she said, "I will go to bed. You are not well to-night, or you are angry, or out of humor."
She waited a moment, but he did not speak. Then she made a feeble feint of leaving the room.
At last Paul said:
"Greta, I have something to say."
She was back at her hassock in an instant. The laughter had gone from her eyes, and left a dewy wistfulness.
"You are unhappy. You have been unhappy a long, long time, and have never told me the cause. Tell me now."
The heavy face relaxed.
"What ever put that in your head, little one?" he asked, in a playful tone, patting the golden hair.
"Tell me now," she said more eagerly. "Think of me as a woman fit to share your sorrows, not as a child to be pampered and played with, and never to be burdened with a man's sterner cares. If I am not fit to know your troubles, I am not fit to be your wife. Tell me, Paul, what it is that has taken the sunshine out of your life."
"The sunshine has not been taken out of my life yet, little woman – here it is," said Paul, lightly, and he drew his fingers through the glistening hair.
The girl's lucent eyes fell.
"You are playing with me," she said gravely; "you are always playing with me. Am I so much a child? Are you angry with me?"
"Angry with you, little one? Hardly that, I think," said Paul, and his voice sunk.
"Then tell me, sweetheart. You have something to say – what is it?"
"I have come to ask – "
"Yes?"
He hesitated. His heart was too full to speak. He began again.
"Do you think it would be too great a sacrifice to give up – "
"What?" she gasped.
"Do you remember all you told me about my brother Hugh – that he said he loved you?"
"Well?" said Greta, with a puzzled glance.
"I think he spoke truly," said Paul, and his voice trembled.
She drew back with agony in every line of her face.
"Would it be … do you think … supposing I went away, far away, and we were not to meet for a time, a long time – never to meet again – could you bring yourself to love him and marry him?"
Greta rose to her feet in agitation.
"Him – love him! – you ask me that – you!"
The girl's voice broke down into sobs that seemed to shake her to the heart's core.
"Greta, darling, forgive me; I was blind – I am ashamed."
"Oh, I could cry my eyes out!" she said, wiping away her tears. "Say you were only playing with me, then; say you were only playing; do say so, do!"
"I will say anything – anything but the same words again – and they nearly killed me to say them."
"And was this what you came to say?" Greta inquired.
"No, no," he said, lifted out of his gloom by the excitement; "but another thing, and it is easier now – ten times easier now – to say it. Greta, do you think if I were to leave Cumberland and settle in another country – Australia or Canada, or somewhere far enough away – that you could give up home, and kindred, and friends, and old associations, and all the dear past, and face a new life in a new world with me? Could you do it?"
Her eyes sparkled. He opened his arms, and she flew to his embrace.
"Is this your answer, little one?" he said, with choking delight. And a pair of streaming eyes looked up for a brief instant into his face. "Then we'll say no more now. I'm to go to London to-morrow night, and shall be away four days. When I return we'll talk again, and tell the good soul who lies in yonder. Peace be with him, and sweet sleep, the dear old friend!"
Paul lifted up his hat and opened the door. His gloom was gone; his eyes were alive with animation. The worn cheeks were aflame. He stood erect, and walked with the step of a strong man.
Greta followed him into the porch. The rosy fire-light followed her. It flickered over her golden hair, and bathed her beauty in a ruddy glow.
"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 standing.
"I
