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This was Anna Tellwright, the ascetic, the prosaic, the impassive.

After an interval which to her was as much like a minute as a century, she went back into the house. As she entered by the kitchen she heard an impatient knocking at the front door.

‘At last,’ said her father grimly, when she opened the door. In two words he had resumed his terrible sway over her. Agnes looked timidly from one to the other and slipped past them into the house.

‘I was in the garden,’ Anna explained. ‘Have you been here long?’ She tried to smile apologetically.

‘Only about a quarter of an hour,’ he answered, with a grimness still more portentous.

‘He won’t speak again to-night,’ she thought fearfully. But she was mistaken. After he had carefully hung his best hat on the hat-rack, he turned towards her, and said, with a queer smile:

‘Ye’ve been day-dreaming, eh, Sis?’

‘Sis’ was her pet name, used often by Agnes, but by her father only at the very rarest intervals. She was staggered at this change of front, so unaccountable in this man, who, when she had unwittingly annoyed him, was capable of keeping an awful silence for days together. What did he know? What had those old eyes seen?