"Nearly all, uncle. Mrs. Morris seems an odd woman—not at all pleased to see me, I thought, so really I need not go again. Doris was a good deal taken with the poor delicate daughter—Winnie, they called her. Doris said afterwards that she meant to go and see her sometimes, and to take her books to read. It was a kind idea. And Mrs. Brutt—"
"Yes—"
"She talked a good deal, as she always does."
"About the farm people?" The Squire seldom showed so keen an interest in aught that might be described as verging on gossip.
"Yes. She seems to me to have found a mare's nest. I did not quite follow her line of thought—but it was about Mrs. Morris's past, and what she imagined to be the truth. She was sure there was some secret. It sounded rather absurd. But Mrs. Morris certainly is singular. The elder girl I did not like."
"I warned you. She will take liberties, if she is allowed."
"She did not try to take any. I found her rather subdued. It seemed to me only right to see Mrs. Morris, after what I owe to her. But of course, if I had understood, I would not have gone—and I will not go again. You know I always try to do what you wish."
Katherine stood up, with the words, and he went to open the door; courtly as usual. As she passed she gave him a slight wistful glance, and he took her hand in his own, then bent to kiss her forehead, as her own father might have done.
"I know!" he said. "You are my child!—my all!" The word came emphatically. "It startled me to think that you could go against my will. But it is all right now."
Both were by nature undemonstrative; and he dropped her hand. She gave him a gentle little smile in response, and moved on, her soft skirt sweeping the floor noiselessly. Within the drawing-room, when alone, she stood still and repeated the words half aloud—"His child! His all!"