Dinner was nearly over at Tarnside. The meal was served with some ceremony, although the bill of fare was frugal except when game could be shot and, as a rule, nobody but Osborn talked much. Now he had satisfied his appetite he looked about the spacious room. The handsome, molded ceiling was dark from neglect and the cornice was stained by damp. The light of the setting sun streamed in through the long casement window which commanded the shining tarn and the woods that melted into shadow at the mouth of the dale. It was a noble view, but it did not hold Osborn's eyes, for the quivering sunbeams searched out the faded spots on the curtains and the worn patches on the rugs on the polished floor.

"We need a number of new things and I don't know how they're to be got," he remarked, and when Mrs. Osborn said nothing knitted his brows. He had put away some money for renovations, but it had gone. One could not keep money at Tarnside; it vanished and left nothing to show how it had been spent.

"I understand young Askew is back at Ashness," he resumed, looking hard at Grace.

"Yes," said Grace. "I met him not long since."

Osborn frowned. He knew she had met Kit, but did not know if he liked her candor. The girl was independent, but he thought she now understood the responsibilities of her rank.

"The fellow is obviously prosperous, since he's spending a large sum on draining. I saw a big stack of pipes and a number of men at work. My opinion is it's a ridiculous waste of money."

"Perhaps there are worse extravagances," Grace rejoined. "I expect he has some hope of getting his money back by growing better crops. Ours goes and never returns."

Mrs. Osborn gave her a warning glance. Osborn hated contradiction and
Grace and he often jarred, but the girl smiled.

"Father and I are not going to quarrel about Mr. Askew's farming; it is not worth while," she said and studied Osborn with half-penitent sympathy.

The strong light touched his face, forcing up the deep lines and wrinkles, and she thought he was getting older fast. His eyes were dull and his shoulders were slightly bent. She knew about some of his troubles and suspected others, but the stamp of indulgence that had got plainer in the last year or two disturbed her.

"The Askews seem fated to give me trouble," he went on. "Now the fellow has begun to drain, his neighbors will expect me to do so. In fact, Black and Pattinson bothered Hayes about some plans for buying pipes when they paid their rent. Besides, the contrast hurts; I don't see why a fellow like Askew should be able to waste money on rash experiments when we have not enough. However, this leads to another matter; Gerald comes back tomorrow, and will no doubt, grumble about his poverty. If he does, you must give him nothing. He has his pay and I make him an allowance. I won't have his extravagance encouraged."

Grace smiled as Mrs. Osborn got up with a disturbed look. "Mother cannot have much to give and I have nothing at all. I'm afraid Gerald's talent for begging will be used in vain."

She went out with Mrs. Osborn and when they had gone Osborn, crossing the floor to the sideboard, filled his glass to the top. This was his regular habit and its futility escaped him, although he knew his wife and daughter knew. He felt he did enough if he exercised some self-denial when they were about.

In the meantime, Mrs. Osborn sat down on the terrace and looked across the untidy lawn.

"We need a new pony mower; Jenkins cannot keep the grass in order with the small machine. He was very obstinate about the bedding plants he wanted to buy and the borders look thin, but I felt I must be firm," she said and added drearily: "I wonder when we shall be forced to get a sporting tenant and live in a smaller house."

"Father would not leave Tarnside. I suppose you don't know how things are really going?"

"I know they are not going well and suspect they get worse; but he will not tell me. One could help if one did know."

"I'm afraid I have disappointed father and given you anxieties you need not have had," Grace replied with some bitterness. "After all, however, the fault is hardly mine. I wanted to make my own career, but was not allowed; to work at a useful occupation, would somehow have humiliated our ridiculous pride, and there was, of course, only one hope left for you." She paused, and colored as she resumed: "Well, although I am not sorry, it looks as if that hope had gone."

"It would have been a relief if you had made a good marriage," Mrs.
Osborn admitted. "Still, since you met nobody you like—"

"The men I might perhaps have liked were poor. Father would, no doubt, think it my natural perversity, or our bad luck; but I don't believe in luck. It's an excuse for weak makeshifts and futilities; one can conquer bad fortune if one is resolute."

"None of us, except you, has much resolution," Mrs. Osborn remarked and sighed. "So far, your firmness has not helped much; I imagine you know your father has not given up hope."

"Yes," said Grace, rather harshly. "I do know, and that is why I am often impatient. He will not be persuaded the thing's impossible."

"After all, Alan has some advantages."

"He has many drawbacks," Grace rejoined, and then her face softened and she gave her mother an appealing look. "I thought you were on my side!"

"I am on your side where you feel strongly. Perhaps I am reserved and you do not often give me your confidence."

"I'm sorry. We are seldom quite honest at Tarnside; somehow one can't be oneself, but now we must be frank. I don't like Alan Thorn; I never liked him. It's impossible."

"Then, my dear, there is no more to be said."

Grace made a sign of disagreement. "There may be much; that is why I am disturbed. You and I don't count, mother; we are expected to submit. It isn't that I don't like Alan; I shrink from him. He is cunning and knows how to wait. Sometimes his patience frightens me."

