Griff followed her into the room, through the window of which he had first seen her. The nurse was half-sitting, half-lying in a long cane-chair near the fireplace. The peats were smouldering dully in the grate. Roddick's wife pointed across at her, but would not go near; when her quieter fits were on, she dreaded the great, raw-boned woman in the chair, who helped Leo to keep the drink from her. "It's all in here," she whispered, scratching at the door of a cupboard just above her head. "The key is in her pocket." With the deftness of a pickpocket Griff felt for the key and took it out. He unlocked the cupboard, and crossed over to the window. "Take what you want," he said. The mad woman peered into the cupboard, uttering little screams of delight. She ran her hand caressingly along the bottles. The nurse moved in her sleep, then opened her eyes. "It's all right," murmured Griff; "I am looking after her." "Mind you do. It's death if she touches a drop to-day," said the nurse, drowsily, and closed her eyes again. When Griff came out into the road again, the sun was sparkling on the frozen snow. The strain of his great endeavour was not past yet; his face showed strong, his mind was clear. He was thinking--not of what he had done, but of the happiness he had secured for two of his friends. It seemed almost better than if he had won happiness for himself. The glow of a fine altruism lit up his eyes. He walked quickly down till he came opposite Wynyates Hall, and turned as if to go through the garden gate. But he thought better of it. "Good news is better for the keeping; I will wait a while," he said to himself softly. Then he fell to wondering what the old home looked like, and a yearning to see it again took hold of him. He went down the hill, and up the other side, and on until he gained Ling Crag. As he passed Gabriel Hirst's house, the preacher was standing in the doorway, kissing Greta good-bye before he went out. Griff smiled in a fatherly way, and called to Gabriel by name. "What, you?" cried the preacher, hastening across the newly-swept flagstones to the gate. Greta followed him, and they stood there, staring at Griff's dishevelled hair and happy face. "You mean to make a honeymoon of your whole lives, you two?" said Griff. The preacher's hand went out to him. "I've lived a life of fear, Griff--constant fear. And now I'm free at last; free to look the sun in the face, and hob-nob with the wind, and feel that God's strength is His mercy, too. There is none like Greta." "Except Gabriel," whispered the lass. But the laugh died on her lips, for she remembered the man's troubles. "What can any one say to help you?" she asked simply. "Help? I don't need help. All's for the best in the long run. God bless you both! Good-bye." "But, man----" began Gabriel. His friend did not hear--or, hearing, disregarded it. He swung out along the road to Marshcotes. Greta looked after him, and shook her head.