in absolute solitude--absolute.'

'You have your studies, your books, and your--daughter.'

'Oh yes, yes; and I don't complain of poverty. Canto coram
latrone. Well, Mr. Smith, don't let me detain you any longer in a
sick room. Ha! that reminds me of a story I once heard in my
younger days.' Here the vicar began a series of small private
laughs, and Stephen looked inquiry. 'Oh, no, no! it is too bad--
too bad to tell!' continued Mr. Swancourt in undertones of grim
mirth. 'Well, go downstairs; my daughter must do the best she can
with you this evening. Ask her to sing to you--she plays and
sings very nicely. Good-night; I feel as if I had known you for
five or six years. I'll ring for somebody to show you down.'

'Never mind,' said Stephen, 'I can find the way.' And he went
downstairs, thinking of the delightful freedom of manner in the
remoter counties in comparison with the reserve of London.


'I forgot to tell you that my father was rather deaf,' said
Elfride anxiously, when Stephen entered the little drawing-room.

'Never mind; I know all about it, and we are great friends,' the
man of business replied enthusiastically. 'And, Miss Swancourt,
will you kindly sing to me?'

To Miss Swancourt this request seemed, what in fact it was,
exceptionally point-blank; though she guessed that her father had
some hand in framing it, knowing, rather to her cost, of his