"Is this your answer, little one?" he said, with choking delight. And a pair of streaming eyes looked up for a brief instant into his face. "Then we'll say no more now. I'm to go to London to-morrow night, and shall be away four days. When I return we'll talk again, and tell the good soul who lies in yonder. Peace be with him, and sweet sleep, the dear old friend!" Paul lifted up his hat and opened the door. His gloom was gone; his eyes were alive with animation. The worn cheeks were aflame. He stood erect, and walked with the step of a strong man. Greta followed him into the porch. The rosy fire-light followed her. It flickered over her golden hair, and bathed her beauty in a ruddy glow. "Oh, how free the air will breathe over there," he said, "when all this slavery is left behind forever! You don't understand, little woman, but some day you shall. What matter if it is a land of rain, and snow, and tempest? It will be a land of freedom--freedom, and life, and love. And now, Master Hugh, we shall soon be quits--very soon!" His excitement carried him away, and Greta was too greedy of his joy to check it with questions. They stood together at the door. The night was still and dark; the trees were noiseless, their prattling leaves were gone. Silent and empty as a vacant street was the unseen road. Paul held forth his hand to feel if it rained. A withered leaf floated down from the eaves into his palm. Then a footstep echoed on the path. It went on toward the village. Presently the postman came trudging along from the other direction. "Good-night, Tom o' Dint!" cried Paul, cheerily. Tom stopped and hesitated. "Who was it I hailed on the road?" he asked. "When?" "Just now." "Nay, who was it?" "I thought it was yourself." The little man trundled on in the dark. "My brother, no doubt," said Paul, and he pulled the door after him. CHAPTER III. The next morning a bright sun shone on the frosty landscape. The sky was blue and the air was clear. Hugh Ritson sat in his room at the back of the Ghyll, with its window looking out on the fell-side and on the river under the leafless trees beneath. The apartment had hardly the appearance of a room in a Cumbrian homestead. It was all but luxurious in its appointments. The character of its contents gave it something of the odor of a by-gone age. Besides books on many shelves, prints, pictures in water and oil, and mirrors of various shapes, there was tapestry on the inside of the door, a bust of Dante above a cabinet of black oak, a piece of bas-relief in soapstone, a gargoyle in wood, a brass censer, a mediaeval lamp with open mouth, and a small ivory crucifix nailed to the wall above the fire. Hugh himself sat at an organ, his fingers wandering aimlessly over the keys, his eyes gazing vacantly out at the window. There was a knock at the door.