Are you Mrs. Dixon?"
"Aye--a'am Mrs. Dixon. But aa've no time to goa chatterin' at doors wi'
yoong women; soa if yo'll juist gie me yor business, I'll tell Muster
Faversham, when he's got time to see to 't."
"It's not Mr. Faversham I want to see--it's Mr. Melrose. Mrs. Dixon,
don't you remember me?"
Mrs. Dixon stepped back in puzzled annoyance, so as to let a light from
the passage shine upon the stranger's face. She stood motionless.
Felicia stepped within.
"I am Miss Melrose," she said, with composure, "Felicia Melrose. You knew
me when I was a child. And I wish to see my father."
Mrs. Dixon's face seemed to have fallen into chaos under the shock. She
stood staring at the visitor, her mouth working.
"Muster Melrose's daeater!" she said, at last. "T' baby--as was! Aye--yo'
feature him! An' yo're stayin' ower ta Duddon--wi' her ladyship. I know.
Dixon towd me. Bit yo' shouldna' coom here, Missie! Yo' canno' see your
feyther."
"Why not?" said Felicia imperiously. "I mean to see him. Here I am in the
house. Take me to him at once!"
And suddenly closing the entrance door behind her, she moved on toward an
inner passage dimly lit, of which she had caught sight.
Mrs. Dixon clung to her arm.
"Noa, noa! Coom in here, Missie--coom in _here_! Dixon!--where are yo'?
Dixon!"
She raised her voice. A chair was pushed back in the kitchen, on the
other side of the passage. An old man who, to judge from his aspect, had
been roused by his wife's call from a nap after his tea, appeared in a
doorway.
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