"But I don't," cried Dora, angrier than before. "You will change presently." "Never!" "Oh, yes, you will. When he comes home from the war, I shall have him arrested for forgery. That is, if he dares set foot in the United States again." "Forgery of what?" she asked, with a little, contemptuous laugh. "Of two checks signed by his grandfather, one for two, the other for five thousand, dollars. He has robbed him of seven thousand dollars, and we have Herresford's permission to prosecute. He signed no such checks, and he desires us to take action. He refuses to make good our loss. We cannot compound a felony." "You are saying this in spite--to frighten me." "Ah, you may well be frightened. The best thing he can do is to get shot." "I don't believe you," she cried, with a little thrill of terror in her voice. She knew that Ormsby was a man of precise statement, and not given to exaggeration or bragging. "Will you believe it if I show you the warrant for his arrest? It will be here this afternoon. Barnby, our manager, will apply for it, unless the rector can reimburse us. He's always up to his eyes in debt. I'm sorry for the vicar and Mrs. Swinton, yet you cannot blame me for feeling glad that my rival has shown himself unworthy of the sweetest girl that--" "Stop! I will not listen--I won't believe unless I hear it from his own lips." "You shall see the police warrant." "I will not believe it, I tell you. His last words to me were a warning against you. He told me to be true and believe no lies that you might utter. And I will be true. Good-morning, Mr. Ormsby, and--good-bye. I presume you will be returning home this afternoon. You are quite well now--robust, in fact--and you are showing your gratitude for the kindness received at our hands in a very shabby way. Good-day." With that, she left him chewing the cud of his bitterness. * * * * * John Swinton seemed to have recovered his elasticity and strength, both of mind and body. His sermons took on a more optimistic tone, his energy in parish work was well-nigh doubled. The change was remarked by everybody, and it found expression in the phrase: "He's a new man, quite like his old self." Never was man so cheery, so encouraging, so enthusiastic. No longer did he pass his tradesmen in the street with eyes averted, or make a cowardly escape down a by-lane to avoid them. He owed no money. The sensation was so delightful, so novel, that it was like renewed youth. The long period of stinginess and penny-wise-pound-foolish economy at the rectory had ceased. The rector himself whistled and sang about the house, and he came into the drawing-room in the evening on the rare occasions when Netty and her mother were at home, rubbing his hands like a man who is very satisfied with the world. He showered compliments upon his beautiful wife and daughter. Never man owned a prettier pair, he declared, and Harry Bent ought to think himself a lucky dog.