The rain stopped at night, the next day was fine, and in the afternoon Kit went up the dale to look at the mended dyke. It had stood better than he had thought, the beck was falling, and Osborn's fields were safe until another flood came down. Kit did not know if he was pleased or not. There was some satisfaction in feeling that he had done a good job, but he did not think Osborn deserved the help his neighbors had given. Following the dyke until he came to the road, he sat down on the bridge and lighted his pipe.

The sun was hot and he was glad of the shade of a big alder whose leaves rustled languidly overhead. The bent-grass on the hillside shone a warm yellow, wet rocks glittered like silver in the strong light, and the higher slopes, where belts of green moss checkered the heather, were streaked by lines of snowy foam. All was very quiet, except for the noise of running water and the joyous notes of a lark. Kit was not much of a philosopher; action was easier to him than abstract thought, but he vaguely felt that the serenity of the dale was marred by human passion. Man was, no doubt, meant to struggle, but Nature was his proper antagonist, and while the fight against floods and snow was bracing, one gained nothing by shabby quarrels that sprang from pride and greed.

Kit was human, however, and owned that he had felt savage when he read Osborn's note. The fellow had meant to humiliate him, and he got hot again as he thought about it. Moreover, Osborn had, so to speak, for his sake, insulted the men he had persuaded to help. They had not worked for wages, when they fought the swollen beck, and some kindly acknowledgment, such as a supper at the hall, would have gone far to gain for Osborn a good will that money could not buy. Anyhow, since he offered pay, the sum ought to have been a just reward for their toil.

Osborn had been led by personal rancor, and there was no use in Kit's pretending he did not resent it. The fellow seemed to think he had a right to command, and got savage when people would not obey. Kit felt he had done nothing to deserve his hatred, but since Osborn did hate him, he must brace himself for a struggle, and he meant to win. Then, as he knocked out his pipe, he saw Grace.

For a few moments Kit hesitated. If Grace knew how Osborn had rewarded him, the meeting might be awkward, but there was nothing to be gained by putting it off. He meant to marry Grace, whether Osborn approved or not, and to some extent frankness was needful. He waited until she reached the bridge and got up when she stopped. There was some color in her face, but she gave him a steady look.

"I have been to see the mended dyke," she said, and he knew that she had pluck.

"It's a rough job. There was no time to finish it neatly."

"I'm surprised you were able to finish it at all."

"I mustn't claim all the credit," Kit rejoined, smiling. "There were a number of others as well as the Tarnside men."

Grace made an impatient gesture. "Our men could have done nothing useful if they had been left alone, and the others wouldn't have helped if you had not persuaded them. Why did you?"

"To some extent, my object was selfish. If the flood had broken through, it might have done much damage to all the crops, besides your father's."

"It could not have damaged yours."

"Oh, well," said Kit, "I hate to see things spoiled, and am afraid I'm meddlesome."

Grace's color rose, but she fixed her eyes on him. "That is not kind; I hardly think it's just. I have not accused you of meddling."

"No," said Kit; "I'm sorry! It was a stupid remark. But I expect you know what your father thinks."

Grace was silent for a few moments. She did know and would rather not have met Kit, but was too proud to turn back. Besides, she felt her father was prejudiced, and although it was a family tradition that the Osborns stood together, she rebelled and wanted to be just. The situation was embarrassing, but there was no use in pretense.

"I think you were generous and imagine my mother agrees," she said. "She wanted to send some lunch to the beck, but the rain was very heavy and there was nobody to go." Then, remembering something Osborn had said, she hesitated. "I understand your helpers were paid."

"Oh, yes," said Kit, not with malice, but because he saw he must be frank. "I was not left out."

Grace turned her head. This was worse than she had thought. She was angry, and would not let Kit think she approved. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up. "Ah," she said, "you deserved something very different! I wish you had not told me!"

"I didn't tell you because I was hurt," Kit replied with grave quietness. "It looks as if we had got to face things. Your father thinks me his enemy. I'm not; I have never tried to injure him, and if the dyke was threatened by another flood, I believe I'd mend it. But, whatever happens, I mean to do what I think proper, and it's possible we may clash again."

"Yes," said Grace. "I am afraid this may happen."

"Well, I value your friendship and don't mean to give it up, but I can't pretend, and think you wouldn't be deceived if I tried."

