“No,” said Claude sternly.
“If you please, ma’am, Mrs Woodham is here,” said one of the servants; and Claude’s face grew more troubled as she asked herself what her father would say to the step she had taken, in bidding the unhappy woman come and resume her old position in the house.
She had not long to wait.
As she rose to cross the room she caught sight of Glyddyr looking back at the windows on leaving the house, and heard the study bell ring furiously.
“Quick, Mary!” she cried, as she rushed through the door, being under the impression that her father had had another seizure.
The relief was so great as she entered the study and found him standing in the middle of the room, that she threw herself in his arms.
“I thought you were taken ill again,” she gasped, as she clung, to him, trembling.
He was evidently in a fury, but his child’s words were like oil upon the tempestuous waves.
“You—you thought that?” he said, holding her to his breast and patting her cheek tenderly. “You thought that, eh? And they say in Danmouth that everybody hates me. That there isn’t a soul here who wouldn’t like to dance upon my grave.”
“Papa, dear, don’t talk like that.”