"Oh, I see. Then forgetting the past is all a pretence?"

"A man may forget his poverty, but I do not think he can forget his
parents. You need not remember where mother died, but how she and father
lived; their goodness is our greatest fortune."

He did not make any further reply then, and a little later he put on his
hat and said--

"I am going along to see William. He went home poorly this morning."

"Poorly?"

"Caught a chill, I fancy. The weather has been very changeable, you
know."

Ruth felt a sudden tightening of the strings about her heart, and when
Ralph had disappeared she sat down by the window and looked with
unseeing eyes out across the garden.

She was back again in the old home, the home in which she had spent so
many happy and peaceful years, and from which she had been exiled so
long. She was very happy, on the whole, and yet she realised in a very
poignant sense that Hillside could never be again what it had been.

It was bound to be something more or something less. Nothing could
restore the past, nothing could give back what had been taken away.

The twilight was deepening rapidly across the landscape, the tender
green of spring was vanishing into a sombre black. From over the low
hill came fitfully the rattle of stamps which had been erected in
Dingley Bottom, and occasionally the creak of winding gear could be
faintly heard.

From the front windows of the house there was no change in the
landscape, but from the kitchen and dairy windows the engine-house, with
its tall, clumsy stack, loomed painfully near. Ralph had planted a
double line of young trees along the ridge, which in time would shut off
that part of the farm given over to mining operations, but at present
they were only just breaking into leaf.

It was at first a very real grief to Ruth that the mine so disfigured
the farm. She recalled the years of ungrudging toil given by her father
to bring the waste land under cultivation, and now the fields were being
turned into a desert once more. She soon, however, got reconciled to the
change. The best of the fields remained unharmed, and the man and boy
who looked after the farm had quite as much as they could attend to.
Ralph did not mind so long as there was a bowl of clotted cream on the
table at every meal. Beyond that his interest in the farm ceased.

But the mine was a never-failing source of pleasure to him. Tin was not
the only product of those mysterious veins that threaded their way
through the solid earth. There were nameless ores that hitherto had been
treated as of no account because no use had been found for them.

Ralph began making experiments at once. His laboratory grew more rapidly
than any other department. His early passion for chemistry received
fresh stimulus, and had room for full play, with the result that he made
his salary twice over by what he saved out of the waste.

William Menire's interest in the mine was purely commercial, and in that
respect he was of great value. He laboured quietly and unceasingly,
finding in work the best antidote to loneliness and disappointment. His
mother was no longer with him. She had joined the silent procession of
the dead. He was thankful for some things that she did not live to see
the winding up of his little business--for it seemed little to him now
in contrast with the wider and vaster interests of the company with
which he was connected. She had been very proud of the shop,
particularly proud of the great plate-glass window her son had put in at
his own expense.

The edict of Lord St. Goram to restore the house to its original
position had been a great blow to her. She had adored the
aristocracy--they were not as other men, mean and petty and
revengeful--hence the demand of his lordship shattered into fragments
one of her most cherished illusions.

She did not live to hear the click and ring of the trowel, telling her
that a brick wall was taking the place of the plate glass. On the very
last day of her life she heard as usual the tinkle of the shop bell and
the murmur of voices below.

When William had laid her to rest in the churchyard he disposed of his
stock as rapidly as possible, restored the house to its original
condition as far as it was possible to do it, and then turned his back
upon St. Goram.

The little village of Veryan was much nearer the mine, much nearer the
Penlogans, and just then seemed much nearer heaven. So he got rooms with
a garrulous but godly old couple, and settled down to bachelordom with
as much cheerfulness as possible.

That he felt lonely--shockingly lonely at times--it was of no use
denying. He missed the late customers, the "siding up" when the shutters
were closed, the final entries in his day-book and ledger. Big and
wealthy and important as the Great St. Goram Tin Mining Company was, and
exacting as his labour was in the daytime, he was left with little or
nothing to do after nightfall. The evenings hung on his hands. Books
were scarce and entertainments few, and sometimes he smoked more than
was good for him.

He went to see Ralph as often as he could find a reasonable excuse, and
always received the heartiest welcome, but for some reason the cloud of
Ruth's reserve never lifted. She was sweet and gentle and hospitable,
but the old light had gone out of her eyes and the old warmth from her
speech. She rarely looked straight into his face, and rarely remained
long in his company.

He puzzled himself constantly to find out the reason, and had not the
courage to ask. He wanted to be her friend, to be taken into her
confidence, to be treated as a second brother. Anything more than that
he never dared hope for. That she might love him was a dream too foolish
to be entertained. He was getting old--at any rate he was much nearer
forty than thirty, while she was in the very flower of her youth. So he
wondered and speculated, and got no nearer a solution of the problem.

Ralph was so engrossed in his own affairs that he never noticed any
change, and never guessed that Ruth was the light of William's eyes.

The idea that William Menire might be in love occurred to no one. He was
looked upon as a confirmed bachelor, and when the public has assigned a
man to that position he may be as free with the girls as he likes
without awaking the least suspicion.

Ruth sat by the window until it had grown quite dark, and then a maid
came in and lighted the lamp. She took up her work when the maid had
gone, and tried to centre her thoughts on the pattern she was working;
but her eyes quickly caught a far-away expression, and she found herself
listening for the footfall of her brother, while her hands lay
listlessly in her lap.

Several times she shook herself--metaphorically--and plied her needle
afresh, but the effort never lasted very long. An unaccountable sense of
fear or misgiving stole into her heart. She grew restless and
apprehensive, and yet she had no tangible reason for anxiety.

William Menire was more her brother's friend than hers, and the fact
that he had caught cold was not a matter of any particular moment. Of
course a cold might develop into something serious. He might be
ill--very ill. He might die. She caught her breath suddenly, and went
and opened the door. The stars were burning brightly in the clear sky
above, and the wind blew fresh and strong from the direction of
Treliskey Plantation. She listened intently for the sound of footsteps,
but the only noise that broke the silence was the rattle of the stamps
in Dingley Bottom.

Somehow she hated the sound to-night. It grated harshly on her ears. It
had no human tone, no note of sympathy. The stamps were grinding out
wealth for greedy people, careless of who might suffer or die.

She came in and shut the door after a few moments, and looked
apprehensively at the clock. Ralph was making a long call.

The house grew very still at length. The servant went to bed. The clock
ticked loudly on the mantelpiece; the wind rumbled occasionally in the
chimney.

Suddenly the door opened, and her brother stood before her. His face was
flushed, and there was a troubled look in his eyes.

"You are late, Ralph," she said, scarcely daring to look at him.

"William is very ill," he said, as if he had not heard her words,
"dangerously ill."

"No!"

"Pneumonia, the doctor fears. He is terribly anxious."

"Who--the doctor?"

"Yes. If William dies I shall lose my best friend."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

LOVE AND LIFE

Ruth lay awake long after she had retired to rest. The fear which had
been expressed by Ralph increased her own a thousandfold. If William
should die, not only would her brother lose his best friend--there was a
more terrible thought than that, a thought which need not be expressed
in words, for nobody understood.

Somebody has said that a woman never loves until her love is asked for;
that though all the elements are there, they remain dormant till a
simple question fires the train. But love--especially the love of a
woman--is too subtle, too elusive a thing to be covered by any sweeping
generalisation.

William had never spoken his love to Ruth, never even looked it, yet the
fire had got alight in Ruth's heart somehow. When it began she did not
know. For long she had no suspicion what it meant. Later on she tried to
trample it out; she felt ashamed and humiliated. The bare thought of
loving a man who had never spoken of love to her covered her with
confusion.

Sometimes she tried to persuade herself that it was not love she felt
for William Menire, but only gratitude mingled with admiration. He had
been the best friend she and her brother had ever known. All their
present prosperity they owed to him, and everything he had done for them
was without ostentation. He was not a showy man, and only those who knew
him intimately guessed how great he was, how fine his spirit, how
exalted his ideals.

She had never thought much about love until Sam Tremail proposed to her;
but when once the subject stared her in the face she was bound to look
at it. And while she was looking and trying to find what answer her
heart gave, William came with the announcement that the farm was theirs,
and theirs through his help and instrumentality. From that moment she
knew that it was not Sam Tremail she loved. Of course, she had known all
along that Sam was not the equal of his cousin in any sense of the word.
But Sam was young and handsome and well-to-do, while William was
journeying toward middle life, and had many of the ways of a confirmed
bachelor.

It came to her as in a flash that all true love must be built on
reverence. Youth and good looks might inspire a romantic attachment, a
fleeting emotion, a passing fancy, but the divine passion of love grew
out of something deeper. It was not a dewdrop sparkling on a leaf. It
was a fountain springing out of the heart of the hills.

With knowledge came pain and confusion. She had not the courage to look
William in the eyes. She was in constant dread lest she should reveal
her secret. She would not for the world that he should know. If he
should ever guess she would die of shame.

From that day onward she had a harder battle to fight than anyone
knew--perhaps the hardest of all battles that a woman is called upon to
wage. William came and went constantly; helped them when they removed to
Hillside, and was never failing in friendly suggestions. Ralph was so
full of the mine that such small details as wallpapers and carpets and
curtains never occurred to him, and when they were mentioned he told
Ruth to make her own choice. It was William who came to the rescue in
those days, and saved her an infinity of trouble and anxiety.

Ruth thought of all this as she lay awake, listening to the faint and
fitful rattle of the stamps beyond the hill. Was this brave, unselfish
life to be suddenly quenched--this meek but heroic soul to be taken away
from earth?

She was pale and hollow-eyed when she came downstairs next morning, but
Ralph was too absorbed to notice it. He too had been kept awake thinking
about William, and directly breakfast was over he hurried away to Veryan
to make inquiries.

