tention of taking from him. He sat up straight and looked at Mrs. Davis. In spite of the worn dressing gown and the frayed slippers there was something about him that made Mrs. Davis feel a little of the old reverence for "the cloth" in which she had been brought up. After all, there was a certain divinity hedging a minister, even a poor, unworldly, abstracted one.
"I thank you for your kind intentions, Mrs. Davis," said Mr. Meredith with a gentle, final, quite awful courtesy, "but I cannot give you my child."
Mrs. Davis looked blank. She had never dreamed of his refusing.
"Why, Mr. Meredith," she said in astonishment. "You must be cr you can't mean it. You must think it over—think of all the advantages I can give her."
"There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis. It is entirely out of the question. All the worldly advantages it is in your power to bestow on her could not compensate for the loss of a father's love and care. I thank you again—but it is not to be thought of."
Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the power of old habit to control. Her broad red face turned purple and her voice trembled.
"I thought you'd be only too glad to let me have her," she sneered.
"Why did you think that?" asked Mr. Meredith quietly.
