“Stand aside—for you!” exclaimed Symington in a fury. With an ugly laugh and a curse he drove his fist at the little man’s face, sending him down in a heap. “That’s to go on with,” he said, and strolled off. “Oh, you coward!” cried Kitty, wrenching open the gate. “Are you badly hurt, Sam?” Sam was already rising, holding his aching jaw. Inwardly he was raging, but all he said then was, “All right, Miss. My turn’ll maybe come. And now I’ll be seeing ye home.” She caught his arm, for he seemed in need of support. “Ye’re trembling, Miss,” he remarked, “and no wonder. Never mind; it’s all over now. But I’d just like to hear ye say ye didna think me too interfering-like.” “Oh,” she said earnestly, “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come. I’ll be grateful to you as long as—” “There, there! It’s a reward to hear that ye didna want his company, for he’s a rotten bad one.” They walked a little way in silence, and then a sob escaped the girl. She was at the end of her wits and her courage. Few of us can struggle alone all the time, and she knew that Sam had saved her only for a matter of so many hours. “Come, cheer up, Miss,” he said kindly. “Ye wasna in the office to-night, and your aunt told me ye wasna so well, so it’s no wonder ye’re upset. Still—” “Sam,” she interrupted, “I’m going to tell you everything—nearly everything. You’re the only soul I can trust.” And in whispered, spasmodic sentences she poured forth her tale. Sam was more than shocked; he was overwhelmed. “To think of it, to think of it!” he repeated feebly a dozen times before wrath and pity took command of his honest soul. Then he was for taking John Corrie by the throat, and shaking all but the last breath out of his body, for telling Miss Corrie exactly what he thought of her, and for presenting Kitty with his savings, yea, and his own little abode, to enable her to stand independent of her unnatural relatives. She was half-laughing, half-crying, by the time he paused for breath. “Oh, Sam, you know I’d never allow you to do any of those things for my sake, but I’ll never forget your goodness. You mustn’t do anything, or I’ll wish I hadn’t told you. But I do want you to advise me what to do.” “I never liked John Corrie,” he cried, “nor did any soul in Dunford; but I never doubted he was a straight man. But dinna ye be afraid for the five-pun’ note business—dinna ye be afraid for that!” “But that’s what I am afraid of! I might escape from Mr. Symington by simply going away, but not from—” “Your uncle would never dare to—” “Dare? After what he’s done, what would he not dare? And he’s clever in his way. How did he get that five-pound note into my drawer?” Sam’s hand went to his mouth. A sound not unlike a chuckle became the beginning of a fit of coughing. When it had passed he said—