The sleepy lips shaped themselves again--“Gran-nie.” It slipped into a little sigh of content as she nestled into the arms that reached out to her. The old woman smoothed the tumbled hair and rocked her shoulders gently to the cradling of her arms. “Where was she, Hugh?--Where did ye find her!” “Where she ’d no right to he,” he said grimly. “She’d no right but to be in her bed,” said the grandmother softly. “Ye ’d best put her there,” he responded, looking down at the sleeping flower-face with unfathomable eyes. When she came back she found him sitting by the stove, his gaze fixed gloomily on its black surface, his body bent forward and his great hands swung loosely before him. She stirred the fire a little and pushed back the kettle on the stove. “We ’re no needing it, the night,” she said with happy face. But there was no happiness in the old face across the stove. “What is it, Hugh?” She was looking at him with keen, gentle eyes that searched his soul. “Sim Tetlow,” he said briefly. Her hand dropped from the kettle--“Ye ’ve seen him, the night!” “He had the bairn,” said Hugh. “He was holding it--in his arms--like his own.” He looked up to her--bitter hatred in the red-rimmed eyes. But she came close to him, her soft dress making no sound. “He cared for the bairn!” It was half a question--a little cry of disbelief and longing--“He cared for the bairn!” “He were holding her,” said Hugh gruffly--“Same as you--or me.” He lifted his hand with a swift gesture--“Curse--” She caught the hand, holding it to her bosom, forcing it there--“No--Hugh--no,” she breathed the words with little gasps--“Ye ’ll no curse--we maun--” He turned on her savagely, struggling for a minute to free his hand. Then his eyes dropped. “Ye ’re a woman,” he said grimly. “Ye ’ve no call to know.” She stroked the hand with thin, knotted fingers, but her lips made no reply. He looked up under fierce brows. “I ’ll do to him as he ’s done to me.” He said the words with deep accent. “No,--no”-- He swept aside the words--“He took away my engine,” he said with slow wrath-- “But ye slept, Hugh--And ye could not help the sleeping!” It was a little cry of defence. “I’d been waking, the night and the day--and the night again,” he replied fiercely, “and I _slept_--Is sleepin’ a crime!--She was safe on the sidin’,” he added. “There was no harm to Her--” She waited with bent head. So many times they had lived through the steps of his disgrace-- “An’ then he gi’e me the switch. He were kind an’ just. He gi’e me the _switch_ to tend--” Impotent bitterness filled the words--“we--that’d drove the best engines on the road! Tendin’ a switch--in the freight yard--” His head sunk a little. “Ye was old, Hugh.” It was the little cry again.