Ruth waited till noon for news--waited with more impatience than she had
ever felt before. She had no need to ask Ralph if William was better.
She knew by the look in his eyes that he was not. After that, the hours
and days moved with leaden feet. Ralph went to Veryan twice every day,
and sometimes three times. Ruth grew more and more silent. Her task
became more painfully difficult. Other people could talk about William,
could praise his qualities, could recount the story of his simple and
heroic life, but she, by her very love for him, was doomed to silence.

She envied the nurse who could sit by his bedside and minister to his
needs. She felt that it was her place. No one cared for him as she did.
It seemed a cruel thing that her very love should keep her from his
side, and shut her up in silence.

Ralph came in hurriedly one evening, and sat down to table; but after
eating a few mouthfuls, he laid down his knife and fork, and pushed his
plate from him.

"I suppose you know William is dying?" he said, without raising his
eyes.

She looked at him with a startled expression, but did not speak. She
made an effort, but the words froze on her tongue.

"One should not doubt the Eternal wisdom," he went on huskily, "but it
seems a huge mistake. There are a hundred men who could be better
spared."

"God knows best," Ruth tried to say, but she was never sure that the
words escaped her lips.

"He seems quite resigned to his fate," Ralph continued, after a pause.
"The doctor told him this morning that if he had any worldly affairs to
settle he should put them in order without delay. He appears to be
waiting now for the end."

"He is not afraid?" Ruth questioned, bringing out the words with a great
effort.

"Not a bit. He reminds me of father more than any man I have ever known.
His confidence is that of a little child. By-the-bye, he would like to
see you before he goes."

"See me, Ralph?"

"He expressed himself very doubtfully and timidly, and asked me if I
thought you would mind coming to say good-bye."

"There could be no harm in it, Ralph?"

"Not a bit. He has been like an elder brother to us both."

"Yes--yes." And she rose from the table at once, and went upstairs to
get her hat and jacket.

"What, ready so soon?" he questioned, when she appeared again.

"I may be too late as it is," she answered, in a voice that she scarcely
recognised as her own.

"I will go with you," he said, "for it will be dark when you return."

For awhile they walked rapidly and in silence, but when the village came
in sight they slackened their pace a little.

"It is hard to give up hope," Ralph said, as if speaking to himself. "He
was so healthy and so strong, and he has lived a life so temperate and
so clean that he ought to pull through anything."

"Does the doctor say there is no hope?"

"He has none himself."

William was listening with every sense alert. He knew by some subtle
instinct, some spiritual telepathy, that Ruth was near. He caught her
whisper in the hall, he knew her footstep when she came quickly up the
stairs, and the beating of his heart seemed to get beyond all bounds.

He was too weak to raise himself in bed, but his eyes were strained
toward the door.

"You will leave me when she comes," he said to the nurse as soon as he
heard Ruth's voice in the hall, and directly the door was pushed open
the nurse disappeared.

Ruth walked straight up to the bedside without faltering. William feebly
raised his wasted hand, and she took it in both hers. She was very
composed. She wondered at herself, and was barely conscious of the
effort she was making.

He was the first to break the silence, and he spoke with a great effort,
and with many pauses.

"Will you not sit there, where I can see you?" he said, indicating a
chair close to the bedside. "It is very good of you to come. I thought
you would, for you have always been kind to me."

The tears came very near her eyes, but she resolutely raised her hand to
hide them from William.

"You and your brother have been my dearest friends," he went on. "Ralph
is a noble fellow, and I do not wonder that you are proud of him. It has
been a great joy to me to know him--to know you both."

"That feeling has been mutual," Ruth struggled to say; but William
scarcely waited to hear her out. Perhaps he felt that what he had to say
must be said quickly.

"I thought I would like to tell you how much I have valued your
friendship--there can be no harm in that, can there?"

"Why, no," she interposed.

"But that is not all," he went on. "I want to say something more, and
there surely can be no harm in saying it now. I am nearing the end, the
doctor says."

"Say anything you like," she interrupted, in a great sob of emotion.

"You cannot be angry with me now," he continued. "You might have been
had I told you sooner. I know I have been very presumptuous, very
daring, but I could not help it. You stole my heart unconsciously. I
loved you in those dark days when you lived in the little cottage at St.
Goram. I wanted to help you then. And oh, Ruth, I have loved you ever
since--not with the blind, unreasoning passion of youth, but with the
deep, abiding reverence of mature years. My love for you is the
sweetest, purest, strongest thing I have ever cherished; and now that I
am going hence the impulse became so strong that I could not resist
telling you."

She turned to him suddenly, her eyes swimming in tears.

"Oh, William----" Then her voice faltered.

"You are not angry with me, Ruth?" he questioned, almost in a whisper.

"Angry with you? Oh, William----But why did you not tell me before?"

"I was afraid to tell you, Ruth--afraid to put an end to our
friendship."

She knelt down on the floor by his bedside and laid her face on his
hand, and he felt her hot tears falling like rain.

For awhile neither of them spoke again; then she raised her head
suddenly, and with a pitiful smile on her face she said--

"You must not die, William!"

"Not die?" he questioned.

"No, no! For my sake you must get better," and she looked eagerly and
earnestly into his eyes, as though she would compel assent to her words.

"Why for your sake?" he asked slowly and musingly.

"Why? Oh, William, do you not understand? Can you not see----"

"Surely--surely," he said, a great light breaking over his face, "you
cannot mean that--that----"

"But I do mean it," she interrupted. "How could I mean anything else?"

He half rose in bed, as if inspired with new strength, then lay back
again with a weary and long-drawn sigh. She rose quickly to her feet,
and bent over him with a little cry. A pallor so deathly stole over his
face that she thought he was dying.

After a few moments he rallied again, and smiled reassuringly. Then the
nurse came back into the room.

"You will come again?" he whispered, holding out his hand.

She answered him with a smile, and then hurried down the stairs.

She gave no hint to Ralph of what had passed between them, and during
the journey home through the darkness very little was said; but she
walked with a more buoyant step than during the outward journey, and in
her eye there was a brighter light, though Ralph did not see it.

She scarcely slept at all that night. She spent most of the time on her
knees in prayer. Before Ralph got down to breakfast she had been to
Veryan and back again. She did not allude, however, to this second
journey. William was still alive, and in much the same condition.

For nearly two days he dwelt in the valley of the shadow, and no one
could tell whether the angel of life or of death would prevail. The
doctor looked in every few hours, and did all that human skill could do.
William, though too spent to talk, and almost too weak to open his eyes,
was acutely conscious of what was taking place.

To the onlookers it seemed as if he was passing into a condition of
coma, but it was not so. He was fighting for life with all the will
power he possessed. He had something to live for now. A new hope was in
his heart, a new influence was breathing upon him. So he fought back the
destroying angel inch by inch, and in the end prevailed.

There came a day when Ruth again sat by his bedside, holding his hand.

"I am getting better, sweetheart," he said, in a whisper.

"Yes, William."

"Your love and prayers have pulled me through."

"I could not let you go," she said.

"God has been very merciful," he answered reverently. "Next to His love
the most wonderful thing is yours."

"Why should it be wonderful?" she asked, with a smile.

"You are so beautiful," he answered, "and I am so unworthy, and so----"

But she laid her hand upon his mouth and smothered the end of the
sentence.

When once he had turned the corner he got better rapidly, but long
before he was able to leave the house all St. Goram knew that Ruth
Penlogan had promised to be his wife.

Ralph saw very little of his sister in those days, she spent so much of
her time in going and coming between Hillside and Veryan. Fortunately
the affairs of the mine kept his hands occupied and his thoughts busy,
otherwise he would have felt himself neglected and alone.

It was not without a pang he saw the happiness of William and his
sister. Not that he envied them; on the contrary, he rejoiced in their
newly found joy; and yet their happiness did accentuate his own
heartache and sense of loss.

A year had passed since that memorable day in St. James's Park when he
told Dorothy Hamblyn that he loved her. He often smiled at his temerity,
and wondered what spirit of daring or of madness possessed him.

He had tried hard since, as he had tried before, to forget her, but
without success. For good or ill she held his heart in bondage. What had
become of her he did not know. Hamblyn Manor was in possession of the
gardener and his wife, and one other servant. There were rumours that
some "up-the-country" people had taken it furnished for a year, but as
far as he knew no one as yet had appeared on the scene. Sir John, it was
said, was living quietly at Boulogne, but what had become of Dorothy and
her brother no one seemed to know.

One afternoon he left Dingley Bottom earlier than usual, and wandered up
the long slant in the direction of Treliskey Plantation. His intention
was to cross the common to St. Goram, but on reaching the stile he stood
still, arrested by the force of memory and association.

As he looked back into the valley he could not help contrasting the
present with the past. How far away that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon
seemed when he first came face to face with Dorothy Hamblyn! How much
had happened since! Then he was a poor, struggling, discontented,
ambitious youth, without prospects, without influence, and almost
without hope.

Now he was rich--for riches are always relative--and a man. He had
prospects also, and influence. Perhaps he had more influence than any
other man in the parish. And yet he was not sure that he was not just as
discontented as ever. He was gaining the world rapidly, but he was still
unsatisfied. His heart was hungering for something he had not got.

He might get more money, more power, more authority, more influence.
What then? The care of the world increased rather than diminished. It
was eternally true, "A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the
things he possesseth."

His reflections were disturbed at length by the clicking of the gate
leading into the plantation. He turned his head suddenly, and found
himself face to face with Dorothy Hamblyn.

CHAPTER XXXIX

PERPLEXING QUESTIONS

There was no chance of withdrawal for either. If Ralph had caught a
glimpse of Dorothy earlier, he would have hidden himself and let her
pass; but there was no possibility of that now. He could only stand
still and wait. Would she recognise him, or would she cut him dead? It
was an interesting moment--from his point of view, almost tragic.

Wildly as his heart was beating, he could not help noticing that she
looked thin and pale, as though she had recovered from a recent illness.
She came straight on, not hesitating for a moment, and his heart seemed
to beat all the more tumultuously with every step she took.

