been very religious in his real thoughts. We never discussed such
things."

Maggie turned round upon him.

"I know. You're pretending. You've said to yourself, 'I mustn't tell
her what I think about her father the very day after his death, that
isn't a pleasant thing to do.' We've all got to pretend that he was
splendid. But he wasn't--never. Who can know it better than I?
Didn't he worry mother until she died? Didn't he lead me an awful
life always, and aren't I delighted now that he's dead? It's
everything to me. I've longed for this day for years, and now we've
got to pretend that we're sorry and that it would be a good thing if
he were alive. It wouldn't be a good thing--it would be a bad thing
for every one. He was a bad man and I hated him."

Then, quite suddenly, she cried. Turning away from her uncle she
folded her face in her arms like a small child and sobbed. Standing,
looking at her bent shoulders, her square, ugly figure, her shabby
old hat with its dingy black ribbon, pushed a little to the side of
her head, Uncle Mathew thought that she was a most uncomprehensible
girl. If she felt like that about her father why should she cry; and
if she cried she must surely have some affection for his memory. All
he could say was:

"There, there, my dear--Well, well. It's all right." He felt foolish
and helpless.

She turned round at last, drying her eyes. "It's such a shame," she
said, still sobbing, "that that's what I shall feel about him. He's