LITMIR.BIZ

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speculative transactions. He was a tall, gaunt man with small, pale blue eyes, a long melancholy nose, a tight mouth, and high prominent cheek-bones over scanty grizzling whiskers, which ran into a short untidy beard. His head was quite bald. He was an abstainer, and a regular attender at public worship, though not an office-bearer of the church.

      His sister Rachel assisted him capably in the store. She may have been a good-looking maiden; now she was a scraggy, drear-visaged creature with a curiously suspicious manner and a craze for doing everything precisely as her mother had done it. She seemed to object to youth discovering or making use of a new method. She was mean in some ways, but, perhaps for lack of courage, not so grasping as her brother. To him she was devoted.

      Kitty attended to the post-office which served a district sparsely populated, but of considerable extent. She had never received a penny for this. On the other hand her relations did not grudge her in board, lodging and clothing; and twice a year they gave her a pound to spend as she liked. She divided the money on “pretty things” and books. Books, by the way, had initiated the friendship between her and Colin Hayward. He had lent her many, but only one at a time, for the thing had to be done secretly; but he, at least, preferred “one at a time,” since it meant frequent meetings during his holidays.

      As Kitty neared the cottage, which was ancient looking without but fairly modern within, and which was connected with the store and post-office, she was suddenly informed by her eyes that the room on the right of the door was illuminated. Unless on a Sunday night, it was a rare thing to see a light in the parlour. The Corries received few visitors, with the exception of Alec Symington, the owner of White Farm, and a familiar guest like him was expected to feel at home in the kitchen.

      The girl was uncertain what to do. She rejected the temptation to steal upstairs to bed; she was not going to let them think she was afraid of them at this time of day! Well, there was nothing for it but to go into the kitchen and wait. Noiselessly she entered and seated herself in a wicker chair.

      A moment later the silence in the opposite room was broken, and by her aunt’s voice raised to an unusual pitch.

      “The more I think on it, John Corrie, the more I see what a fool ye’ve been. To take fifty pound for a thing that’s come worth twenty thousand—that’ll maybe yet be worth thirty, forty, ay fifty thousand—”

      “Hold your tongue, woman!” Kitty scarcely recognized her uncle’s voice. “How could I, or anybody, ha’ foreseen that the shares would go up? Five year ago the broker in Glasgow told us they were rubbish. Six months ago ye agreed I had done well to get fifty pound for them from Symington—”

      “Oh, he knew what he was doing—he knew, though you didn’t!”

      “I don’t believe he did. He’s been daft about gold mines for years. He’d ha’ been ruined by now if his father hadna died and left him White Farm. I tell ye, Rachel, he bought the five thousand shares off me with his eyes shut, just for a speculation. Don’t talk! Ye know well ye were as sick-tired as I was o’ seeing the certificates lying in the safe, wi’ never a ha’penny o’ interest to—”

      “No, no, John, we’ve been cheated—don’t care what ye say—and it’s maybe a judgment on us—”

      “That’s enough! Ye mun make the best o’ a bad job. And it’ll maybe no be so bad in the end.” Corrie let out a laugh. “Ye’ll no complain if we get half o’ whatever he gets for the shares, when he sells them.”

      “Oh, dinna begin on that again. He’ll never pay up.”

      “Ay, he’ll pay up. I’ve got his bond in my pocket!”

      “Ye didna tell me! How did ye manage it?”

      Corrie replied, but he had lowered his voice and only a murmur reached Kitty’s ears. She was not interested in her uncle’s affairs generally, but it was something new to hear of his having been “done,” for “done” was the word that came into her mind the moment she understood Symington’s part in the business. Eavesdropping, however, was not one of her weaknesses, and she rose with the intention of making known her presence in the house.

      Just then her aunt’s voice rose in a sort of screech of incredulity—

      “But she’ll never consent!”

      “We’ll see about that. Leave it to me.”

      Once more the voices became indistinct. In the kitchen doorway Kitty stopped short. Whom were they talking about now? Herself? When had her consent ever been asked for anything? For a few moments she hesitated, tempted to lay her ear against the parlour door. Then throwing up her head, she stepped softly along the passage and shut the front door with a bang.

      As she turned from it the parlour door was snatched open, and her uncle’s face peered out. His brow was glistening and his eyes held gleams of excitement; but his voice was curiously mild.

      “Come in here for a minute, Kitty,” he said.

      She followed him into the room, wondering. This was not the customary reception on her return from seeing the London mail go by, and she was later to-night than ever she had been. Her aunt, sitting with folded hands on one side of the fern-filled hearth, gave her an instant’s glance, which conveyed nothing, and resumed staring at the folded, toil-worn hands in her lap. Her uncle took his chair on the other side, saying—

      “Sit down. Ye’re late, but maybe ye’ve a good reason for that.” It may have been a smile that distorted, for a moment, his thin lips.

      Kitty drew a chair from the table, seated herself and waited. She had learned long ago never to open a conversation with these two.

      Mr. Corrie rubbed his hairy jaw between finger and thumb, cleared his throat, and said, almost pleasantly—“Well, did he meet ye?”

      It was an unexpected question, and she could not answer immediately.

      He helped her by adding, “Ye needna be shy. Mr. Symington left here half-an-hour back to look for ye.”

      “No,” she answered, “he didn’t meet me.” Strange that her uncle should speak of the man as “Mr.”

      “Eh? No.” She repeated. “He didn’t meet me.”

      “That’s queer.” Uncle and aunt exchanged glances, and the latter asked. “Where were ye to-night?”

      “At the railway.”

      “And ye didn’t see Mr. Symington?”

      “Yes. I saw him—at a distance.”

      There was a pause before Mr. Corrie spoke with less smoothness than previously.

      “Did ye keep away from him!”

      “Not more than usual.”

      “I want a plain answer.”

      “No.”

      “Then—who was wi’ ye at the time?”

      Kitty flushed and went pale. “Mr. Colin Hayward.”

      “What? That useless waster! Were ye not forbidden to ha’ any acquaintance—”

      “And he’s failed again in his examinations!” cried Miss Corrie. “It’s the talk o’ the place.”

      “What ha’ ye to say for yourself?” roared her brother.

      “Nothing,” came the quiet answer; “nothing that would satisfy you or Aunt Rachel. I had no intention of meeting Mr. Hayward to-night, but when I did meet him I was not going to pretend I did not know him because he had failed in an examination. And before long I was very glad I had met him, for his presence kept away Mr. Symington. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go to bed—”

      A warning glance from his sister caused Mr. Corrie to strive for self-control.

      “Sit still,” he said shortly. “Ye

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