If in the long months that had elapsed since he saw her last he had
grown for a moment indifferent, his passion flamed up again to a white
heat at the first glimpse of her face. For him there was no other woman
on earth. Her beauty had increased with the passing of the years; her
character, strengthened and ennobled by suffering, showed itself in
every line of her finely expressive face.

It was a trying moment for both, and perhaps more trying for Dorothy
than for Ralph. For good or ill she knew that this young man had
affected her whole life. He had crossed her path in the most critical
moments of her existence. He had spoken words almost at haphazard which
had changed the whole current of her thoughts. He had dared even to tell
her that he loved her, when influence was being brought to bear on her
to bestow her affection in another direction.

There were moments when she felt half angry that she was unable to
forget him. He was out of her circle, and it seemed madness to let his
image remain in her heart for a single moment, and yet the fascination
of his personality haunted her. He was like no other man she had ever
met. His very masterfulness touched her fancy as nothing had ever done
before. If only he had been of her own set she would have made a hero of
him.

When she left him in the Park after that passionate outburst of his, she
made up her mind that she must forget him--utterly and absolutely. The
situation had become dangerous; her heart was throbbing so wildly that
she could scarcely bear it; the tense glow and passion of his words rang
through her brain like the clashing of bells; her nerves were tingling
to her finger-tips.

"Oh, what madness all this is," she said to herself--"what utter
madness!" And yet all the while her heart seemed to be leaping
exultantly. This clever, daring, handsome democrat loved her--loved her.
She lingered over the words unconsciously.

Lord Probus had said he loved her, and had tempted her with a thousand
brilliant toys; Archie Temple--with whom she had walked in the Park more
than once--had professed unbounded and undying devotion; but her heart
had never leaped for a moment in response to their words. The only man
who moved her against her will, and sent the blood rushing through her
veins like nectar, was this son of the people, this man who hated her
class and tried his best to hate her.

Nevertheless, her resolve was fixed and definite. She must forget him.
Unless she put him out of her thoughts he would spoil her whole life.
Socially, they belonged to different hemispheres. The fact that her
father was hard pressed for money, and was living abroad in order to
economise, did not alter their relative positions. A Hamblyn was still a
Hamblyn, though he lived in an almshouse.

It was easier, however, to make good resolves than to carry them into
effect. Events would not allow her to forget. As the companion and
private secretary of the Dowager Duchess of Flint, she had to read the
papers every day, and not only the political articles, but the
commercial and financial. The success of the Great St. Goram Mine was
talked of far and wide, and the new discoveries of Ralph Penlogan, the
brilliant young chemist and mineralogist, were the theme of numberless
newspaper articles. Dorothy found herself searching all the papers that
came her way for some mention of his name, and her heart seemed to leap
into her mouth every time she saw it in print.

The dowager often dabbled in stocks and shares for want of something
better to do. She liked to have what she called a "flutter" now and
then, and she managed to pick up a few Great St. Goram shares at eighty
per cent. premium.

It came out one day in conversation that Dorothy knew the exact locality
of Great St. Goram Mine, knew the young man who had made the discovery,
knew all about the place and all about the people, in fact. The
dowager's interest grew. She began to make inquiries, and finally
decided to rent Hamblyn Manor for a year. Dorothy was in a transport of
excitement. To go back again to the dear old home would be like heaven,
even though her father and Geoffrey were not there.

But that was not all. She would see Ralph Penlogan again--that would be
inevitable. It seemed as though the Fates had determined to throw them
together. The battle was not ended yet, it was only beginning.

The second day after their arrival at Hamblyn Manor she went for a long
walk through the plantation. It was a lovely afternoon. The summer glory
lay upon land and sea. She stood still for several moments when she came
to the spot where she had found Ralph Penlogan lying senseless. How
vividly every circumstance came up before her, how well she remembered
his half-conscious talk. She did not see Ralph leaning against the stile
when she pushed open the gate, and yet she half expected he would be
there. It was the place where they first met, and Fate, or Destiny, or
Providence, had a curious way of bringing them together, and she would
have to face the inevitable, whatever it might be.

She was not in the least surprised when she caught sight of him, nor did
she feel any inclination to turn back. Life was being shaped for her.
She was in the grasp of a power stronger than her own will.

She looked at him steadily, and her face paled a little. He had altered
considerably. He looked older by several years. He was no longer a
youth, he was a man with the burden of life pressing upon him. Time had
sobered him, softened him, mellowed him, greatened him.

Ought she to recognise him? For recognition would mean condoning his
daring, and if she condoned him once, he might dare again, and he looked
strong enough and resolute enough to dare anything.

She never quite decided in her mind what she ought to do. She remembered
distinctly enough what she did. She smiled at him in her most gracious
and winning manner and passed on. She half expected to hear footsteps
behind her, but he did not follow. He watched her till she had turned
the brow of the hill toward St. Goram, then he retraced his steps in the
direction of his home.

He too had a feeling that it was of no use fighting against Fate. Events
would have to take their course. She was not lost to him yet, and her
smile gave him fresh hope.

He found the house empty when he got home, save for the housemaid. Ruth
was out with William somewhere.

Ralph threw himself into an easy-chair and closed his eyes. His heart
was beating strangely fast, his hands shook in spite of himself. The
sight of Dorothy was like a match to stubble. He wondered if her beauty
appealed to other people as it did to him.

Then a new question suggested itself to him, or an old question came up
in a new form. To tell Dorothy Hamblyn that he loved her was one thing,
to make love to her was another. Should he dare the second? He had dared
the first, not with any hope of winning her, but rather to demonstrate
to himself the folly of any such suggestion. But circumstances alter
cases, and circumstances had changed with him. He was no longer poor. He
could give her all the comforts she had ever known. As for the rest, her
name, her family pride, her patrician blood, her aristocratic
connections, they did not count with him. To ask a woman reared in
comfort and luxury to share poverty and hardship and want was what he
would never do. But the question of ways and means being disposed of,
nothing else mattered. He was a man and an Englishman. He had lived
honestly, and had kept his conscience clean.

He believed in an aristocracy, as most people do, but the aristocracy he
believed in was the aristocracy of character and brains. He did not
despise money, but he despised the people who made it their god, and who
were prepared to sell their souls for its possession. To have a noble
ancestry was a great thing; there was something in blood, but a man was
not necessarily great because his father was a lord. The lower orders
did not all live in hovels, some of them lived in mansions. All fools
did not wear fustian, some of them wore fur-lined coats and drove
motor-cars; the things that mattered were heart and intellect. A man
might drop his "h's" and be a gentleman. The test of worth and manhood
was not the size of a man's bank balance, but the manner of his life.
Sir John Hamblyn boasted of his pedigree and was proud of his title, and
yet, to put it in its mildest form, he had played the fool for twenty
years.

Ralph got up from his seat at length and walked out into the garden. He
had not felt so restless and excited for a year. The affairs of Great
St. Goram Mine passed completely out of his mind. He could think only of
one thing at a time, and just then Dorothy Hamblyn seemed of more
importance than anything else on earth.

Up and down the garden paths he walked with bare head and his hands in
his pockets. Now and then his brows contracted, and now and then his
lips broke into a smile. The situation had its humorous as well as its
serious side.

"If she had been the daughter of anybody else!" he said to himself again
and again.

But outweighing everything else was the fact that he loved her. He could
not help it that she was the daughter of the man who had been his
greatest enemy. He could not help it that she belonged to a social
circle that had little or no dealings with his own. Love laughs at bolts
and bars. He was a man with the rights of a man and the hopes of a man.

Before Ruth returned he had made up his mind what to do.

Meanwhile, Dorothy was sauntering slowly homeward in a brown study. She
felt anything but sure of herself. She hoped she had done the right
thing in recognising Ralph Penlogan, but her heart and her head were not
in exact agreement. The conventions of society were very strict. The
Jews had no dealings with the Samaritans.

"If only Ralph Penlogan had been in her circle," and her heart leaped
suddenly at the thought. How handsome he was, how resolute, how clever!
Unconsciously she compared him with her brother Geoffrey, with Archie
Temple, and with a number of other young men she had met in the
drawing-rooms of London society.

The duchess had urged her to be friendly with Archie Temple. He was such
a nice young man. He was well connected, was, in fact, the nephew of an
earl, and was in receipt of a handsome salary which a generous
Government paid him for doing nothing. He was a type of a great many
others, impecunious descendants, many of them, of younger
sons--drawling, effeminate, shallow-pated nobodies. Socially, of course,
they belonged to what is called society printed with a capital S, but
that was the highest testimonial that could be given them.

Dorothy found herself unconsciously revolting against the conventional
view of life and the ethics of the social Ten Commandments. Were the
mere accidents of birth the only things to be considered? Was a man less
noble because he was born in a stable and cradled in a manger? Did
greatness consist in possessing an estate and a title? Was worth to be
measured by the depth of a man's pocket?

Measured by any true standard, she felt instinctively that Ralph
Penlogan overtopped every other man she had met. How bravely he had
fought, how patiently he had endured, how gloriously he had triumphed.
If achievement counted for anything, if to live purely and do something
worthy were the hall-marks of a gentleman, then he belonged to the
world's true aristocracy, he was worth all the Archie Temples of London
rolled into one.

Before she reached Hamblyn Manor another question was hammering at her
brain--

"Did Ralph Penlogan still love her?"

She looked apprehensively right and left, and was half afraid lest her
thoughts should take shape and reveal themselves to other people.

What would people think if they knew she had put such a question to
herself? Had she forgotten that she was the daughter of Sir John
Hamblyn?

No, she had not forgotten; but she was learning the truth that true
worth is not in title, or name, or fortune; that neither coronet nor
crown can make men; that fools clad in sables are fools still, and
rogues in mansions are still rogues.

The love of a man like Ralph Penlogan was not a thing to resent. It was
something to be proud of and to be grateful for.

She retired to rest that night with a strange feeling of wonder in her
heart. She was still uncertain of herself.

