“Why, certainly,” he answered aloud. “Medora’s wishful for you to come to tea, old man. So I hope you will.” “I should have liked to do it,” replied Kellock; “but I’ve promised to see Mr. Trenchard. It’s about the moulds for the advertisements.” “Right. He’ll want me, too, I reckon over that job.” “He will without a doubt. In fact it’s more up to you than me. Everything depends on the pulp.” “So it does with all paper,” declared Ned. “True enough. The beaterman’s master. For these fancy pictures for exhibition you’ve got to mix stuff as fine as clear soup—just the contrary of what you may call real paper.” “Are you coming, Ned?” asked Medora. “I’ve got to get over to mother to-morrow and I don’t want to go with a cold.” “Coming, coming,” he said. “So long, Jordan.” “Good-bye till Monday,” answered the other. Then he stood still and watched the young couple tramp off together. He gazed thoughtfully and when they disappeared up a steep woodland path, he shook his head. They were gone to Ashprington village, where they dwelt; but Mr. Kellock lived at Dene where the trout stream descended from the hills to the river. He crossed from the boat-house by a row of stepping-stones set athwart the creek; then he turned to the left and soon found himself at the cottage where he lodged. This man and Dingle had both loved Medora Trivett, and for some time she had hesitated between them. But Ned won her and the loser, taking his defeat in a large and patient spirit, continued to remain good friends with both. Mr. Kellock knew, what everybody guessed, that after a year of marriage, the pair were not happy together, though why this should be so none could at present determine. CHAPTER II MAGIC PICTURES Stopping only to wash his hands and brush his hair, Kellock left his rooms and hastened up the coomb, where towered immense congeries of buildings under the slope of the hills. Evening sunshine fell over the western height which crowned the valley, and still caught the upper windows of the factory; but the huge shadow quickly climbed upward as the sun set. A small house stood at the main gate of Dene Paper Mill, and at the door sat a man reading a paper and smoking his pipe. It was Mr. Trood, foreman of the works. “Guvnor’s asking for you, Kellock,” he said. “Five o’clock was the time.” Jordan hurried on to the deserted mills, for the day was Saturday and work had ceased at noon. Threading the silent shops he presently reached a door on an upper floor, marked “Office,” knocked and was told to enter. On the left of the chamber sat a broad-shouldered man writing at a roll-top desk; under the windows of the room, which faced north, extended a long table heaped with paper of all descriptions and colours.