"You mean you would not do what you thought was shabby in order to avoid a clash?"

"I mean something like that. Now you know how things are, you must choose your line. I can't judge how far your duty to your parents binds you; you can."

Grace felt her heart beat and was silent for a moment or two.

"I cannot criticize my father's deeds and agree with people who are opposed to him," she said. "All the same, unless he expressly orders it, I cannot give up my friends."

Kit tried to hide his satisfaction. "We'll let it go; I understand!"

He expected her to move away, and wondered whether it was tactful for him to stop, but to his surprise she smiled and sat down on the bridge.

"Very well. Suppose we talk about something else? The shade is nice, and I need not go home yet. You promised to tell me about your adventures and your uncle. I think you called him a survival from the old romantic days when the pirates haunted the Gulf of Mexico."

Kit pondered as he leaned against the alder trunk. He thought Grace meant to banish the strain; anyhow, she was willing to stay and he wanted her to do so. It was strangely pleasant to loiter on the bridge with her while the shadows trembled on the road and the beck murmured in the shade. But if he meant to keep her, he must talk, and although he did not want to say much about his adventures he had a story to tell. The story was moving, if he could tell it properly.

"I'm not clever at drawing a portrait, but I'd like to try," he said. "For one thing, my subject's worth the effort; and then, you see, I was fond of Adam. In some ways, he was not romantic; in fact, he was remarkably practical. His bold strokes were made deliberately, after calculating the cost; but now and then one got a hint of something strangely romantic and in a sense extravagant. Yet human nature's curious. When he played out a losing game, knowing he would lose, it was not from sentimental impulse but a firm persuasion it was worth while." He paused, and gave Grace an apologetic glance. "I'm afraid this is rather foggy. Perhaps I'd better begin where I met him, at a Florida hotel—if I'm not boring you."

Grace said she was not bored and Kit, gaining confidence, narrated how they bumped the Rio Negro across the surf-swept shoals, landed the guns, and met Alvarez. His own part in their adventures was lightly indicated, but the girl's imagination supplied what he left out. She felt strangely interested as Kit's portrait of his uncle grew into shape, although her thoughts dwelt largely on the artist. Then the background—the steamy swamp, old presidio, and dazzling town—had a romantic fascination, and when he told her about the journey to the mission and the church where the candles that Adam sent burned before the Virgin's shrine, her eyes shone.

"Ah," she said, "I am glad you told me! One thinks better of human nature after hearing a tale like that. In a way, it's a rebuke. Are such men numerous?"

"I have known two. Perhaps it's a coincidence that both were my relations. They're commoner than people think."

"You're an optimist, but one likes optimists," Grace remarked with a gentle smile. "However, what had the president done to deserve the sacrifice your uncle made?"

"I never knew, but suspect it was something against the laws of his country. If I told my story properly, you would understand that both were buccaneers."

"But they had their code! I like the president and your uncle was very fine. One feels moved when one thinks about the shabby little altar and the candles love had lighted that never went out—all those years! Adam's wife loved him. She went to nurse him, although her friends warned her and she knew the risk."

Grace mused for a time and Kit thought her face disturbed. Then she looked up quietly.

"One needs courage to know the risk and not to hesitate. But you will keep those candles burning?"

"Yes," said Kit, "I promised. Besides, I like to think they're burning.
It means something."

"It means much," Grace agreed, and after a pause resumed: "You had no doubt about taking up your uncle's engagement with the president, although you saw what it might cost?"

"Of course not," Kit replied. "There was nothing else to be done."

Grace smiled and got up. "No," she said, "there was nothing else you could do. Well, I must go home."

Kit went back with her for some distance. They talked but little on the way, but when she left him she gave him her hand and a look that made his heart beat.

Soon after Grace reached Tarnside, Osborn crossed the lawn to the tea-table where she and Mrs. Osborn sat beneath a spreading copper-beech. His face was thoughtful when Mrs. Osborn gave him a cup.

"I met the post as I was driving home," he said. "There's a letter from Gerald."

"Has he any news?" Mrs. Osborn asked.

"Nothing important. He's well and says he's kept occupied, which is fortunate. In fact, the harder they work him, the better; I'd sooner Gerald did not have much time on his hands."

