always love you and be grateful to you; she’d come and see you very often, and we should all be on the lookout to do everything we could towards making you comfortable.”

A plain man like Godfrey Cass, speaking under some embarrassment, necessarily blunders on words that are coarser than his intentions, and that are likely to fall gratingly on susceptible feelings. While he had been speaking, Eppie had quietly passed her arm behind Silas’s head, and let her hand rest against it caressingly; she felt him trembling violently. He was silent for some moments when Mr. Cass had ended—powerless under the conflict of emotions, all alike painful. Eppie’s heart was swelling at the sense that her father was in distress; and she was just going to lean down and speak to him, when one struggling dread at last gained the mastery over every other in Silas, and he said faintly,—

“Eppie, my child, speak. I won’t stand in your way, Thank Mr. and Mrs. Cass.”

Eppie took her hand from her father’s head, and came forward a step. Her cheeks were flushed, but not with shyness this time; the sense that her father was in doubt and suffering banished that sort of self- consciousness. She dropped a low curtsy, first to Mrs. Cass and then to Mr. Cass, and said,—

“Thank you, ma’am—thank you, sir. But I can’t leave my father, nor own anybody nearer than him. And I don’t want to be a lady—thank you all the same” (here Eppie dropped another curtsy). “I couldn’t give up the folks I’ve been used to.”

Eppie’s lip began to tremble a little at the last words. She retreated to her father’s chair again, and held him round the neck; while Silas, with a subdued sob, put up his hand to grasp hers.

The tears were in Nancy’s eyes, but her sympathy with Eppie was naturally divided with distress on her husband’s account. She dared not speak, wondering what was going on in her husband’s mind.

Godfrey felt an irritation inevitable to almost all of us when we encounter an unexpected obstacle. He had been full of his own penitence and resolution to retrieve his error as far as the time was left to him. He was possessed with all-important feelings, that were to lead to a predetermined course of action which he had fixed on as the right, and he was not prepared to enter with lively appreciation into other people’s feelings counteracting his virtuous resolves. The agitation with which he spoke again was not quite unmixed with anger.

“But I’ve a claim on you, Eppie—the strongest of all claims. It’s my duty, Marner, to own Eppie as my child, and provide for her. She’s my own child; her mother was my wife. I’ve a natural claim on her that must stand before every other.”

Eppie had given a violent start, and turned quite pale. Silas, on the contrary, who had been relieved by Eppie’s answer from the dread lest his mind should be in opposition to hers, felt the spirit of resistance in him set free, not without a touch of parental fierceness. “Then, sir,” he answered with an accent of bitterness that had been silent in him since the memorable day when his youthful hope had perished—“then, sir, why didn’t you say so sixteen year ago, and claim her before I’d come to love her, i’stead o’ coming to take her from me now, when you might as well take the heart out o’ my body? God gave her to me because you turned your back upon her, and He looks upon her as mine. You’ve no right to her! When a man turns a blessing from his door, it falls to them as take it in.”

“I know that, Marner. I was wrong. I’ve repented of my conduct in that matter,” said Godfrey, who could not help feeling the edge of Silas’s words.

“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” said Marner with gathering excitement; “but repentance doesn’t alter what’s been going on for sixteen year. Your coming now and saying ‘I’m her father’ doesn’t alter the feelings inside us. It’s me she’s been calling her father ever since she could say the word.”