come back and fit herself in? Might she not find herself like her mother, crude and looked down upon?
As he entered, her father said, "I am sorry to have kept you waiting."
She rose and stood there with her soul shaken. She had not thought he would be like this. She had had in mind, perhaps, the miniature that had been in the lacquered box, or the portrait of the dashing gentleman in the red coat, the sweep of black hair, the cool, clear eyes.
But the hair of this man was gray, and his eyes were tired. His tall figure had a sag at the shoulders. He wore out-of-door clothes, a Norfolk coat and knickerbockers. He had a cap in his hand.
He came forward. "Meriweather says you are a relative. And that you are from the West. I did not know there were any Western Carews of our branch."
Her throat was dry. "I am your daughter."
A quick lift of his head, startled. "My daughter?"
"Yes. My mother was Elizabeth Musgrove."
Dead silence, then he came closer. So close that he almost touched her. "You don't look like her."
"No."
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
Another silence. Then, "Why have you come now?"
"My mother is dead. She died two weeks ago."
His face did not change. He put out his hand and caught at the back of one of the big chairs. Turned it so that it faced her, at the other side of the fireplace. Sat down.