"But why should his patience frighten you?"

"Oh!" said Grace, "can't you understand? You know father's habits and that Gerald is following him. You know our debts are mounting up and this can't go on. Some day we may be ruined and then I think Alan will seize his chance. Perhaps I'm imaginative—but such things happen."

Mrs. Osborn put her hand on the girl's arm and her touch was unusually firm. "You may be alarmed for nothing, my dear. But if the time should come when my help is really needed, it will be yours."

Grace kissed her. "I can trust you. I was weak—I'm sometimes a coward—but now I'm comforted."

They were silent for a few minutes and then Mrs. Osborn looked up.

"Is it prudent for you to meet Christopher Askew again?"

Grace colored, but met her mother's glance and answered with a thoughtful calm; "I see no danger. I liked Kit before he went away, but our friendship was really not romantic. When father met us in Redmire Wood, a horribly silly impulse made me hide. I blush when I think about it and imagine I forgot I had grown up—Gerald and I used to hide when father was angry. Anyhow, I made Kit Askew hide and he was first to remember and step into the road."

"But this happened long since and he is older."

"Yes," said Grace, "he's different, although one feels that he has kept a promise made in his half-developed stage. He has been out in the world and done strenuous things, while I stayed at home and played at make-believe. He talks like a man who knows his value and there's a touch of distinction in his look; a stupid word, but it comes near what I mean."

Mrs. Osborn glanced at her sharply, but Grace smiled.

"Don't be disturbed, mother; I am trying to tell you all I think. We were friends, but I imagine Kit knows his drawbacks from our point of view. Besides, after father quarreled with Peter Askew I never sent Kit a message, and he must have thought I acquiesced. In a way, I did acquiesce; it was the best thing to be done. You see what this implied? If I had loved him, it meant I had no pluck and was ashamed to acknowledge a farmer's son. But he knew I did not love him and understood that our friendship would not bear the strain of father's disapproval. Either way, it hinted that I was weak and not worth pursuing. Well, he met me without embarrassment and we talked about nothing important. I may meet him now and then, but that, I think, is all."

"Very well," said Mrs. Osborn, who looked relieved. "Perhaps it would be prudent not to meet him often."

Grace smiled and was silent for a time. She had tried to be frank and thought she had stated things correctly—so far as she knew. Then she remembered Kit's look when she stopped and spoke, and began to wonder. Perhaps she had not told all and the little she had left out was important. By and by she got up and went into the house.

Gerald Osborn came home next day and not long afterwards Kit found him lying on the gravel beside a tarn on the Ashness moor. Heavy rain had fallen, but the clouds had rolled away and the water shone with dazzling light. The sky was clear except for a bank of mist floating about the round top of a fell, and a swollen beck sparkled among the heather. The wind had dropped and it was very hot.

When he heard Kit's steps Gerald looked up. He was a handsome young man, with some charm of manner, although it was obvious now and then that he had inherited a touch of his father's pride. His glance was keen and intelligent, but his mouth and chin were weak. Gerald had talent, but was very like Osborn, since he was sometimes rashly obstinate and sometimes vacillating.

"Hallo!" he said. "I expect I ought to have asked your leave before I came to fish. I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind. Nobody asks my leave," Kit replied. "Have you had much luck?"

Gerald opened his creel and showed him a number of small, dark-colored trout. "Pretty good. They rose well until the light got strong. Then I thought I'd take a rest. Will you smoke a cigarette?"

Kit sat down and looked across the shining water at the silver bent-grass that gleamed among vivid green moss on the side of the hill.

"You must find this a pleasant change from town. Are you staying long?"

"A fortnight; that's all I get. I wish I could stop for good. It's rot to spend one's life working in a bank."

"I suppose one must work at something," Kit remarked.

"I don't see why, unless you're forced. The only object for working is when you must work to live, and it isn't mine, because I can't live on my pay. In fact, the futility of the thing is plain."

Kit laughed. Gerald's humorous candor was part of his charm, but Kit thought it deceptive.

"Why did you go to the bank, then?"

"Because my father thought I ought. I expect you know he believes in the firm hand. I wanted to stop at Tarnside, which would have cost him less. Besides, I could have looked after the estate. It will be mine sometime; that is, as much as is left."

"But Hayes transacts the business."

"Just so," said Gerald, rather dryly. "What do you think about Hayes?"

"He's your father's agent and has nothing to do with me. I imagine he's a capable manager."

"I sometimes think he's too capable." Gerald rejoined.

Kit let this go. Before he went away he had suspected that Hayes had plans his employer would not approve, and he knew Gerald was shrewd. It was, however, not his business and he remarked: "You wanted to go to Woolwich, didn't you?"

"I did not," Gerald declared. "As a matter of fact, I said so, but my objections didn't count. I might have made a good farmer or land-steward, but a number of us had been soldiers and that was enough. I don't know if it was a logical argument, but I had to go, and on the whole it was a relief when they turned me out. Too many regulations for my independent taste! Rules are good, perhaps, so long as they're made for somebody else."

