cup that he had lifted to his lips lay in fragments at his feet. He saw
it all in that swift instant. On his face there were the lines of agony,
but over them there played the smile of resolve. He put one hand to his
forehead, and then said in a voice so low as to be no more than a
whisper:

"Wait and see."

When the guests, who stood huddled together like sheep in a storm, had
recovered their stunned senses, Hugh Ritson was gone from the room.
Drayton had sunk into a chair near where Bonnithorne stood, and was
whining like a whipped hound.

"Go after him! What will he do? You know I was always against it!"

But presently he stood up and laughed, and bantered and crowed, and
observed that it was a pity if a gentleman could not be master in his
own house, and that what couldn't be cured must be endured.

"Precisely," interposed one of the guests, "and you have my entire
sympathy, Mr. Ritson. A more cruel deception was never more manfully
exposed."

"I fully agree with you, neighbor," said another, "and such moral
tyranny is fearful to contemplate. Paul Lowther, indeed! Now, that is a
joke."

"Well, it is rather, ain't it?" said Drayton. And then he laughed, and
they all laughed and shook hands, and were excellent good friends.

CHAPTER VI.

Greta stayed with Mercy until noon that day, begging, entreating, and
finally commanding her to lie quiet in bed, while she herself dressed
and fed the child, and cooked and cleaned, in spite of the Laird
Fisher's protestations. When all was done, and the old charcoal-burner
had gone out on the hills, Greta picked up the little fellow in her
arms and went to Mercy's room. Mercy was alert to every sound, and in an
instant was sitting up in bed. Her face beamed, her parted lips smiled,
her delicate fingers plucked nervously at the counterpane.

"How brightsome it is to-day, Greta," she said. "I'm sure the sun must
be shining."

The window was open, and a soft breeze floated through the sun's rays
into the room. Mercy inclined her head aside, and added, "Ah, you young
rogue you; you are there, are you? Give him to me, the rascal!" The
rogue was set down in his mother's arms, and she proceeded to punish his
rascality with a shower of kisses. "How bonny his cheeks must be; they
will be just like two ripe apples," and forthwith there fell another
shower of kisses. Then she babbled over the little one, and lisped, and
stammered, and nodded her head in his face, and bl