her life when she wished for solitude in preference to his
society,--her good, tender father. She put Stephen out of her mind, and
tried again to feel all her old interest in his plans for their
amusement. Alas, alas! The first secret, especially if it be a
love-secret, makes a break in that sweet, confidential intercourse
between a parent and child which nothing restores. The squire hardly
comprehended that there might be a secret. Charlotte was unthoughtful of
wrong; but still there was a repression, a something undefinable between
them, impalpable, but positive as a breath of polar air. She noticed the
mountains, for he made her do so; but the birds sang sleepy songs to her
unheeded, and the yellow asphodels made a kind of sunshine at her feet
that she never saw; and even her father's voice disturbed the dreamy
charm of thoughts that touched a deeper, sweeter joy than moor or
mountain, bird or flower, had ever given her.

Before they reached home, the squire had also become silent. He came
into the hall with the face of one dissatisfied and unhappy. The feeling
spread through the house, as a drop of ink spreads itself through a
glass of water. It almost suited Sophia's mood, and Mrs. Sandal was not
inclined to discuss it until the squire was alone with her. Then she
asked the question of all questions the most irritating, "What is the
matter with you, squire?"

"What is the matter, indeed? Love-making. That is the matter, Alice."

"Charlotte?"

"Yes."

"And Stephen Latrigg?"