In the old house at Balladhoo, three hearts nearly made glad had still one painful passage to experience. It was dusk. By the fire stood Mylrea Balladhoo, with Mona Cregeen seated beside him. Christian had stepped to the door, and now returning to the room with the stranger previously seen in his company, he said, with averted face, "This is the man, father." Balladhoo neither lifted his eyes to the new-comer nor shifted their gaze from the fire. His frame trembled perceptibly as he said, "I know your business, sir, and it shall have my attention." The stranger glanced from father to son. They stood apart, each unable to meet the other's face. Perhaps there is no more touching sight in nature, rightly regarded, than an old man, and to the pathos incident to age Balladhoo added the sorrow of a wretched and shattered hope. "May I ask if this deed was drawn by your authority?" said the stranger. He stepped up to the old man, and put the document into his listless hand. Balladhoo glanced down at it, but his poor blurred eyes saw nothing. "Yes," he answered, promptly enough, but in a husky voice. Christian's face quivered, and his head dropped on his breast. The stranger looked incredulous. "It is quite right if you say so," he answered, with a cold smile. Balladhoo lifted his face. It was seamed with lines of pain, and told of a terrible struggle. "I _do_ say so," he replied. His fingers crumpled the deed as he spoke; but his head was erect, and truth seemed to sit on his lips. Christian sat down and buried his eyes in his hand. The stranger smiled again the some cold smile. "The mortgagor wishes to withdraw the mortgage," he said. "He may do so--in fifteen days," answered Balladhoo. "That will suffice. It would be cruel to prolong a painful interview." Then, with a glance toward Christian, as he sat convulsed with distress that he was unable to conceal, the stranger added, in a hard tone: "Only, the mortgagor came to have reasons to think that perhaps the deed had been drawn without your knowledge." Balladhoo handed back the document with a nerveless hand. He looked again through dim eyes at the stranger, and said quietly, but with an awful inward effort, "You have my answer--I knew of it." The recording angel set down the words in the Book of Life to the old man's credit in heaven. They were not true. The stranger bowed low and retired. Christian leaped up and took his father by both hands, but his eyes were not raised to the troubled face. "This is worse than all," he said, "but God knows everything. He will make me answer for it." "What is the debt?" asked Balladhoo, with an effort to be calm. "Money squandered in England." The old man shook his head with an impatient gesture. "I mean how much?" "A thousand pounds." There was a pause. "We can meet it," said Balladhoo; "and now, my son, cheer up; set your face the right way, and His servant shall not be ashamed."