tap, and withdrew into the kitchen.

Nancy, seated at the table, turned to greet her father. In early
life, Stephen Lord must have been handsome; his face was now rugged,
of unhealthy tone, and creased with lines betokening a moody habit.
He looked much older than his years, which were fifty-seven. Dressed
with excessive carelessness, he had the appearance rather of one at
odds with fortune than of a substantial man of business. His short
beard was raggedly trimmed; his grizzled hair began to show the
scalp. Judging from the contour of his visage, one might have
credited him with a forcible and commanding character; his voice
favoured that impression; but the countenance had a despondent cast,
the eyes seemed to shun observation, the lips suggested a sullen
pride, indicative of some defect or vice of will.

Yet in the look which he cast upon her, Nancy detected a sign of
more amiability than she had found in him of late. She addressed him
with confidence.

'Early to-day, father.'

'Yes.'

The monosyllable sounded gruff, but again Nancy felt satisfaction.
Mr. Lord, who disliked to seat himself unless he were going to keep
his position for some time, took the offered beverage from his
daughter's hand, and stood with it before the fireplace, casting
glances about the room.

'How have you felt, father?'