned away, and fought against the hysterical tendency; but it was too strong to be controlled.  Her father approached, beseeching her to be more like herself.  He held her in his arms, until tears had their free course, and a measure of calmness returned.

‘I can’t speak to you about it,’ she repeated, her face hidden from him.  ’I must write you a long letter, when I have gone.  You shall know everything in that way.’

’But, my dearest, I can’t let you leave us under these circumstances.  This is a terrible trial to me.  You cannot possibly go until we understand each other!’

‘Then I will write to you here—­to-day or to-morrow.’

With this promise Martin was obliged to be contented, Sidwell left him, and was not seen, except by Sylvia, during the whole day.

Nor did she appear at breakfast on the morning that followed.  But when this meal was over, Sylvia received a message, summoning her to the retreat on the top of the house.  Here Sidwell sat in the light and warmth, a glass door wide open to the west, the rays of a brilliant sun softened by curtains which fluttered lightly in the breeze from the sea.

‘Will you read this?’ she said, holding out a sheet of notepaper on which were a few lines in her own handwriting.