"Th' chap'll roll i' brass," it was said. "Haworth'll be nowheer. Happen th' lad'll coom back an' set up a Works agen him. An' he coom here nowt but a workin' chap a few year sin'!" The two women in the little house in the narrow street heard the story of the attack only through report. They had no letters. "I won't write," Murdoch had said. "You shall not be troubled by prospects that might end in nothing. You will hear nothing from me till I come and tell you with my own lips that I have won or failed." In the days of waiting Christian proved her strength. She would not let her belief be beaten or weighed down. She clung to it in spite of what she saw hour by hour in the face of the woman who was her companion. "I have lived through it before." It was not put into words, but she read it in her eyes and believed in spite of it. He had been away two weeks, and he returned as his father had done, at night. The women were sitting together in the little inner room. They were not talking or working, though each had work in her hands. It was Christian who heard him first. She threw down her work and stood up. "He is here," she cried. "He is coming up the step." She was out in the narrow entry and had thrown the door open before he had time to open it with his key. The light fell upon his dark pale face and showed a strange excitement in it. He was disheveled and travel-worn, but his eyes were bright. His first words were enough. "It is all right," he said, in an exultant voice. "It is a success. Where is my mother?" He had taken her hand as if without knowing what he did and fairly dragged her into the room. His mother had risen and stood waiting. "It is a success," he cried out to her. "It is what he meant it to be--I have finished his work!" She turned from him to the girl, uttering a low cry of appeal. "Christian!" she said. "Christian!" The girl went to her and made her sit down, and knelt before her, clasping her arms about her waist, and uplifting her glowing young face. At the moment her beauty became such a splendor that Murdoch himself saw it with wonder. "It is finished," she said. "And it is he who has finished it! Is not that enough?" "Yes," she answered, "but--but----" And the words died upon her lips, and she sat looking before her into vacancy, and trembling. Murdoch threw himself on the sofa and lay there, his hands clasped above his head. "I shall be a rich man," he said, as if to himself, "a rich man--and it is nothing--but it is done." CHAPTER LI. "TH' ON'Y ONE AS IS NA A FOO'!" The next day all Broxton knew the story. "Well, he wur na so soft after aw," more than one excellent matron remarked.