"Oh, how free the air will breathe over there," he said, "when all this
slavery is left behind forever! You don't understand, little woman, but
some day you shall. What matter if it is a land of rain, and snow, and
tempest? It will be a land of freedom--freedom, and life, and love. And
now, Master Hugh, we shall soon be quits--very soon!"

His excitement carried him away, and Greta was too greedy of his joy to
check it with questions.

They stood together at the door. The night was still and dark; the trees
were noiseless, their prattling leaves were gone. Silent and empty as a
vacant street was the unseen road.

Paul held forth his hand to feel if it rained. A withered leaf floated
down from the eaves into his palm.

Then a footstep echoed on the path. It went on toward the village.
Presently the postman came trudging along from the other direction.

"Good-night, Tom o' Dint!" cried Paul, cheerily.

Tom stopped and hesitated.

"Who was it I hailed on the road?" he asked.

"When?"

"Just now."

"Nay, who was it?"

"I thought it was yourself."

The little man trundled on in the dark.

"My brother, no doubt," said Paul, and he pulled the door after him.

CHAPTER III.

The next morning a bright sun shone on the frosty landscape. The sky was
blue and the air was clear.

Hugh Ritson sat in his room at the back of the Ghyll, with its window
looking out on the fell-side and on the river under the leafless trees
beneath. The apartment had hardly the appearance of a room in a Cumbrian
homestead. It was all but luxurious in its appointments. The character
of its contents gave it something of the odor of a by-gone age. Besides
books on many shelves, prints, pictures in water and oil, and mirrors of
various shapes, there was tapestry on the inside of the door, a bust of
Dante above a cabinet of black oak, a piece of bas-relief in soapstone,
a gargoyle in wood, a brass censer, a mediaeval lamp with open mouth,
and a small ivory crucifix nailed to the wall above the fire.

Hugh himself sat at an organ, his fingers wandering aimlessly over the
keys, his eyes gazing vacantly out at the window. There was a knock at
the door.

"Come in," said the player. Mr. Bonnithorne entered and walked to a
table in the middle of the floor. Hugh Ritson finished the movement he
was playing, and then arose from the organ and drew an easy-chair to the
fire.

"Brought the deed?" he asked, quietly, Mr. Bonnithorne still s