"Suppose Ralph Penlogan still loved her, and suppose----" She hid her
face in the bedclothes and blushed in spite of herself.

He was fearless, she knew, and unconventional, and had no respect for
names, or titles, or pedigrees as such. Moreover, he was not the man to
be discouraged by small obstacles or turned aside by feeble excuses, and
if he chose to cross her path she could not very well avoid him. The
place was comparatively small, the walks were few, and during this
glorious weather she could not dream of remaining indoors.

She had encouraged him that afternoon by recognising him. She had smiled
at him in her most gracious way; and so, of course, he would know that
she had forgiven him for speaking to her as he had done when last they
met. And if he should seek her out; if, in his impetuous way, he should
tell her he loved her still; if he should ask for an answer, and for an
immediate answer. If--if----

She was still wondering when she fell asleep.

CHAPTER XL

LOVE OR FAREWELL

With Ralph Penlogan, resolution usually meant action. Having made up his
mind to do a thing, he did not loiter long on the way. In any case, he
could only be rebuffed, and he preferred to know the truth at once to
waiting in doubt and uncertainty. A less impetuous nature would have
seen many more lions in the way than he did. For a son of the masses to
woo a daughter of the classes was an unheard-of thing, and had he taken
anyone into his confidence he would have been dissuaded from the
enterprise.

In this matter, however, he did not wear his heart upon his sleeve. So
carefully had he guarded his secret, that even Ruth was under the
impression that if he had ever been in love with Dorothy Hamblyn, he had
outgrown the infatuation. Her name had not been mentioned for months,
and she had been so long absent from St. Goram that it scarcely seemed
probable that a youthful fancy would survive the long separation.

Ralph did not tell her that the squire's "little maid" had once more
appeared on the scene. She would hear soon enough from other sources. He
intended to keep his own counsel. If he failed, no one would ever know;
but in any case, failure should not be due to any lack on his part
either of courage or perseverance.

He was very silent and self-absorbed that evening, and had not Ruth been
so much taken up with her own love affair, she would not have failed to
notice it. But Ruth was living for the moment in a little heaven of her
own--a heaven so beautiful, so full of unspeakable delights, that she
was half afraid sometimes that she would wake up and find it was all a
dream.

William was growing stronger every day, and expected soon to be as well
as ever. Moreover, he seemed determined to make up for all the years he
had lost. Ruth to him was a daily miracle of grace and beauty, and her
love for him was a perpetual wonder. He did not understand it. He did
not suppose he ever would. He accepted the fact with reverent gratitude,
and gave up attempting to fathom the mystery.

He was very shy at first, and almost dubious. He felt so unworthy of so
great a gift, but comprehension grew with returning strength, and with
comprehension, courage. He believed himself to be the luckiest man on
earth, and the happiest. The most difficult thing of all to believe was
that Ruth could possibly be as happy as he.

Conviction on that point came through sight. It was not what Ruth said;
it was the light that glowed in her soft brown eyes. A single glance
meant volumes. A shy glance darted across the room stirred his heart
like music.

Ralph watched their growing intimacy and their deepening joy with a
sense of keen satisfaction. William was the one man in the world he
would have chosen for his sister if he had been called upon to decide,
and he was thankful beyond measure that Ruth had recognised his sterling
qualities, and, without persuasion from anyone, had made her choice.

As the days passed away, Ralph had great difficulty in hiding his
restlessness from his sister. It seemed to him that Dorothy purposely
avoided him. He sought her out in all directions; lay in wait for her in
the most likely places; but, for some reason or other, she failed to
come his way. He spent hours leaning against the stile near Treliskey
Plantation, and on three separate occasions defied the notices that
trespassers would be prosecuted, and boldly marched through the
plantation till he came in sight of the gables of the Manor; but neither
patience nor perseverance was rewarded. He had to return disconsolate
the way he had come.

Had he been of a less sanguine temperament, he would have drawn anything
but hopeful conclusions. Her avoidance of him could surely have but one
meaning, particularly as she knew the state of his feelings towards her.

But presumptions and deductions did not satisfy Ralph. He would be
content with nothing short of actual facts. He was not sure yet that she
purposely avoided him, and he was sure that she had smiled when they
met, and that one fact was his sheet anchor just now.

He went to St. Goram Church on the following Sunday morning, much to the
surprise of the vicar, for both he and Ruth were unswervingly loyal to
the little community at Veryan, to which their father and mother
belonged. Deep down in his heart he felt a little ashamed of himself. He
knew it was not to worship that he went to church, but in the hope of
catching a glimpse of Dorothy Hamblyn's face.

The Hamblyn pew, however, remained empty during the whole of the
service. If he had gone to church from a wrong motive, he had been
deservedly punished.

He began to think after awhile that Dorothy had paid a flying visit just
for a day, and had gone away again, and that consequently any hope he
ever had of winning her was more remote than ever. This view received
confirmation from the fact that he never heard her name mentioned. Ruth
had evidently not heard that she had been in St. Goram. Apparently she
had come and gone without anyone seeing her but himself--come and gone
like a gleam of sunshine on a stormy day--come and gone leaving him more
disconsolate than he had ever been before.

For two days he kept close to his work, and never went beyond the bounds
of Great St. Goram Mine. For the moment he had been checkmated, but he
was not in despair. London was only a few hours away, and he had
frequently to go there on business. He should meet her again some time,
and if God meant him to win her he should win.

It was in this hopeful spirit that he returned late from the mine. Ruth
brewed a fresh pot of tea for him, and put several dainties on the table
to tempt his appetite, for it had recently occurred to her that he was
not looking his best.

"What do you think, Ralph?" she said at length.

He looked up at her with a questioning light in his eyes, but did not
reply.

"Dorothy Hamblyn is at the Manor."

"Indeed," he said, in a tone of apparent indifference. "Who told you
that?"

"She has been there a fortnight!"

"A fortnight?"

"Dr. Barrow told William. He has been attending her."

"She is ill, then?"

"She has been. Caught a chill or something of the kind, and was a good
deal run down to start with, but she is nearly all right again now. I
wonder if she will come to see me here as she used to do at the
cottage?"

"Possibly."

"I hope she will. It would be so nice to see her again. Her father may
be a tyrant, but she is an angel."

Ralph gave a short, dry laugh.

"You do not seem very much interested," Ruth continued.

"Why should I be?" he questioned, looking up with a smile.

"I thought you used to like her very much."

"Oh, well, I did for that matter. But--but that's scarcely to the point,
is it?"

"Well, no, perhaps it isn't. Only--only----"

"Yes?"

"Well, I sometimes wonder if you will ever do what William has done."

"Oh, I fell in love with my sister long before he did."

"Your own sister doesn't count."

"She does with William--counts too much, I'm afraid. He's no eyes for
anything else."

"Oh, go along!"

"Not till I've had my tea. Remember, I'm hungry."

Then a knock came to the door, and William entered. He was still thin
and pale, but there was a light in his eyes and a glow on his cheeks
such as no one ever saw in the old days.

On the following afternoon Ralph made his way up the slant again in the
direction of Treliskey Plantation. It was a glorious afternoon. The hot
sunshine was tempered by a cool, Atlantic breeze. The hills and dales
were looking their best, the hedges were full of flowers, the woods and
plantations were great banks of delicious green. At the stile he paused
for several minutes and surveyed the landscape, but his thoughts all the
time were somewhere else. Hope had sprung up afresh in his heart, and a
determined purpose was throbbing through all his veins.

After awhile he left the stile and passed through the plantation gate.
He was a trespasser, he knew, but that was a matter of little account.
No one would molest him now. He was a man of too much importance in the
neighbourhood. He hardly realised yet what a power he had become, and
how anxious people were to be on good terms with him. In himself he was
conscious of no change. So far, at any rate, money had not spoiled him.
Every Sunday as he passed through the little graveyard at Veryan he was
reminded of the fact that his mother had died in the workhouse. If he
was ever tempted to put on airs--which he was not--that fact would have
kept him humble.

The true secret of his influence, however, was not that he was
prosperous, but that he was just. There was not a toiler in Great St.
Goram Mine who did not know that. In the past strength had been the
synonym for tyranny. Those who possessed a giant's strength had used it
like a giant. But Ralph had changed the tradition. The strong man was a
just man and a generous, and it was for that reason his influence had
grown with every passing day.

Yet he was quite unconscious of the measure of his influence. In his own
eyes he was only David Penlogan's son, though that fact meant a great
deal to him. David Penlogan was an honest man--a man who, in a very real
sense, walked with God--and it was Ralph's supreme desire to prove
worthy of his father.

But it was of none of these things he thought as he walked slowly along
between high banks of trees. The road was grass-grown from end to end,
and was so constructed that the pedestrian appeared to be constantly
turning corners.

"I think she will walk out to-day," he kept saying to himself. "This
beautiful weather will surely tempt her out."

He had made up his mind what to do and say in case they did meet. For
good or ill, he was determined to know his fate. It might be an act of
presumption, or a simple act of folly--that was an aspect of the
question that scarcely occurred to him.

The supreme factor in the case, as far as he was concerned, was, he
loved her. On that point there was no room for doubt. The mere social
aspect of the question he was constitutionally incapable of seeing. A
man was a man, and if he were of good character, and able to maintain
the woman he loved, what mattered anything else?

He came face to face with Dorothy at a bend in the road. She was walking
slowly, with her eyes on the ground. She did not hear his footsteps on
the grass-grown road, and when she looked up he was close upon her.
There was no time to debate the situation even with herself, so she
followed the impulse of her heart and held out her hand to him.

"I thought I should meet you to-day," he said. "I am sorry you have been
ill."

"I was rather run down when I came," she answered, glancing at him with
a questioning look, "and I think I caught cold on the journey."

"But you are better now?"

"Oh yes, I am quite well again."

"I feared you had returned to London. I have been on the look-out for
you for weeks."

She looked shyly up into his face, but did not reply.

