“Did I? . . . The days o’ grace were up three weeks back, but—but I had—ower many other things to think about.” A groan burst from him, he put his hands to his head. “Three thousand pound gone up in three hours!” Rachel’s mouth opened, but she was dumb. As if frozen she stood there by the table, a plate of cut bread in her hand. “Aye,” he went on heavily, “and I’ll take my oath it was no accident, for the place where the fire started—” With a strangled cry the woman tottered and fell crashing across the table. Ghastly, Corrie sprang to her assistance. Stumblingly he carried her to his chair by the hearth. She was not unconscious; her collapse had been mainly physical. Blood was dropping from a gash in her wrist. “Dinna heed me,” she murmured; “I’ll be all right in a minute, John.” He fetched water and cloths, knelt, washed the wound and bandaged it awkwardly yet with some tenderness. Slow tears ran down her cheeks. “Am I hurting ye, Rachel?” he asked. She shook her head. He spoke again. “I shouldna ha’ told ye so quick about the insurance. Dinna keep thinking on it.” Then with obviously a great effort—“Ye’ve been a good sister to me, Rachel. I—I wish I had been a better brother.” His words left her speechless. What had come to him? He answered the unspoken question. “Money’s no everything, after all,” he said hoarsely, shamefacedly. “When I saw ye fall I thought ye were killed—thought I had killed ye—wi’ ma tongue. And—and just for an instant I saw myself without ye—alone—in this house—in this place—in the whole world. I had never thought o’ it that way before.” He sighed, and got to his feet. “We’ll say no more about it, Rachel, but I’ll try to treat ye better from now.” He cleared his throat, and averting his gaze said: “I wish I had never set eyes on Symington.” Rachel restrained herself then, not for her own sake, but for his. For his own safety he must not know her secret a moment before the time was ripe. Moreover, though his kind words had moved her deeply, they had not healed her wounded trust in him. All she could say was: “Ye’ll aye find me ready and willing to help ye, John; and it’s never too late—” “I doubt it.” He sighed again heavily. “But things mun take their course now. . . . Ye’d better gang to your bed, or ye’ll be useless in the morning, and I’ve got to be early at the mill. I’ll get my supper myself.” She went without a word. Corrie sank into his chair. “Almighty!” he moaned to himself, “what devil started me speculating on the Stock Exchange? . . . Gone, the savings o’ a lifetime! . . . And now the mill that would ha’ sold for enough to save me and maybe my savings likewise—in ashes—just ashes! It’s ruin, black ruin, unless Symington does all he’s promised. . . . And the postman’s getting better! . . . God! I’d write to Kitty this night, if it wasna too late—but now I’m damned in her eyes for ever and ever!” * * * * *