Robert had partaken of his bowl of porridge and now lay upon his bed, grateful for the added warmth of the woolen blankets which Jean had thrown over him with thoughtful solicitude. He appeared to the anxious watchers to be more like himself than he had been for some days, in spite of his restless, sleepless nights, as he lay there peacefully enjoying the antics of the children who were playing gleefully but quietly around the room their favorite game of “Blind man’s holiday.” At sundown the night before Gilbert had hastened to the Inn to meet Squire Armour and to plead for another day’s grace, but the implacable old man refused to listen to him when he found he had failed to bring the money, and stormily took his departure with threats of instant eviction, leaving Gilbert in a state of utter distraction. He watched the Squire ride furiously away in the direction of Mossgiel with a heavy, sinking fear at his heart, then slowly made his way, with pale face and clenched hands, back to his brother’s cottage, where he wrestled with the fears that assailed him in despairing silence. Several times during the night he was on the verge of saddling his horse and dashing home, but the hope that the morning would bring the long-expected letter to Robert checked the impulse, and so he sat the long night through anxiously waiting for the dawn, praying fervently that he might not be too late to save his dear ones from the vindictive anger, the unyielding resolution of their irate landlord. And now morning was here at last. Robert had fallen into a profound slumber of nervous exhaustion. Jean tucked him in carefully with the warm blankets, and taking the children with her, quietly closed the door upon the sleeping man with a prayer of thankfulness for his temporary respite from the troubles that surged about his head.