Mrs. Dixon drew Felicia toward him, and into the kitchen, as he retreated
thither. Then she shut and bolted the door.
"This is t' yoong lady!" she said in a breathless whisper to her husband.
"Muster-Melrose's daeater! She's coom fra Duddon. An' she's fer seein' her
feyther."
Old Dixon had grown very pale. But otherwise he showed no surprise. He
looked frowning at Felicia.
"Yo' canno' do that, Miss Melrose. Yo'r feyther wunna see yo'. He's an
owd man noo, and we darena disturb him."
Felicia argued with the pair, first quietly, then with a heaving breast,
and some angry tears. Dixon soon dropped the struggle, so far as words
went. He left that to his wife. But he stood firmly against the door,
looking on.
"You shan't keep me here!" said Felicia at last with a stamp. "I'll call
some one! I'll make a noise!"
A queer, humorous look twinkled over Dixon's face. Then--suddenly--he
moved from the door. His expression had grown hesitating--soft.
"Varra well, then. Yo' shall goa--if you mun goa."
His wife protested. He turned upon her.
"She shall goa!" he repeated, striking the dresser beside him. "Her
feyther's an old man--an' sick. Mebbe he'll be meetin' his Maeaker face to
face, before the year's oot; yo' canno' tell. He's weakenin' fasst. An'
he's ben a hard mon to his awn flesh and blood. There'll be a reckonin'!
An' the Lord's sent him this yan chance o' repentance. I'll not stan' i'
the Lord's way--whativer. Coom along, Missie!"
And entirely regardless of his wife's entreaties, the old Methodist
resolutely opened the kitchen door, and beckoned to Felicia.
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