Allan spoke with the shuffling reserve of a man to whose secret communings a painful idea had been too long familiar. In the effort to cast off the unwelcome and secret associate, there was a show of emancipation which, as an acute observer might see, was more assumed than real. Mrs. Ritson made no terms with the affectation of indifference. Her grave face became yet more grave, and her soft voice grew softer as she said: "And if when it is settled and done the cloud would break that has hung over our lives, then all would be well. But that can never be." Allan tossed his head aside, and made pretense to smile; but no gleam of sunshine on his cornfields was ever chased so closely by the line of dark shadow as his smile by the frown that followed. "Come, worrit thysel' na' mair about it! When I've made my will, and put Paul on the same footing with t'other lad, who knows owt mair nor we choose to tell?" Mrs. Ritson glanced into his face with a look of sad reproach. "Heaven knows, Allan," she said; "and the dark cloud still gathers for us there." The old man took a step or two on the gravel path, and dropped his gray head. His voice deepened: "Tha says reet, mother," he said, "tha says reet. Ey, it saddens my auld days--and thine forby!" He took a step or two more, and added: "And na lawyer can shak' it off now. Nay, nay, never now. Weel, mother, our sky has been lang owerkessen; but, mind ye," lifting his face and voice together, "we've had gude crops if we tholed some thistles." "Yes, we've had happy days, too," said Mrs. Ritson. At that moment there came from across the vale the shouts of the merrymakers and the music of a fiddle. Allan Ritson lifted his head, nodded it aside jauntily, and smiled feebly through the mist that was gathering about his eyes. "There they are--wrestling and jumping. I mind me when there was scarce a man in Cummerlan' could give me the cross-buttock. That's many a lang year agone, though. And now our Paul can manish most on 'em--that he can." The fiddle was playing a country dance. The old man listened; his face broadened, he lifted a leg jauntily, and gave a sweep of one arm. Just then there came through the air a peal of happy laughter. It was the same heart's music that Hugh Ritson and Mr. Bonnithorne had heard in the road. Allan's face brightened, and his voice had only the faintest crack in it as he said: "That's Greta's laugh! It is for sure! What a heartsome lass yon is! I like a heartsome lassie--a merrie touch, and gone!" "Yes," said Mrs. Ritson, soberly; "Greta is a winsome girl." It was hardly spoken when a young girl bounded down upon them, almost breathless, yet laughing in gusts, turning her head over her shoulder and shouting: "Hurrah! Beaten, sir! Hurrah!" It was Greta Lowther; twenty years of age, with fair hair, quick brown eyes, a sunny face lighted up with youthful animation, a swift smile on her parted lips--an English wild white rose.