They had left the door of the dining-room open, and by the light thus flung into the passage he saw Mattie on her knees before one of the hall-chairs, on which sprawled the stiff, collapsed form of Mr. Smith. His eyes were open and conscious under his black felt hat, which, tilted sideways, gave him a grotesque, drunken appearance. Mattie was chafing his hands with her own and murmuring wild endearments.

Wolf hurriedly closed the front-door, which had been left ajar, and then, with Olwen still clinging to him, proceeded to strike a match, so as to light the hall-lamp.

“What are you doing, Wolf? Go away, Olwen. He’ll be better in a minute. Father! Darling Father, what’s the matter? What is it, Father? You’re safe at home. You’re all right now. Father dearest, what is it?” Mattie kept crying out in this way all manner of contradictory commands and appeals, as she went on rubbing Mr. Smith’s impassive hands.