“If he is too faddy for the society that I can put up with, though it be that of chimney-sweeps,” said Deb, “he is too faddy for me, father.”

“Now, my dear, don’t talk so,” the old man pleaded with her, quite agitated by her mood.  “We all have our little weaknesses—­we have to make allowances for temperament and for bringing up.  Don’t let a trifle like this estrange you two—­don’t, Debbie, for my sake.  Let me go down to my grave feeling that one of you, at least, is safe and happy, and well provided for.”

“Decidedly,” thought Deborah, “father is not the same man that he was before his illness.”

She understood the cause of his change of views on her engagement better a few weeks later.

He had parted with his eldest daughter then, and the emotion of the event had fatally affected him.  Owing to some obscure working of the “influence” which her social position had brought to her husband, the latter had been promoted to the charge of a Melbourne parish.  The affair was arranged while they were still at Redford, and just on the completion of the improvements to the local parsonage.  In spite of all they had done to make this first home fit for her, family and friends were unanimous in hailing her removal to another and more distant one—­ out of the buzz of the gossip of her native neighbourhood—­as the best thing that could have happened.  But when it came to the point of sending her forth to battle with her fate alone for the rest of her life, the wrench was dreadful.  She was the bravest of them all under the ordeal.  The shattered father, whose right hand she had been for so many happy years, and whose heart was broken with the weight of his responsibility for her misfortunes, was completely overwhelmed.  She had not been gone twelve hours when Deb found him in his office chair, unable to rise from it, or to answer her questions.  And he never spoke again.  He made signs that he wanted Claud sent for, and when the young man quickly came, looked significant things at him and Deb, as they stood by his bedside hand in hand.  Then he lapsed into stupor and died, without waiting for a third stroke.

Through all the shock and sorrow of the time, Claud was Deborah’s mainstay and consolation.  He took the role of nearest male relative, the right to which was undisputed by Mr Goldsworthy, preoccupied with the important interests of his new parish; also by Mr Thornycroft and Jim Urquhart, who, of course, “stood by” to serve her as far as she would allow them.  It was Claud who gave the orders for the funeral, and superintended the ceremonies, and acted as chief mourner; it was Claud to whom the household looked for direction, as if acknowledging him to be the new master; it was on Claud’s breast that Deb wept—­who so rarely wept—­and his word that she obeyed, as if he were already her husband; and in all that he did for her, and in all that he did not do, he showed the grace, the tact, the tenderness, the thoughtfulness of her ideal lover and gentleman.