"Then, why did he write?" Grace asked, because Gerald's letters were by no means regular.

"I hope he did not want money," Mrs. Osborn remarked.

"No," said Osborn. "That is, he did not want it for himself." He hesitated, and then resumed: "He states that if I could raise a moderate sum, he knows how we could make a very satisfactory profit in a short time. It seems he has got a useful hint."

Grace laughed. "About a racehorse? Gerald is always hopeful, but his confidence in his ability to spot the winner is dangerous. It has been so often misplaced."

"This has nothing to do with racing," Osborn rejoined angrily. "Gerald knows the consequences of indulging his folly again. There's a difference between betting and buying shares."

"I don't know if the difference is very marked," said Grace, with a curious feeling of annoyance, for there was a note in Osborn's voice that jarred. He was, like Gerald, a gambler, greedy for money he had not earned, and she thought about the story Kit had told. Its hero had risked and lost his life, and Kit had paid in health and fortune, because they put honor before gain. For all that, she knew she had said enough when she saw Osborn's frown.

"Gerald is young, but he holds a responsible post and has opportunities of meeting important stock-brokers and business men," Osborn went on, turning to his wife. "He is, of course, optimistic and has been rash, but after all he may have found out something useful. He declares the venture is absolutely safe."

"But you have no money to invest," Mrs. Osborn insisted anxiously.

"As a matter of fact, I have some. You see, I borrowed a sum not long since on Ryecote."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Osborn, with a resigned gesture, and then braced herself.
"But if you have got the money, it ought not to be used for speculation.
There is much that needs to be done on the estate."

"That is so; it was my reason for borrowing. All the same, it would be a very long time before I got back what I meant to spend on drains and steadings. Besides, the repairs and improvements need not be made just yet, and I might be able to use the money and earn a good profit first."

"You might lose it all," Mrs. Osborn insisted. "Gerald is rash and business men don't tell young bank-clerks important secrets. Then, although it was a shock to hear you had mortgaged Ryecote, the money is so badly needed that it must not be risked." She paused and resumed with some color in her face, "It is hard to own, but perhaps Gerald is not altogether to be trusted."

Osborn moved abruptly. His wife had touched the doubt that made him hesitate; in fact, this was a matter upon which he wanted her advice. She knew her son and had judged right when Osborn had been deceived.

"Well," he said, knitting his brows, "I haven't quite decided. I had thought about asking for particulars, but after all Gerald's hint may not be worth much and unless one is really well informed speculation is dangerous."

He looked round and saw Thorn. The latter had come up without disturbing the group and now joined them with a smile.

"I heard your last remark," he said. "My opinion is your views are sound. It is very rash to speculate on shares you don't know much about."

Mrs. Osborn felt disturbed, because she wondered how much he had heard, but he went on carelessly: "Gerald's too young for one to trust his judgment. My advice is, leave the thing alone."

Grace gave him a grateful glance. She did not like Alan Thorn, but he was cautious and she saw that Osborn was hesitating. It would not need much persuasion to move him one way or the other, and she felt that to let Gerald have the money would be a dangerous mistake.

"You really think I had better keep out of it?" Osborn asked.

"Certainly," said Thorn. "Only a few of the big jobbers can form an accurate notion how prices ought to go. For people like us speculation is a plunge in the dark."

Osborn was silent for a few moments, but Grace saw that he was pulled in different ways by caution and greed. Then, to her relief, he made a sign of agreement.

"Oh, well! I'll let the thing alone."

Thorn sat down and when Mrs. Osborn had given him some tea they talked about other matters. Presently Grace got up and he walked with her across the lawn.

"Were you satisfied with the advice I gave your father?" he asked.

"Yes," said Grace frankly. "I think he was tempted; I was glad you came."

"After all, a hint that he'd better be prudent did not cost me much. You know I'd do more than that to help you."

"You did all that was necessary," Grace replied. "You have my thanks."

Thorn glanced at her keenly, but there was something chilling in her calm.

"Well, I'm going to London in a day or two and it might be advisable to look Gerald up. I will, if you like."

"Yes," said Grace. "If it doesn't give you much trouble."

She left him and Thorn stood still, frowning. Grace was always like that, friendly but elusive. No matter how he tried, he could not break down her reserve.