Mrs. Davis looked blank.  She had never dreamed of his refusing.

“Why, Mr. Meredith,” she said in astonishment.  “You must be cr—­you can’t mean it.  You must think it over—­think of all the advantages I can give her.”

“There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis.  It is entirely out of the question.  All the worldly advantages it is in your power to bestow on her could not compensate for the loss of a father’s love and care.  I thank you again—­but it is not to be thought of.”

Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the power of old habit to control.  Her broad red face turned purple and her voice trembled.

“I thought you’d be only too glad to let me have her,” she sneered.

“Why did you think that?” asked Mr. Meredith quietly.

“Because nobody ever supposed you cared anything about any of your children,” retorted Mrs. Davis contemptuously.  “You neglect them scandalously.  It is the talk of the place.  They aren’t fed and dressed properly, and they’re not trained at all.  They have no more manners than a pack of wild Indians.  You never think of doing your duty as a father.  You let a stray child come here among them for a fortnight and never took any notice of her—­a child that swore like a trooper I’m told.  You wouldn’t have cared if they’d caught small-pox from her.  And Faith made an exhibition of herself getting up in preaching and making that speech!  And she rid a pig down the street—­under your very eyes I understand.  The way they act is past belief and you never lift a finger to stop them or try to teach them anything.  And now when I offer one of them a good home and good prospects you refuse it and insult me.  A pretty father you, to talk of loving and caring for your children!”

“That will do, woman!” said Mr. Meredith.  He stood up and looked at Mrs. Davis with eyes that made her quail.  “That will do,” he repeated.  “I desire to hear no more, Mrs. Davis.  You have said too much.  It may be that I have been remiss in some respects in my duty as a parent, but it is not for you to remind me of it in such terms as you have used.  Let us say good afternoon.”

Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable as good afternoon, but she took her departure.  As she swept past the minister a large, plump toad, which Carl had secreted under the lounge, hopped out almost under her feet.  Mrs. Davis gave a shriek and in trying to avoid treading on the awful thing, lost her balance and her parasol.  She did not exactly fall, but she staggered and reeled across the room in a very undignified fashion and brought up against the door with a thud that jarred her from head to foot.  Mr. Meredith, who had not seen the toad, wondered if she had been attacked with some kind of apoplectic or paralytic seizure, and ran in alarm to her assistance.  But Mrs. Davis, recovering her feet, waved him back furiously.

“Don’t you dare to touch me,” she almost shouted.  “This is some more of your children’s doings, I suppose.  This is no fit place for a decent woman.  Give me my umbrella and let me go.  I’ll never darken the doors of your manse or your church again.”