"I wanted to know my fate," he went on. "You know that I love you. You
must have guessed it long before I told you."

"But--but----" she began, with averted eyes.

"Please hear me out first," he interrupted. "I would not have spoken
again had not circumstances changed. When I saw you in London I was poor
and without hope. I believed that I should have to leave the country in
order to earn a living. To have offered marriage to anyone would have
been an insult. And yet if I had never seen you again I should have
loved you to the end."

"But have you considered----" she began again, with eyes still turned
from his face.

"I have considered everything," he interrupted eagerly, almost
passionately. "But there is only one thing that matters, and that is
love. If you do not love me--cannot love me--my dream is at an end, and
I will endure as best I am able. But if your heart responds to my
appeal, then the thing is settled. You are mine."

"But you are forgetting my--my--position," she stammered.

"I am forgetting nothing of importance," he went on resolutely. "There
are only two people in the world really concerned in this matter, you
and I, and the decision rests with you. It is not my fault that I love
you. I cannot help it. You did not mean to steal my heart, perhaps, but
you did it. It seems a curious irony of fate, for I detested your
father; but Providence threw me across your path. In strange and
inexplicable ways your life has become linked with mine. You are all the
world to me. Cannot you give me some hope?"

"But my father still----" she began.

"You are of age," he interrupted. "No, no! Questions of parentage or
birth or position do not count. Why should they? Let us get back to the
one thing that matters. If you cannot love me, say the word, and I will
go my way and never molest you again. But if you do love me, be it ever
so little, you must give me hope."

"My father would never consent," she said quickly.

"That is nothing," he answered, almost impatiently. "I will wait till he
does give his consent. Oh, Dorothy, the only thing I want to know is do
you love me? If you can give me that assurance, nothing else in the
world matters. Just say the little word. God surely meant us for each
other, or I could not love you as I do."

She dropped her eyes to the ground and remained motionless.

He came a step nearer and took her hand in his. She did not resist, nor
did she raise her eyes, but he felt that she was trembling from head to
foot.

"You are not angry with me?" he questioned, almost in a whisper.

"No, no; I am not angry," she said, almost with a sob. "How could I be?
You are a good man, and such love as yours humbles me."

"Then you care for me just a little?" he said eagerly.

"I cannot tell how much I care," she answered, and the tears came into
her eyes and filled them to the brim. "But what does it matter? It must
all end here and now."

"Why end, Dorothy?"

"Because my father would die before he gave me to you. You do not know
him. You do not know how proud he is. Name and lineage are nothing to
you, but they are everything to him."

"But he would have married you to Lord Probus, a--a bloated brewer!" He
spoke angrily and scornfully.

"But he had been made a peer."

"What does that matter if Nature made him a clown?"

"Which Nature had not done. No, no; give him his due. He was
commonplace, and not very well educated----"

"And do these empty social distinctions count with you?" he questioned.

"I sometimes hate them," she answered. "But what can I do? There is no
escape. The laws of society are as inflexible as the laws of the Medes
and Persians."

"And you will fling love away as an offering to the prejudices of your
father?"

"Why do you tempt me? You must surely see how hard it is!"

"Then you do love me!" he cried; and he caught her in his arms and
kissed her.

For a moment she struggled as if to free herself. Then her head dropped
upon his shoulder.

"Oh, Ralph," she whispered, "let me love you for one brief minute; then
we must say farewell for ever!"

CHAPTER XLI

THE TABLES TURNED

Three days later Ralph paused for a moment in front of a trim
boarding-house or pension on the outskirts of Boulogne. It was here Sir
John Hamblyn was "vegetating," as he told his friends--practising the
strictest economy, and making a desperate and praiseworthy effort to
recover somewhat his lost financial position.

Ralph told no one what he intended to do. Ruth supposed that he had gone
no farther than London, and that it was business connected with Great
St. Goram Mine that called him there. Dorothy, having for a moment
capitulated, had been making a brave but futile effort to forget, and
trying to persuade herself that she had done a weak and foolish thing in
admitting to Ralph Penlogan that she cared for him.

Love and logic, however, were never meant to harmonise, and heart and
head are often in hopeless antagonism. Dorothy pretended to herself that
she was sorry, and yet all the time deep down in her heart there was a
feeling of exultation. It was delightful to be loved, and it was no less
delightful to love in return.

Almost unconsciously she found herself meditating on Ralph's many
excellences. He was so genuine, so courageous, so unspoiled by the
world. She was sure also that she liked him all the better for being a
man of the people. He owed nothing to favour or patronage. He had fought
his own way and made his own mark. He was not like Archie Temple, who
had been pushed into a situation purely through favour, and who, if
thrown upon the open market, would not earn thirty shillings a week.

It was an honour and a distinction to be loved by a man like Ralph
Penlogan. He was one of Nature's aristocracy, clear-visioned,
brave-hearted, fearless, indomitable. His handsome face was the index of
his character. How he had developed since that day he refused to open
the gate for her! Suffering had made him strong. Trial and persecution
had called into play the best that was in him. The fearless, defiant
youth had become a strong and resolute man. How could she help loving
him when he offered her all the love of his own great heart?

Then she would come to herself with a little gasp, and tell herself that
it was her duty to forget him, to tear his image out of her heart; that
an attachment such as hers was hopeless and quixotic; that the sooner
she mastered herself the better it would be; that her father would never
approve, and that the society in which she moved would be aghast.

For two days she fought a fitful and unequal battle, and then she
discovered that the more she fought the more helpless she seemed to
become. She had kept in the house lest she should discover him straying
in the plantation.

On the third day she went out again. She said to herself that she would
suffocate if she remained any longer indoors. Her heart was aching for a
sight of Ralph Penlogan's face. She told herself it was fresh air she
was pining for, and a sight of the hills and the distant sea. She
loitered through the plantation until she reached the far end. Then she
sighed and pushed open the gate. She walked as far as the stile, and
leaned against it. How long she remained there she did not know; but she
turned away at length, and strolled out across the common and down into
the high road, and so home by way of the south lodge.

The air had been fresh and sweet, and the blue of the sea peeped between
the hills in the direction of Perranpool, and the woods and plantations
looked their best in their summer attire, and the birds sang cheerily on
every hand. But she heard nothing, and saw nothing. The footfall she had
listened for all the time failed to come, and the face she was hungering
to see kept out of sight.

He had evidently taken her at her word. She had told him that their
parting must be for ever, that it would be worse than madness for them
to meet, and she had meant it all at the time; and yet, three days
later, she would have given all she possessed for one more glimpse of
his face.

The following day her duties were more irksome than she had ever known
them. The dowager wanted so many letters written, and so many articles
read to her. Dorothy was impatient to get out of doors, and the more
rapidly she tried to get through her work the more mistakes she made,
with the result that it had to be done over again.

It was getting quite late in the afternoon when at length she hurried
away through the plantation. Would he come to meet her? She need not let
him make love to her, but they might at least be friends. Love and logic
were in opposition again.

She lingered by the stile until the sun went down behind the hill, then,
with a sigh, she turned away, and began to retrace her steps through the
plantation.

"I ought to be thankful to him for taking me at my word," she said to
herself, with a pathetic look in her eyes. "Oh, why did he ever love me?
Why was I ever born?"

Meanwhile Ralph Penlogan and Sir John Hamblyn had come face to face.
Ralph had refused to send up his name, hence, when he was ushered into
the squire's presence, the latter simply stared at him for several
moments in speechless rage and astonishment.

Ralph was the first to break the silence.

"I must apologise for this intrusion," he said quietly, "but----"

"I should think so, indeed," interrupted Sir John scornfully. "Will you
state your business as quickly as possible?"

"I will certainly occupy no more of your time than I can help," Ralph
replied, "though I fear you are not in the humour to consider any
proposal from me."

"I should think not, indeed. Why should I be? Do you wish me to tell you
what I think of you?"

"I am not anxious on that score, though I am not aware that I have given
you any reason for thinking ill of me."

"You are not, eh? When you cheated me out of the most valuable bit of
property I possessed?"

"Did we not pay the price you asked?"

"But you knew there was a valuable tin lode in it."

"What of that? The property was in the market. We did not induce you to
sell it. We heard by accident that you wanted to dispose of it. If there
had been no lode we should have made no effort to get it."

"It was a mean, dishonest trick, all the same."

"I do not see it. By every moral right the farm was more mine than
yours. I helped my father to reclaim it. You spent nothing on it, never
raised your finger to bring it under cultivation. Moreover, it was
common land at the start. In league with a dishonest Parliament, you
filched it from the people, and then, by the operation of an iniquitous
law, you filched it a second time from my father."

Sir John listened to this speech with blazing eyes and clenched hands.

"By Heaven," he said, "if I were a younger man I would kick you down
these stairs. Have you forced your way in here to insult me?"

"On the contrary, it was my desire rather to conciliate you; but you
charged me with dishonesty at the outset."

"Conciliate me, indeed!" And Sir John turned away with a sneer upon his
face.

"We neither of us gain anything by losing our tempers," Ralph said,
after a pause. "Had we not better let bygones be bygones?"

Sir John faced him again and stared.

"It is no pleasure to me to rake up the past," Ralph went on. "Probably
we should both be happier if we could forget. I don't deny that I vowed
eternal enmity against you and yours."

"I am glad to hear it," Sir John snorted.

"Time, however, has taken the sting out of many things, and to-day I
love one whom I would have hated."

"You love----?"

"It is of no use beating about the bush," Ralph went on. "I love your
daughter, and I have come to ask your permission----"

He did not finish the sentence, however. With blazing eyes and clenched
fist Sir John shrieked at the top of his voice--

"Silence! Silence! How dare you? You----"

"No, do not use hard words," Ralph interrupted. "You may regret it
later."

"Regret calling you--a--a----" But no suitable or sufficiently
expressive epithet would come to his lips, and he sank into a chair
almost livid with anger and excitement.

