“I am,
“Ever with respect,
“Your dearly loving Daughter,

“Dahlia.”

“Dahlia Blank!” said the farmer, turning his look from face to face.

A deep fire of emotion was evidently agitating him, for the letter rustled in his hand, and his voice was uneven.  Of this, no sign was given by his inexpressive features.  The round brown eyes and the ruddy varnish on his cheeks were a mask upon grief, if not also upon joy.

“Dahlia—­what?  What’s her name?” he resumed.  “Here—­’my husband will bring me to see you’—­who’s her husband?  Has he got a name?  And a blank envelope to her uncle here, who’s kept her in comfort for so long!  And this is all she writes to me!  Will any one spell out the meaning of it?”

“Dahlia was in great haste, father,” said Rhoda.

“Oh, ay, you!—­you’re the one, I know,” returned the farmer.  “It’s sister and sister, with you.”

“But she was very, very hurried, father.  I have a letter from her, and I have only ‘Dahlia’ written at the end—­no other name.”

“And you suspect no harm of your sister.”

“Father, how can I imagine any kind of harm?”

“That letter, my girl, sticks to my skull, as though it meant to say, ‘You’ve not understood me yet.’  I’ve read it a matter of twenty times, and I’m no nearer to the truth of it.  But, if she’s lying, here in this letter, what’s she walking on?  How long are we to wait for to hear?  I give you my word, Robert, I’m feeling for you as I am for myself.  Or, wasn’t it that one?  Is it this one?” He levelled his finger at Rhoda.  “In any case, Robert, you’ll feel for me as a father.  I’m shut in a dark room with the candle blown out.  I’ve heard of a sort of fear you have in that dilemmer, lest you should lay your fingers on edges of sharp knives, and if I think a step—­if I go thinking a step, and feel my way, I do cut myself, and I bleed, I do.  Robert, just take and say, it wasn’t that one.”

Such a statement would carry with it the confession that it was this one for whom he cared this scornful one, this jilt, this brazen girl who could make appointments with gentlemen, or suffer them to speak to her, and subsequently look at him with innocence and with anger.

“Believe me, Mr. Fleming, I feel for you as much as a man can,” he said, uneasily, swaying half round as he spoke.

“Do you suspect anything bad?” The farmer repeated the question, like one who only wanted a confirmation of his own suspicions to see the fact built up.  “Robert, does this look like the letter of a married woman?  Is it daughter-like—­eh, man?  Help another:  I can’t think for myself—­she ties my hands.  Speak out.”

Robert set his eyes on Rhoda.  He would have given much to have been able to utter, “I do.”  Her face was like an eager flower straining for light; the very beauty of it swelled his jealous passion, and he flattered himself with his incapacity to speak an abject lie to propitiate her.