On Mr. Wingate's side, the sight of Hallam's physical infirmity had roused regret at the action he must take. Up till this meeting he had lived with but one object in view—the possession of Fairacres; nor did he now waver in his determination. There had simply entered into the matter a sentiment of compassion which was a surprise to himself, and which he banished as completely as he could.
Amy met them at the door with the gratifying report:—
"Father is about all right again. It was a sudden faint. Cleena says that he has had them before, but that mother had not wished us told. There is no need of a doctor, and Cleena is to get the west chamber ready for Mr. Wingate to sleep in. I'm to freshen the fire and—here is mother herself."
The house mistress came toward them, vial and glass in hand, on her way back to the sick-room. The hall was dimly lighted, and as she turned at the stair's foot and passed upward, with that soft gliding motion peculiar to herself, she seemed to the entering guest like a sad-faced ghost of a girl he had known. Halfway up she paused upon the landing and smiled down upon them; and the serenity of that smile made the hard facts of the case—illness, poverty, and home-breaking—seem even more unreal than anything else could have done.
Amy looked into Mr. Wingate's eyes, which were fixed upon their mother. "Isn't she like the Madonna? Father has so often painted her as such."
"Yes—hmm. He ought to. A Madonna of Way and Means. Say, little girl, you are bright enough, but you act a good deal younger than your years. How happens it you've never learned to look after your father yourself, and so spare your mother? Can you do anything useful?"
"That depends. I can arrange father's palette, and crack his eggs just right, and buy things—when there's money," she finished naïvely.
"It all seems 'father.' What about your mother? What can you do, or have you done, to help her, eh?"
Amy flushed. She thought this sort of cross-questioning very rude and uncalled for. As soon as she had heard this man's name she had realized that it must be he of whom Hallam had spoken, and whom she, also, had decided she "hated unseen." But, in truth, hatred was a feeling of which the carefully sheltered girl knew absolutely nothing, though it came very near entering her heart at that instant when the shrewd, penetrating gaze of her kinsman forced her to answer his question.