Ralph kept himself well in hand. He had expected a scene, and so was
prepared for it. Seizing his opportunity, he spoke again.

"Had we not better discuss the matter without feeling or passion?" he
said, in quiet, even tones. "Surely I am not making an unreasonable
request. Even you know of nothing against my character."

"You are a vulgar upstart," Sir John hissed. "Good heavens,
you!--you!--aspiring to the hand of my daughter."

"I am not an upstart, and I hope I am not vulgar," Ralph replied
quietly. "At any rate, I am an Englishman. You are no more than that.
The accidents of birth count for nothing."

"Indeed!"

"In your heart you know it is so. In what do you excel? Wherein lies
your superiority?"

For a moment Sir John stared at him; then he said, with intense
bitterness of tone--

"Will you have the good manners to take yourself out of my sight?"

"I will do so, certainly, though you have not answered my questions."

"If I were only a younger man I would answer you in a way you would not
quickly forget."

"Then you refuse to give your permission?"

"Absolutely. I would rather see my child in her coffin."

"If you loved your child you would think more of her happiness than of
your own pride. I am sorry to find you are a tyrant still."

"Thank you. Have you any further remarks to make?"

"No!" And he turned away and moved toward the door. Then he turned
suddenly round with his hand on the door knob.

"By-the-bye, you may be interested to know that I have discovered a very
rich vein that runs through your estate," he said quietly, and he pulled
the door slowly open.

Sir John was on his feet in a moment.

"A very rich vein?" he questioned eagerly.

"Extraordinarily rich," was the indifferent reply. "Good-afternoon."

"Wait a moment--wait a moment!" Sir John cried excitedly.

"Thank you, but I have no further remarks to make." And Ralph passed out
to the landing.

Sir John rushed past him and planted himself at the head of the stairs.

"You are not fooling me?" he questioned eagerly. "Say honestly, are you
speaking the truth?"

"Do you wish to insult me?" Ralph asked scornfully. "Am I in the habit
of lying? Please let me pass."

"No, no! Please forgive me. But if what you say is true, it means so
much to me. You see, I am practically in exile here."

"So I understand. And you are likely to remain in exile, by all
accounts."

"But if there is a rich vein of mineral that I can tap. Why, don't you
see, it will release me at once?"

"But, as it happens, you cannot tap it, for you don't know where it is.
I am the only individual who knows anything about it."

"Exactly, exactly! Don't go just yet. I want to hear more about it."

"I fear I have wasted too much of your time already," Ralph said
ironically. "You asked me just now to take myself out of your sight."

"I know I did. I know I did. But I was very much upset. Besides, this
lode is a horse of quite another colour. Now come back into my room and
tell me all about it."

"There is really not very much to tell," Ralph answered, in a tone of
indifference. "How I discovered its existence is a mere detail. You may
be aware, perhaps, that I occupy most of my time in making experiments?"

"Yes, yes. I know you are wonderfully clever in your own particular
line. But tell me, whereabouts is it?"

"You flatter me too much," Ralph said, with a laugh. "To tell you the
truth, it was largely by accident that I discovered the lode I am
speaking of. Unfortunately, it is outside the Great St. Goram boundary,
so that it is of no use to our shareholders."

The squire laughed and rubbed his hands.

"But it will be of use to me," he said. "Really, this is a remarkable
bit of luck. You are quite sure that it is a very valuable discovery?"

"As sure as one can be of anything in this world. The Hillside lode is
rich, but this----"

"No, no," Sir John interrupted eagerly. "You don't mean to say that it
is richer than your mine?"

"I shall be greatly surprised if--if----" Then he paused suddenly.

"Go on, go on," cried Sir John excitedly. "This bit of news is like new
life to me. Think of it. I shall be able to shake off those Jewish
sharks and hold up my head once more."

"I don't think it is at all necessary that you should hold your head any
higher," Ralph replied deliberately and meaningly. "You think far too
much of yourself already. Now I will say good-afternoon for the second
time."

"You mean that you will tell me nothing more?"

"Why should I? If your justice had been equal to your greed, I might
have been disposed to help you; but I feel no such disposition at
present."

"You want to bargain with me?" Sir John cried angrily.

"Indeed, no. What I came about is too sacred a matter for bargaining."
And, slipping quickly past Sir John, he hurried down the stairs and into
the street.

The squire stared after him for several minutes, then went back into the
room and fetched his hat, and was soon following.

When he got into the open air, however, Ralph was nowhere visible. He
ran a few steps, first in one direction, then in another. Finally, he
made his way down into the town. He did not go to the wharf, for no boat
was sailing for several hours; but he loitered in the principal streets
till he was hungry, and then reluctantly made his way toward his
temporary home. He was in a state of almost feverish excitement, and
hardly knew at times whether he was awake or dreaming.

What his exile in France meant to him, no one knew but himself. But his
financial affairs were in such a tangle, that it was exile or disgrace,
and his pride turned the scale in favour of exile. Now, suddenly, there
had been opened up before him the prospect of release--but release upon
terms.

He tried, over his lonely dinner, to review the situation; tried to put
himself in the place of Ralph Penlogan. It was a profitable exercise.
The lack of imagination is often the parent of wrong. He was bound to
admit to himself that Ralph was under no obligation--moral or
otherwise--to reveal his secret, or even to sell his knowledge.

"No doubt I have behaved badly to him," Sir John said to himself, "and
badly to his father. He has good reason for hating me and thwarting me.
By Jove! but we have changed places. He is the strong man now, and if he
pays me back in my own coin, it is no more than I deserve."

Sir John did not make a good dinner that evening. His reflections
interfered with his appetite.

"Should I tell if I were in his place?" he said to himself. And he
answered his own question with a groan.

Under the influence of a cigar and a cup of black coffee, visions of
prosperity floated before him. He saw himself back again in Hamblyn
Manor, and in more than his old splendour. He saw himself free from the
clutches of the money-lenders, and a better man for the experiences
through which he had passed.

But his visions were constantly broken in upon by the reflection that
his future lay in the hands of Ralph Penlogan, the young man he had so
cruelly wronged. It was a hard battle he had to fight, for his pride
seemed to pull him in opposite directions at the same time.

Half an hour before the boat started for Folkestone he was on the wharf,
eagerly scanning the faces of all the passengers. He had made up his
mind to try to persuade Ralph to go back with him and stay the night.
His pride was rapidly breaking down under the pressure of unusual
circumstances.

He remained till the boat cast off her moorings and the paddle-wheels
began to churn the water in the narrow slip, then he turned away with a
sigh. Ralph was not among the passengers.

CHAPTER XLII

COALS OF FIRE

Ralph returned home by way of Calais and Dover, and on the following day
he came face to face with Dorothy outside the lodge gates. He raised his
hat and would have passed on, but she would not let him.

"Surely we may be friends?" she said, extending her hand to him, and her
eyes were pleading and pathetic.

He stopped at once and smiled gravely.

"I thought it was your wish that we should meet as strangers," he said.

"Did I say that?" she questioned, and she turned away her eyes from him.

"Something to that effect," he answered, still smiling, though he felt
as if every reason for smiles had passed from him.

"I have been expecting to see you for days past," she said, suddenly
raising her eyes to his.

"I have been from home," he answered. "In fact, I have been to
Boulogne."

"To Boulogne?" she asked, with a start, and the blood mounted in a
torrent to her neck and face.

"I went across to see your father," he said slowly.

"Yes?" she questioned, and her face was set and tense.

"He was obdurate. He said he would rather see you in your coffin."

For a moment there was silence. Then she said--

"Was he very angry?"

"I am sorry to say he was. He evidently dislikes me very much--a feeling
which I fear is mutual."

"I wonder you had the courage to ask him," she said at length.

"I would dare anything for your sake," he replied, with averted eyes. "I
would defy him if you were willing. And, indeed, I cannot see why he
should be the arbiter of your fate and mine."

"You must not forget that he is my father," she said quietly and
deliberately.

"But you defied him in the case of Lord Probus."

"That was different. To have married Lord Probus would have been a sin.
No, no. The cases are not parallel."

"Then you are still of the same mind?" he questioned.

"It would not be right," she said, after a long pause, "knowing father
as I do, and knowing how keenly he feels all this."

"Then it is right to spoil my life, to fling all its future in shadow?"

"You will forget me," she said, with averted eyes.

"Perhaps so," he answered a little bitterly; "time is a great healer,
they say," and he raised his hat again and turned away.

But her hand was laid on his arm in a moment.

"Now you are angry with me," she said, her eyes filling. "But don't you
see it is as hard for me as for you? Oh, it is harder, for you are so
much stronger than I."

"If we are to forget each other," he replied quietly and without looking
at her, "we had better begin at once."

"But surely we may be friends?" she questioned.

"It is not a question of friendship," he answered, "but of forgetting,
or of trying to forget."

"But I don't want to forget," she said impulsively. "I could not if I
tried. A woman never forgets. I want to remember you, to think of your
courage, your--your----"

"Folly," he interrupted.

She looked at him with a startled expression in her eyes.

"Is it folly to love?" she questioned.

"Yes, out of your own station. If I had loved anyone else but you----"

"No, no! Don't say that," she interrupted. "God knows best. We are
strengthened and made better by the painful discipline of life."

He took her outstretched hand and held it for a moment, then raised it
to his lips. So they parted. He could not feel angry or resentful. She
was so sweet, so gentle, so womanly, that she compelled his reverence.
It was better to have loved her and lost, than to have won any other
woman on earth.

On the following afternoon, on reaching home, Ruth met him at the door
with a puzzled expression in her eyes.

"Who do you think is in the parlour?" she questioned, with a touch of
excitement in her voice.

"William Menire," he ventured, with a laugh.

"Then you are mistaken. William has gone to St. Hilary. But what do you
say to the squire?"

"Sir John Hamblyn?"

She nodded.

"He's been waiting the best part of an hour."

