I looked at him now straight. I felt annoyed, after all, at what I knew he was going to say. But the kindness and gentleness of his face disarmed me.
"You mean that I don't behave well to my mother," said I, the flush of sudden vexation dying away from my face. "Mother doesn't understand me. I can't always be of the same mind as she is. I don't see why people need always be of the same mind as their relations; but it doesn't follow that they're ungrateful and heartless, because they are not. I've heard mother say that she doesn't believe that I care any more for her than for any tramp upon the high-road; but that isn't true."
The squire laughed.
"No; of course it isn't true," said he, "and Mrs. Maliphant doesn't think it."
"Oh yes, I think she does sometimes," persisted I. "She would like me to be like Joyce. But I shall never be like Joyce!"
"No," assented the squire, decidedly, "I don't think you ever will be. But it was not specially with reference to your mother that I was going to speak to you, although what I was going to say bears, I fancy, on what vexed her to-day."
I bit my lip. Was he going to refer to Mr. Harrod? He paused again.
"Your father is very much harassed and troubled, I fear, Miss Margaret," he said next. "I have noticed, with much grief of late, how sadly he seems to have aged."
"Do you think so?" said I. "I don't know what he should have to be harassed about."