"Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. It never is. There sprang from that a vague hope that perhaps she might extort a capitulation from her father by a threat to seek that position, and then with overwhelming clearness it came to her that whatever happened she would never be able to tell her father about her debt. He brightened as she took off her hood. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. ‘I see well that I am dealing with you. “I love you, I always will.
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