for us; he'll not refuse his own son--"

"To whom am I to speak? Who is it that has done this to you?" I said.

The woman hesitated again, looking keenly in my face, then repeated with
a slight faltering, "It's Mr. Philip?" as if that made everything right.

"Yes; I am Philip Canning," I said; "but what have I to do with this?
and to whom am I to speak?"

She began to whimper, crying and stopping herself. "Oh, please, sir! it's
Mr. Canning as owns all the house property about; it's him that our court
and the lane and everything belongs to. And he's taken the bed from under
us, and the baby's cradle, although it's said in the Bible as you're not
to take poor folks' bed."

"My father!" I cried in spite of myself; "then it must be some agent,
some one else in his name. You may be sure he knows nothing of it. Of
course I shall speak to him at once."

"Oh, God bless you, sir," said the woman. But then she added, in a lower
tone, "It's no agent. It's one as never knows trouble. It's him that
lives in that grand house." But this was said under her breath, evidently
not for me to hear.

Morphew's words flashed through my mind as she spoke. What was this? Did
it afford an explanation of the much-occupied hours, the big books, the
strange visitors? I took the poor woman's name, and gave her something
to procure a few comforts for the night, and went indoors disturbed and
troubled. It was impossible to believe that my father himself would