For a moment he hesitated, then he strode past her into the house.

Sir John rose and bowed stiffly. Ralph closed the door behind him and
waited for the squire to speak.

"I went down to the boat, hoping to catch you before you left Boulogne,"
Sir John began.

"I returned by way of Calais," was the quick reply.

"Ah, that explains. I was curious to have a little further talk with
you. What you said about the lode excited me a great deal."

"I have little doubt of it."

"I own I have no claim upon you," Sir John went on, without heeding the
interruption. "Still, keeping the knowledge to yourself can do you no
good."

"That is quite true."

"While to me it would be everything."

"It might be a bad thing. In the past, excuse me for saying it, you have
used your wealth and your influence neither wisely nor well. In fact,
you have prostituted both to selfish and unworthy ends."

"I have been foolish, I own, and I have had to pay dearly for it. You
think I pressed your father hard, but I was hard pressed myself. If I
hadn't allowed myself to drift into the hands of those villainous Jews I
should have been a better man."

"But are you not in their hands still?"

"Well, yes, up to a certain point I am. At present they are practically
running the estates."

"And when will you be free?"

"Well, I hardly know. You see they keep piling up interest in such a way
that it is difficult to discover where I am. But a rich lode would
enable me to clear off everything."

"I am not sure of that. If during your lifetime they have got a hold on
the estates, how do you know they would not appropriate the lode with
the rest?"

Sir John looked blank, and for several moments was silent.

"Do you know," he said at length, "that I have already paid three times
more in interest than the total amount I borrowed?"

"I can quite believe that," was the answer. "Would you mind telling me
the amount you did borrow?"

Sir John named the sum.

Ralph regarded him in silence for several moments.

"It is a large sum," he said at length, "a very large sum. And yet, if I
am not greatly mistaken, it is but a trifle in comparison with the value
of the lode I have referred to."

"You do not mean that?" the squire said eagerly.

"But it would be folly to make its existence known until you have got
out of the hands of those money-lenders," Ralph went on.

"They would grab it all, you think?"

"I fear so. If all one hears about their cunning is true, there is
scarcely any hope for a man who once gets into their clutches. The law
seems powerless. You had better have made yourself a bankrupt right
off."

"I don't know; the disgrace is so great."

Ralph curled his lip scornfully.

"It seems to me you strain at a gnat and swallow a camel," he said.

"I have been hard pressed," the squire answered dolefully.

For several seconds neither of them spoke again. Ralph was evidently
fighting a hard battle with himself. It is not easy to be magnanimous
when it is more than probable your magnanimity will be abused. Why
should he be kind to this man? He had received nothing but cruelty at
his hands. Should he turn his cheek to the smiter? Should he restrain
himself when he had the chance of paying off old scores? Was it not
human, after all, to say an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth? Was
not revenge sweet?

They were facing each other in the very house from which he and his
mother and Ruth had been evicted, the house in which his father had died
of a broken heart. Did not every stone in it cry out for vengeance? This
man had shown them no mercy. In the hour of their greatest need he had
been more cruel than any fabled Shylock. He had insisted upon his pound
of flesh, though it meant beggary to them all. He had pursued them with
a vindictiveness that was almost without a parallel. And now that the
tables had been turned, and the tyrant, bereft of his power, was
pleading for mercy, was he to kiss the hand that before had struck him?

Moreover, what guarantee was there that if this man were restored to his
old position he would be any better than he was before? Was not his
heart what it had always been? Was he not a tyrant by nature?

Sir John watched the look of perplexity gather and deepen on Ralph's
face, and guessed the struggle that was going on within him. He felt
very humble, and more penitent than Ralph knew.

The younger man lifted his head at length, and his brow cleared.

"I have been strongly tempted," he said slowly, "to mete out to you what
you have measured to us."

"I have no claim to be considered," Sir John said humbly.

"You have thwarted me, or tried to thwart me, at every stage of my
life," Ralph went on.

"I know I have been no friend to you," was the feeble reply.

"And if I help you back to power, I have no guarantee that you will not
use that power to thwart me again."

The squire let his eyes fall to the ground, but did not reply.

"However, to play the part of the dog in the manger," Ralph went on, "is
not a very manly thing to do, so I have decided to tell you all I know."

"You will reveal the lode to me?" he questioned eagerly.

"Yes. It will be good for the neighbourhood and the county in any case."

The squire sat down suddenly, and furtively wiped his eyes.

"But the money-lenders will have to be squared first. Will you allow me
to tackle them for you? I should enjoy the bull-baiting."

"You mean----"

"I mean that in any case they must not be allowed to get the lode into
their hands."

"I don't know how it is to be avoided."

"Will you leave the matter to me and William Menire?"

"You mean you will help me?"

"We shall be helping the neighbourhood."

Sir John struggled hard to keep the tears back, but failed.

"And you impose no condition?" he sobbed at length.

"No, I impose no condition. If the thing is to be done, let it be done
freely."

"You unman me altogether," the squire said, with brimming eyes. "I did
not expect, I really didn't. I have no claim, and I've been beastly hard
on you. I know I have, and I'm sorry, real sorry, mind you; and
if--if----"

"We'll let the 'ifs' go for the present, if you don't mind," Ralph said,
with a dry laugh. "There are a good many present difficulties to be met.
I should like to see your agreement with the money-lenders."

"You shall see everything. If you can only get me out of this hole you
will make me the most thankful man alive!"

Ralph smiled dubiously.

"When can I see the papers?" he asked.

"To-day if you like. They are at the Manor."

"Very good. I will walk across after tea, or will you fetch them here?"

"If it would not be troubling you to walk so far----"

"I will come with pleasure."

The squire felt very chastened and humble as he made his way slowly back
to the Manor, through Treliskey Plantation. Magnanimity is rarely lost
on anyone, kindness will melt the hardest heart. The squire's pride was
being slowly undermined, his arrogance seemed almost a contemptible
thing.

By contrast with Ralph's nobler character he began to see how mean and
poor was his own. He had prided himself so much on his name and
pedigree, and yet he was only beginning to see how unworthy he had
proved of both. What, after all, was the mere accident of birth in
comparison with moral greatness? Measured by any right standard, Ralph
Penlogan was an infinitely better man than he. He had not only
intellect, but heart. He possessed that true nobility which enabled a
man to forgive his enemy. He was turning in a very literal sense his
cheek to the smiter.

Sir John entered the house with a curious feeling of diffidence. His
home, and yet not his. The dowager made him welcome, and placed the
library and a bedroom above at his disposal for as long as he might care
to stay.

Dorothy was delighted to have her father with her again, and yet she was
strangely puzzled as to the object of his visit. She was puzzled still
more when a little later Ralph Penlogan was shown into the room where
she and her father sat.

She rose to her feet in a moment, while a hot blush swept over her neck
and face. For a second or two she stood irresolute, and glanced hastily
from one to the other. What was the meaning of it all? Her father,
instead of glaring angrily at his visitor, received him with the
greatest cordiality and even deference, while Ralph advanced with no
sign of fear or hesitation.

Neither of them appeared for the moment to be conscious of her presence.
Ralph did not even look towards her.

Then her father said in a low voice--

"You can leave us for a little while, Dorothy."

She hurried out of the room with flaming cheeks and fast-beating heart.
What could her father want with Ralph Penlogan? What was the mystery
underlying his hurried visit? Could it have any reference to herself?
Had her father relented? Had he at last come to see that character was
more than social position--that a man was great not by virtue of birth,
but by virtue of achievement?

For the best part of an hour she sat in her own room waiting and
listening. Then the dowager summoned her to read an article to her out
of the _Spectator_.

It grew dark at last, and Dorothy sought her own room once more, but she
was so restless she could not sit still. The very air seemed heavy with
fate. Her father and Ralph were still closeted in the library. What
could they have to say to each other that kept them so long?

When the lamps were lighted she stole out of her room and waited for a
few moments on the landing. Then she ran lightly down the stairs into
the hall. The library door was still closed, but a moment later it was
pulled slightly open. She drew back into a recess and pulled a curtain
in front of her, though why she did so she hardly knew.

She could hear distinctly a murmur of voices, then came a merry peal of
laughter. She had not heard her father laugh so merrily for years.

Then the two men walked out into the hall side by side, and began to
converse in subdued tones. She could see them very distinctly. How
handsome Ralph looked in the light of the lamp.

The squire went with his visitor to the front door, and opened it. She
caught Ralph's parting words, "I will see to the matter without delay.
Good-night!"

When the squire returned from the door he saw Dorothy standing under the
lamp with a look of inquiry in her eyes.

CHAPTER XLIII

SIR JOHN ATONES

Dorothy did not see Ralph again for nearly a month, and the hope that
had animated her for a brief period threatened to go out in darkness.
Her father, much to her surprise, remained at the Manor, he and the
dowager having come to terms that appeared to be mutually satisfactory.
But for what purpose he had returned to St. Goram, and why he remained,
she did not know, and more puzzling still was why he had held that long
and friendly interview with Ralph Penlogan.

More than once she had tried to get at the truth. But her father was
completely on his guard against every chance question. He had never been
in the habit of taking Dorothy into his confidence in business matters.
He was of opinion that the less girls knew about matters outside the
domestic realm the better. Moreover, until he was safely out of the
clutches of the money-lenders, it would not be safe to take anyone into
his confidence. So to Dorothy, at any rate, he remained a mystery from
day to day, and the longer he remained, the deeper the mystery seemed to
grow.

There was, however, one compensation. He was more cheerful and more
affectionate than he had ever been since her refusal to marry Lord
Probus. What that might mean she was unable to guess. There appeared to
be no particular reason for his cheerfulness. For the moment he was
living on charity, for of course he could not dream of paying the
dowager for his board and lodgings. He did not appear to be engaged on
any gambling adventure or business enterprise. No one came to see him.
He went nowhere, except for an occasional long walk after dark, and he
scarcely ever received a letter.

