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‘Anna.’

‘Yes, father;’ her voice came from the kitchen.

‘I want ye.’

‘In a minute. I’m peeling potatoes.’

When she came in, she found him seated at the bureau as usual. He did not look round.

‘Yes, father.’

She stood there in her print dress and white apron, full in the eye of the sun, waiting for him. She could not guess what she had been summoned for. As a rule, she never saw her father between breakfast and dinner. At length he turned.

‘Anna,’ he said in his harsh, abrupt tones, and then stopped for a moment before continuing. His thick, short fingers held the list which he had previously been consulting. She waited in bewilderment. ‘It’s your birthday, ye told me. I hadna’ forgotten. Ye’re of age to-day, and there’s summat for ye. Your mother had a fortune of her own, and under your grandfeyther’s will it comes to you when you’re twenty-one. ‘I’m the trustee. Your mother had eighteen thousand pounds i’ Government stock.’ He laid a slight sneering emphasis on the last two words. ‘That was near twenty-five year ago. I’ve nigh on trebled it for ye, what wi’ good investments and interest accumulating. Thou’rt worth’—here he changed to the second personal singular, a habit with him—‘thou’rt worth this day as near fifty thousand as makes no matter, Anna. And that’s a tidy bit.’