until the end, and he and I and
she and I are quits."

"Terrible, terrible!" Mr. Bonnithorne mumbled again. "All nature rises
against it."

"Is it so? Then be it so," said Hugh, the flame subsiding from his
cheek, and a cold smile creeping afresh about his lips. "Your sense of
justice would have been answered, perhaps, if I had turned this bastard
adrift penniless and a beggar, stopped the marriage, and taken by
strategy the woman I could not win by love." The smile faded away. "That
would have been better than the cup of vitriol, but not much better. You
are a man of the world."

"It is a terrible revenge," the lawyer muttered again--this time with a
different intonation.

"I repeat, they shall marry. No more than that," said Hugh. "I would
outrage nature as little as I would shock the world."

The sun had crept round to where the organ stood in one corner of the
room. Hugh's passion had gradually subsided. He sidled on to the stool
and began to play softly. A knock came to the door, and old Laird Fisher
entered.

"The gentleman frae Crewe is down at the pit about t' engine in the
smelting-mill," said the old man.

"Say I shall be with him in half an hour," said Hugh, and Laird Fisher
left the room. Then Hugh put the papers in his pocket.

"We have wasted too much time over the certificates--they can
wait--where's the deed of mortgage?--I must have the money to pay for
the new engine."

"It is here," said the lawyer, and he spread a parchment on the table.

Hugh glanced hastily over it, and touched a hand-bell. When the maid
appeared he told her to go to Mr. Paul, who was thatching in the
stack-yard, and say he wished to see him at once. Then he returned to
the organ and played a tender air. His touch was both light and
strenuous.

"Any news of his daughter?" said Mr. Bonnithorne, sinking his voice to a
whisper.

"Whose daughter?" said Hugh, pausing and looking over his shoulder.

"The old man's--Laird Fisher's."

"Strangely enough--yes. A letter came this morning."

Hugh Ritson stopped playing and thrust his hand into an inner pocket.
But Mr. Bonnithorne hastened to show that he had no desire to pry into
another man's secrets.

"Pray don't trouble. Perhaps you'd rather not--just tell me in a word
how things are shaping."

Hugh laughed a little, unfolded a sheet of scented writing-paper, with
ornamented border, and began to read:

"'I am writing to thank you very much--' Here," tossing the lett