One evening he was absent several hours, and did not return till after
midnight. Dorothy waited up for him, and had begun to be greatly
concerned at his non-arrival. She was standing at the open door
listening when she caught the sound of his footsteps, and she ran a
little way down the drive to meet him.

"Oh, father, wherever have you been?" she cried out anxiously.

"Why, little girl, why are you not in bed?" he answered, with a laugh.

"Because I waited up for you, and I expected you an hour ago. I have
been terribly anxious."

"Nobody is likely to run away with me," he said, bending over and
kissing her.

"But it is so late for you to be out alone. If there was anyone you have
been in the habit of visiting, I should not have worried, but I feared
you had been taken ill, or had met with an accident."

"I did not know you cared for your old father so much," he said, with a
note of tenderness in his voice that was new to her.

"But I do care," she answered impulsively, "and care lots and lots more
than I can tell you."

He kissed her again, and then taking her arm, he led her into the house.
Bolting the front door, he followed her into the library.

She was standing against the fireplace when he entered, and she noticed
that his eyes were unusually bright.

"I have been to Hillside Farm," he said, and a broad smile spread itself
over his face.

"To Hillside Farm?" she questioned.

"Young Penlogan has had some business affairs of mine in hand, and
to-night we have settled it."

She stared at him with a look of wonder in her eyes, but did not reply.

"It's been a ticklish task, and, of course, I have said nothing about
it. But I've been in high hopes ever since I came back. Penlogan is
really a remarkable fellow."

"Yes?" she questioned, wondering more than ever.

"It's a curious turn of the tables," he went on; "but he's behaved
splendidly, and there's no denying it. He might have heaped coals of
fire on my head at every point. He might--but--well, after one straight
talk--not another word. He's behaved like a gentleman--perhaps I ought
to say like a Christian. No conditions! Not a condition. No. Having made
up his mind to do the straight thing, he's carried it through. It's been
coals of fire, all the same. I've never felt so humbled in my life
before. I could wish--but there, it's too late to wish now. He's spared
me all he could. I'm bound to say that for him, and he's carried it
through----"

"Carried what through, father?"

He started, and smiled, for his thoughts had evidently gone wandering to
some distant place.

"I'm afraid it's too long a story to tell you to-night."

"No, no, father. I'm quite wide awake. And, indeed, I shall not sleep
for the night, unless you tell me."

"I'm wide awake myself," he said, with a laugh. "By Jove! I feel as if I
could dance. You can't imagine what a relief it is to me. Life will be
worth living again."

"But what is it all about, father?"

"Oh, that clever dog, Penlogan, discovered a rich vein of ore in my
ground, and he's given me all the benefit of the discovery. I've been
hard up for a long time, as you know; been in the hands of sharks, in
fact. I feel ashamed to tell you this, though I expect you have guessed.
Well, thanks to Penlogan, I've shaken them off, got quite free of them.
Now I'm free to go ahead."

"And has Ralph Penlogan done all this for nothing?"

"Absolutely. He wanted you when he came to see me at Boulogne, but I
told him I'd see you buried first. Good heavens! I could have wrung his
neck."

She smiled pathetically, but made no answer.

"He's a greater man than I knew," Sir John went on, after a pause. "He
was strongly tempted to be even with me--he told me so--but the finer
side of him conquered. Good heavens! if only Geoffrey were such a man,
how proud I should be."

"Geoffrey has been trained in a different school."

"There may be something in that. Some natures expand under hard knocks,
are toughened by battle and strife, greatened by suffering, and
sweetened by sorrow."

She looked up into his face with a wondering smile.

"Ah, my Dorothy," he said, with a world of tenderness in his tones, "I
have learned a great deal during the last few weeks. In the past I've
been a fool, and worse. I've measured people by their social position.
I've set value on filigree and embroidery. I've been proud of pedigree
and name, and I've tried to put my heel upon people who were my
superiors in every way. Good heavens! what vain fools we are in the
main. We value the pinchbeck setting and kick the diamond into the
gutter."

"Then you have finished with Mr. Penlogan now?" she questioned, after a
long pause.

"Finished with him? Why so? I hope not, anyhow."

"But you have got all you want out of him."

"I never said so. No, no. We shall have to form a company to work the
new lode, and he will be invaluable."

"And he will get nothing?"

"I don't know that he wants anything. He has plenty as it is."

She made no reply, and for a moment or two they looked at each other in
silence. Then Sir John said, with a chuckle--

"A penny for your thoughts, Dorothy!"

"A penny for yours, father."

"Do you really care very much for the fellow?"

"For the fellow?"

"I mean for Penlogan, of course. Mind you, I'm not surprised if you do.
He's the kind of fellow any girl might fall in love with, and, to be
quite candid, I shouldn't object to him for a son-in-law."

"Oh, father!" and she ran to him and threw her arms about his neck.

"Then you do care for him, little girl?"

But the only answer he got was a hug and a kiss.

"Oh, very good," he went on. "I'll let him know to-morrow morning that
he may come along here and see you if he likes. I don't expect he will
lose very much time. What! crying, little girl? Come, come, you mustn't
cry. Crying spoils the eyes. Besides, it is time we were both in bed."

She kissed him more than once, and then ran hurriedly out of the room.

On the following afternoon she went for a walk through the plantation
alone.

"He will come this way," she said to herself. "He will be sure to come
this way. He knows it is my favourite walk."

She walked slowly, but with every sense alert. She knew that her father
had been to see Ralph, and, of course, he would be impatient to see her.
If he were half as impatient as she was he would be on his way now.

She espied him at length a long way down the road, and she drew back a
little in the shadow of the trees and waited. Her heart was beating very
fast, and happy tears kept welling up into her eyes.

She was looking away from him when at length he came upon her.

"Dorothy!" he said, in a voice that thrilled her like a strain of music.

"Yes, Ralph," and she turned her perfect face full upon him.

"Your father said I might come."

"Yes, I know," and she placed both her hands in his.

"I have waited long for this day," he said.

"We are the happier for the waiting."

"You are satisfied?"

"I am very happy, Ralph."

He gathered her to himself slowly and tenderly, and kissed her. There
was no need for many words just then. Silence was more eloquent than
speech.

That evening the dowager came to the conclusion that she would have to
look out for a new companion and secretary.

Mr. Silas K. Hocking's

THE FLAMING SWORD.

     _SOME PRESS OPINIONS_

     "This is told in Mr. Hocking's usual bright and sprightly
     manner. When over a million copies of a man's books have been
     sold, all his readers want to know is if the book under review
     presents the characteristics of the author, and is worthy of
     his reputation; both of which questions can be answered in the
     affirmative."--_Queen._

     "The novel is remarkable, because of its intensely human
     interest, of the intricacy of the plot, and of the freshness
     and vigour with which it is developed. The tale is wound up in
     the happiest possible manner. Mr. Hocking has produced a
     finished piece of literary workmanship--a novel that will be
     widely read and enjoyed."--_Scotsman._

     "In 'The Flaming Sword' he is at his best, and the book will
     gratify his multitudinous admirers."--_Sheffield Daily
     Telegraph._

     "An admirable story--supremely interesting. The whole story is
     brimful of surprises and complications, woven together with
     great ingenuity. The plot is wonderfully good, and grips the
     reader from start to finish."--_Aberdeen Free Press._

     "It will be strange indeed if 'The Flaming Sword' does not
     become one of the most popular products of Mr. Silas Hocking's
     pen."--_Christian Commonwealth._

     "It immediately lays hold of one, and the grip is maintained
     throughout."--_Dundee Advertiser._

     "An exciting and intensely interesting story."--_Canadian
     Bookseller._

     "A novel which is sure to have multitudes of readers and to be
     enthusiastically received."--_Free Methodist._

     "A volume that will keep up the reputation of the author, since
     it is written in his best vein."--_Irish Times._

     "Mr. S. K. Hocking has a big circle of admirers, which is
     likely to be considerably widened by his latest novel, 'The
     Flaming Sword.' The story grips one from the
     opening."--_Lloyd's News._

PIONEERS.

     _SOME PRESS OPINIONS_

     "Mr. Hocking has written many admirable stories, but none, one
     may venture to say, so effective as this. He has presented his
     characters with convincing fidelity to human nature.... The
     reader will follow their careers with interest, and in especial
     that of the heroine, who is a pronounced and most attractive
     individuality. In a word, the novel is a notable
     success."--_Scotsman._

     "Mr. Hocking has seldom drawn two more notable and more lovable
     characters. The novel teems with stirring adventure and has the
     prettiest love story, with the happiest of endings."--_Evening
     News._

     "Is a story of sustained power--power controlled by a practised
     hand which quickly grips the interest of the reader and holds
     it undiminished to the end."--_Birmingham Post._

     "Conceived and executed in the author's most vigorous style, we
     are carried breathlessly forward from the first page to the
     last; almost every chapter contains some hair-breadth 'scape.
     It is all very exciting and picturesque."--_Westminster
     Gazette._

     "It is a skilful and well-knit story, full of exciting
     episodes. It arouses human sympathy, and sustains a good level
     of interest. It is probably one of the best of Mr. Silas
     Hocking's recent books."--_Sheffield Independent._

     "Mr. Hocking's latest novel is intensely interesting and
     exciting. The scene is laid in Russia, and the plot embraces
     the struggles and adventures of two soldiers who have deserted
     from the Russian army. They are arrested and taken to Siberia,
     and their privations and struggles for freedom are depicted
     with a master hand. The character of the heroine is one which
     will draw the sympathy of all, and the story one which should
     appeal to a large circle of readers."--_Canadian Bookseller._

     "There is a vivid realism in the story. The exciting adventures
     of the heroine, etc., form a chapter of incidents which keep
     the reader chained to the book till the last page is turned.
     The story is one of the best, if not the best that Mr. Hocking
     has written."--_Daily News._

End of Project Gutenberg's The Squire's Daughter, by Silas K(itto) Hocking