"That is my mother. She died the year after it was taken."
Delia looked at it in silence a moment. There was something in its dignity, its restfulness, its touch of austerity which challenged her. She said abruptly—"I want to speak to you please, Mr. Winnington. May we shut the door?"
Winnington shut the door of his sister's room, and returned to his guest. Delia had turned very white.
"I hear Mr. Winnington you have reversed an order I wrote to our agent about one of the cottages. May I know your reasons?"
"I was very sorry to do so," said Winnington gently; "but I felt sure you did not understand the real circumstances, and I could not come and discuss them with you."
Delia stood stormily erect, and the level light of the October afternoon streaming in through a west window magnified her height, and her prophetess air.
"I can't help shocking you, Mr. Winnington. I don't accept what you say. I don't believe that covering up horrible things makes them less horrible. I want to stand by that girl. It is cruel to separate her from her old father!"
Winnington looked at her in distress and embarrassment.
"The story is not what you think it," he said earnestly. "But it is really not fit for your ears. I have given great thought and much time to it, yesterday and to-day. The girl—who is mentally deficient—will be sent to a home and cared for. The father sees now that it is the best. Please trust it to me."
"Why mayn't I know the facts!" persisted Delia, paler than before.