She had dreaded inexpressibly the advent of the future owner of Barrow, but, when he had arrived, his resemblance to his dead cousin, and a certain similarity of gesture and of voice, common enough in families, had at once established a sense of kinship, which had deepened with her recognition of Durward's genuine kind-heartedness and solicitude for her comfort.
He had immediately assumed control of affairs, taking all the inevitable detail of arrangement off her shoulders, yet deferring to her as though she were still just as much mistress of the Court as she had been before her uncle's death.

In every way he had tried to ease and smooth matters for her, and she felt proportionately grateful to him.
"Then, if you think I'm like him," said Durward gently, "will you let me try to take his place a little?
I mean," he explained hastily, fearing she might misunderstand him, "that you will miss his guardianship and care of you, as well as the good pal you found in him.

Will you let me try to fill in the gaps, if--if you should want advice, or service--anything over which a male man can be a bit useful?
Oh----" breaking off with a short, embarrassed laugh--"it is so difficult to explain what I do mean!" "I think I know," said Sara, smiling faintly.

"You mean that now that Uncle Pat has gone, you don't want me to feel quite adrift in the world." The big man, hampered by his masculine shyness of a difficult situation, smiled back at her, relieved.
"Yes, that's it, that's it!" he agreed eagerly.

"I want you to regard me as a--a sort of sheet-anchor upon which you can pull in a storm." "Thank you," said Sara.