had ever the air of requests for favours. Women, I so often read, can
care for only masterful men. But may there not be variety in women as
in other species? Or perhaps--if the suggestion be not
over-daring--the many writers, deeming themselves authorities upon
this subject of woman, may in this one particular have erred? I only
know my father spoke to few women whose eyes did not brighten. Yet
hardly should I call him a masterful man.

"I think it's all right," whispered Hasluck to my father in the
passage--they were the last to go. "What does she think of it, eh?"

"I think she'll be with us," answered my father.

"Nothing like food for bringing people together," said Hasluck.
"Good-night."

The door closed, but Something had crept into the house. It stood
between my father and mother. It followed them silently up the narrow
creaking stairs.



CHAPTER VII.

OF THE PASSING OF THE SHADOW.

Better is little, than treasure and trouble therewith. Better a
dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.
None but a great man would have dared to utter such a glaring
commonplace as that. Not only on Sundays now, but all the week, came