Her carpet was of green felt, matching in shade the foliage of the
chintz. On suspended shelves stood the books which she desired to
have near her, and round about the walls hung prints, photographs,
chromolithographs, selected in an honest spirit of admiration, which
on the whole did no discredit to Nancy's sensibilities.

To the best of Nancy's belief, her father had never seen this room.
On its completion she invited him to inspect it, but Mr. Lord coldly
declined, saying that he knew nothing, and cared nothing, about
upholstery.

His return to-day was earlier than usual. Shortly after five o'clock
Nancy heard the familiar heavy step in the passage, and went
downstairs.

'Will you have a cup of tea, father?' she asked, standing by the
door of the back room, which was ajar.

'If it's ready,' replied a deep voice.

She entered the dining-room, and rang the bell. In a few minutes
Mary Woodruff appeared, bringing tea and biscuits. She was a neat,
quiet, plain-featured woman, of strong physique, and with set lips,
which rarely parted save for necessary speech. Her eyes had a
singular expression of inquietude, of sadness. A smile seldom
appeared on her face, but, when it did, the effect was unlooked for:
it touched the somewhat harsh lineaments with a gentleness so
pleasing that she became almost comely.

Having set down the tray, she went to Mr. Lord's door, gave a soft