“Then what did she mean by saying she wasna for sale? . . . God! she must ha’ heard—” “Guessed maybe. Why did ye tell her the man had come into a heap o’ money? I warned ye to go canny.” He flung her from him and got up. “Let her guess what she likes, think what she likes, do what she likes—but she’s no going to beat me. I’ll find a way! I’ll manage her yet! Ten thousand—twenty—maybe twenty-five thousand pound—no, by heavens, I’m not to be done out o’ that by a stubborn lass.” “Let be, John. Ye ha’ siller enough. Ye dinna spend a trifle o’ your income. Ye’ll rue the day that ye cheated your sister’s daughter, for that’s what it comes to.” “Hold your silly tongue, woman. I’ve cheated nobody but myself.” She shook her head, saying, “I would like to read Hugh Carstairs’ letter again.” “Ye’re welcome—another time. There’s the paper at last.” He almost ran to the front door. He returned, opening the paper at the financial page. Seating himself, he cleared a space on the table and laid it thereon. Then his thick forefinger began to move down one of the columns as though it was feeling for something. At last it stopped, and he gazed awhile. . . . His breath went in with a hiss. “Zeniths!” he muttered. His sister was staring over his shoulder, but her sight was indifferent. “What is it?” she gasped. “What about the Zeniths?” In a hushed voice he replied, “They rose seven-and-sixpence yesterday. They’re now worth ninety shillings a share. That means £22,500 for the five thousand. . . . That would be £11,260 for me—us. . . . I wonder if Symington shouldna sell now. Wait till I see if it says anything about them here.” He turned to some paragraphs, headed “Mining Notes.” . . . “Ay, here it is! Oh, listen, Rachel! It says they’ll likely go to eight pound! Almighty! We munna let him sell!” She sighed and said, “It’s time the shop was open.” “Ay, so it is—but wait a minute.” With another headshake she began to clear the table. He rose suddenly. “There’s the keys,” he said, throwing them on to the table. “Ye can open the shop. I’m going up to White Farm.” CHAPTER IV AT the risk of offending a stray customer Kitty delayed opening the post-office until her outraged spirit had become a little calmer—only a little, for the mingled passions so brutally aroused would subside only through sheer exhaustion. She had no one to confide in, no one to count on for sympathy and comfort. She had thought she had grown used to being alone in the world, but she had never experienced loneliness like this. Her bosom heaved, but her eyes remained dry.