"I have nothing to forgive," said Paul. "Even if he knew nothing, I should still go away and leave everything. I could not live any longer under the shadow of this secret, bound by an oath. I would go, as I go now, with sealed lips, but a free heart. He should have his own before man--and I mine, before God." Mrs. Ritson sat in silence; her lips trembled perceptibly, and her eyelids quivered. "I shall soon leave you, my dear son," she said in a tremulous voice. "Nay, nay, you shall not," he answered in an altered tone, half of raillery, half of tenderness; "you are coming with us--with Greta and me--and over there the roses will bloom again in your white cheeks." Mrs. Ritson shook her head. "I shall soon leave you, dearest," she repeated, and told her beads. He tried to dispel her sadness; he laughed, and she smiled feebly; he patted her head playfully. But she came back to the same words: "I shall soon leave you." The moon was shining at the full when he lifted his hat to go. It was sailing through a sky of fibrous cloud. The wind was high, and rattled the empty boughs of the tree against the window. Keen frost was in the air. "I shall see my father's old friend in London on Monday, and be back on Wednesday. Good-bye. Keep a good heart. Good-bye." She wept on his breast and clung to him. "Good-bye, good-bye!" he repeated, and triad to disengage himself from her embrace. But she clung closer. It was as if she was to see him no more. "Good-bye!" she sobbed, and with the tears in his own eyes he laughed at her idle fears. "Ha! ha! ha! one would think I was going for life--ha! ha--" There was a scream on the frosty air without. His laugh died on his lips. "What was that?" he said, and drew a sharp breath. She lifted her face, whiter now than ever, and with tearless eyes. "It was the cry of the bird that foretells death," she said in a whisper. He laughed a little--boisterously. "Nay, nay; you will be well and happy yet." Then he broke away. * * * * * Natt was sitting in the trap, and it was drawn up in the court-yard to the door. He was looking through the darkness at some object in the distance, and when Paul came up he was not at first conscious of his master's presence. "What were you looking at, Natt?" said Paul, pulling on his gloves. "I war wond'rin' whether lang Dick o' the Syke had kindled a fire to-night, or whether yon lowe on the side of the Causey were frae the new smelting-house." Paul glanced over the horse's head. A deep glow stood out against the fell. All around was darkness. "The smelting-house, I should say," said Paul, and jumped to his seat beside Natt. By one of the lamps that the trap carried, he looked at his watch. "A quarter past seven. It will be smart driving, but you can give the mare her own time coming back." Then he took the reins, and in another moment they were gone. CHAPTER V.