“People like you are always hopeful,” returned Donald, “always declaring that with a little more time and a great deal more money, success will come. Can you not stop deceiving yourself, can you not give up and admit that you have failed? You have a handful of screws and wires and a few turning wheels here—” he waved his hand to include the whole workshop in the scorn of a person who knows nothing of mechanics—“but what do they signify? What do they count for compared to ten years of your life, or of Miranda’s?” He leaned his elbows on the table, brought his face closer yet to his unhappy uncle’s and spoke with even fiercer accusation. “You say that you will be able to give back to Miranda the house she loves, when all that you have ever done is to destroy it for her. Have you ever looked over the ruins, as I have, noticed that the blaze was hottest at the south end, and hottest of all where your workshop stood? That was where the fire began, there can be no doubt of it. Miranda says it was lightning that set the house on fire, but—” he lowered his voice—“I know better. A spark from one of your wires, a blaze in some oily packing, that is what brought about the tragedy. You mechanical geniuses are too much in the clouds to safeguard those you pretend to love. The burning of the house was due to your own heedlessness!” “No, no, Donald,” cried the old man, driven out of his calmness at last, and with his voice betraying cruel pain. “I can’t—I won’t believe that it was my doing!” “You may be certain that it was,” returned the other without mercy, “and I think, in your inmost heart, you have long suspected that it was so.” Betsey was no longer to be silenced, not even by David’s insistent pressure on her arm. “It’s not true,” she burst out. “We saw ourselves where the lightning struck, that began the fire. The chimney was split from top to bottom.” “Yes?” assented Donald, turning to her and speaking in a tone of hard, cold quiet. “You can prove that, I suppose? You can show the marks to my uncle here? Real evidence would comfort him greatly.” “No—no,” she faltered in reply. “We were exploring in the ruins and some of the walls fell. The marks of the lightning don’t show now. But we both saw them.” “I will hold to my own opinion still,” answered Donald Reynolds, “and my uncle, though he would like to, will not be able to disagree with me. Isn’t it—hullo, there’s something wrong with the old man.” For Mr. Reynolds was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, unmoving and unhearing. Betsey ran to his side and took up one of his hands. It was limp and lifeless, although she could feel the faint pulse still beating. Donald, in evident concern, was coming closer, but David barred the way and warned him off. “You are an impudent pair of young ones,” exclaimed Donald. “Who are you and what is your business here, anyway?”