He was silent for a few minutes and Kit mused. He thought there was some bitterness in Gerald's humor; it looked as if Osborn had not been wise when he planned his son's career without consulting him. This, however, was typical. Osborn was satisfied to give orders and expected others to accept his point of view.

"Well," said Gerald, getting up, "I must be off. Rather a bore to walk to Tarnside, and the trout will probably rise again if there's wind enough to make a ripple, but I forgot to ask for sandwiches."

"If you lunch with me, you could come back afterwards," Kit suggested, and they set off down the hill.

When they reached Ashness, Gerald tried to hide his surprise. Kit had made some changes in the old house and so far kept to the Spanish rule of meals. Lunch was a late breakfast, well served in china and silver that were seldom used in Peter Askew's time. The low room had been cleverly painted and a casement commanding a view of the dale replaced the original narrow windows. Specimens of ancient Indian pottery stood on the sideboard, and there were curtains of embroidered silk, feather-flowers, and silverwork that Kit had brought from Spanish America. The things gave the lonely farmstead an exotic touch, but they implied the command of money and cultivated taste.

"You have a beautiful room," Gerald remarked, when the meal was over. "Don't know that I'm much of a connoisseur, but some of the things look rather fine."

"I'll show them to you presently," Kit replied and gave Gerald a small, dark cigar. "I wonder how you'll like the flavor."

"Our club cigars are dear and good, but the best is nothing like this,"
Gerald declared after a minute or two. "Where did they come from?"

"They were given me in Cuba; I believe the make is not offered for public sale. In a general way, Cuban tobacco is not what it was, but there are belts of soil that grow a leaf that can't be equaled anywhere else."

"I suppose they keep the crop for presidents and dictators. The quality indicates it," Gerald suggested, and Kit smiled.

Gerald tasted his black coffee. "If it's not bad form, where did you get this? There's nothing of the kind in Cumberland, and it's better than the Turkish they give you in London."

"It came from a Costa Rican hacienda, and was a gift. I'll get no more when the bag is done. If you come back in a month, you'll find me living in plain north-country style."

"I imagine you made up for that while you were away," said Gerald, who rose and went to the side-board. "A curious little jar and obviously old! Is this the kind of thing the Aztecs made?"

"I rather think it is Aztec, though I didn't buy it in Mexico. I gave about a pound for the jar and found a gold onza inside."

"An onza? Oh, yes, an ounce! The kind of coin some countries mint but very seldom use. Something of a bargain!"

"I suppose it was," Kit replied incautiously. "For all that, the onza wasn't mine, and in a sense my efforts to find the owner cost me a very large sum."

Gerald gave him a keen glance. Askew was not boasting; he had enjoyed the command of money.

"Well," he said, "I think I'd have kept the onza, whether it was mine or not." He paused and pulled a knife from its sheath. The handle was ornamented and the narrow blade glittered in the light, although its point was dull. "But what is this? Has it a story?"

"Take care!" said Kit "It may be poisoned; the Meztisos use a stuff that will kill you if a very small quantity gets into your blood. The fellow who owned that knife came near burying it in my back."

"It looks as if you had had some adventures," Gerald remarked, and leaning against the sideboard he lighted a cigarette.

Kit crossed the floor and stood by the open window. The shadow of a cloud rested motionless, a patch of cool neutral color, on the gleaming yellow side of the hill. A wild-cherry tree hung over a neighboring wall, and bees hummed drowsily among the flowers. He was strangely satisfied to be at home, and it was hard to realize that not long since he had been engaged in a dangerous trade among the fever-haunted swamps.

"Have you any more curiosities?" Gerald asked.

Kit opened a drawer in his big desk, where he kept specimens of featherwork. As he took them out he moved some documents and Gerald indicated one.

"Cristoval Askew? Your name in Castilian, I suppose. You write a curious hand."

"A matter of precaution! Anyhow, I didn't sign this order, and that's why I kept it. The thing was rather important and we were lucky to find out the cheat in time, particularly as I imagined nobody could imitate my hand. You'll see my proper signature on the next document."

"It's not a very good counterfeit," said Gerald, who compared the writing with the other, "This is a subject I know something about. Penmanship is one of my few talents and I keep the customers' signature book at the bank. Yours is an uncommon hand, but it could be forged. Let's see! May I use this paper?"

Kit nodded and Gerald, knitting his brows, wrote the name three or four times and then looked up.

"I think I've got it. Hard to tell which is genuine, if you put them side by side?"

"Yes," said Kit. "I'm not sure I could tell which is mine."

Gerald laughed. "One has to study these things; part of my job, you see, and banks are cheated oftener than people think. However, I expect you want to get to work and I'll go back to the tarn."

He went out and Kit tore up the paper. He thought a talent like Gerald's might be dangerous if it were used by an unscrupulous man.