than to lead Jane to regard the fortune as her most threatening enemy? Valuable results might come of that, whether before or after the death of the old man.
The conversation in which he first ventured to strike this note undisguisedly took place on the same evening as that unpleasant scene when Sidney as good as quarrelled with him,—the evening before the day on which Sidney asked Clara Hewett to be his wife. Having found Jane alone, he began to talk in his most paternal manner, his chair very near hers, his eyes fixed on her sewing. And presently, when the ground was prepared:
“Jane, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you for a long time. My dear, I’m uneasy about you.”
“Uneasy, father?” and she glanced at him nervously.
“Yes, I’m uneasy. But whether I ought to tell you why, I’m sure I don’t know. You’re my own child, Janey, and you become dearer to me every day; but—it’s hard to say it—there naturally isn’t all the confidence between us that there might have been if—well, well, I won’t speak of that.”
