When Catherine Carmichael reached Carm Hall she found that a groom was leading the squire's horse up and down the carriage drive. Her uncle appeared at the hall door, booted for riding, just as she arrived at it; but he smilingly welcomed her, and gave orders that the spirited bay should be taken back to the stable.

'I do not receive visits from you so often that I can afford to cut them short, my dear,' he replied to her promise that she would not detain him long.

'Don't take me into the drawing-room,' she petitioned. 'I have a great deal to say to you, uncle, and the library is so much more cosy. If you treat me as a stranger, my courage will fail me, and I shall not be able to find words in which to explain my reason for coming to-day.'

He smiled.

'Your wish is, of course, a command to me. I trust that nothing is troubling you? Mr. North is not ill?'

'No; the trouble does not concern Brian.'

He wheeled the largest arm-chair near to the fire for her, and stood beside her, looking down into her face.

His figure was upright, his eyes keen, but the lines in his brow were deeply cut, and his beard and hair were quite white. A fine old man, a typical squire, with an autocrat's expression.

Even while admiring her uncle, Catherine was remembering the secret wrong he had done—the dishonouring small sins of which he had been guilty. His proud air and haughty manner hid remorse and self-condemnation; surely this must be so!

'Your friend, Mrs. Arderne, is not ill either? The children cannot be unwell, or you would not have left them.'

'The troubles all concern Uncle Jack and—and you.'

There was a great fear in her heart, and her voice trembled. Oh, if this dread, this mastering weakness of will, were to continue, there would be no chance of influencing this stern, self-possessed man by her words! In that moment Catherine both despised and detested herself.

But she had sought powerful aid; she had put her case into the hands of her Heavenly Father, beseeching Him to plead her cause for her through her own lips; and the remembrance of His mercy and goodness came back to her mind just as she needed it most. With God's help, wonders and miracles might be accomplished!

At the mention of Uncle Jack the squire's frown had appeared. It was a visible effort to him to show the unvarying courtesy he deemed due to a woman when Catherine would speak of his enemy.

'Forgive me if I say that you had better have chosen a different confidant, if you wish to discuss affairs concerning my brother.'

'No other confidant would do, and I knew you would not refuse to listen to me.'

'I am powerless to refuse a lady's request, when it is in my power to grant it, when the lady is my niece, to whom I am attached, and when she proffers the request under my own roof. I can only request her to desist from making it.'

'Uncle, I have such strong motives that I cannot yield my will to yours this time!'

He smiled cynically.

'My dear Catherine, you have not exhibited any willingness ever to consider my desires rather than your own!'

A hot retort was just springing from her lips, but she restrained the wrong impulse.

'I am sorry, truly sorry, that I have not been able to please you. Had I been in your favour, my task to-day would have been so much easier. Uncle, let me stand beside you; I can talk better when I stand, and I am tall enough to look right into your eyes! Don't be angry with me, dear! You were never vexed with "little Catherine" in the old days. Do you recollect one great argument we had about the necessity for men, as well as women, to lead religious lives? I was only a child; it was not easy for me to bear my part in that argument. I lost my temper, and behaved very impertinently to you, I'm afraid, yet you were not angry—certainly not the least bit sarcastic! When I apologised afterwards, you told me you "liked my spirited defence of that which I believed right!"'

The squire's expression softened, and he laid his hand on that small but firm one which had stolen through his arm.

'Are you preparing to lose your temper again, Catherine?'

'No, I will try not to do so; I don't think I shall want to. Uncle Ross, you have not the least idea how unhappy this family quarrel is making your brother. He longs for your friendship, for the old affection between you. He told me, only a little while ago, that he would gladly give the remainder of his life in exchange for the reconciliation; only God does not let His creatures bargain with Him in that way. I have come here to-day to plead for Uncle Jack, not to begin by defending him. I appeal to your sense of generosity first, to your memory of the love that united you brothers in your childhood, youth, and young manhood.'

'There is an insuperable obstacle against the proposed reconciliation.'

Catherine watched his face as he spoke this quiet sentence. Yes, there was the obstacle of his false pride. He would not confess himself in the wrong; he could not endure the thought of humbling himself. The harsh tone of voice, the fixed tension of the brows, the weary, cynical smile—all these betokened the squire's sacrifice to his idol, Self.

That he still cared for his brother Catherine felt certain. A warm regard, the growth of years and years of intimacy, does not melt away in a short time, nor can it be entirely obliterated by any quarrel. The seeds of affection were springing ever fresh in a heart which would not let love blossom and bear fruit.

There was sadness in the words 'an insuperable obstacle.'

'You wish that obstacle did not exist?'

For a few minutes Ross Carmichael hesitated. He was reading his own mind. Did he not regret that unworthy attempt to secretly bribe Loring to reject Uncle Jack's influence? Did he not repent of the impulsive hiding away of that last letter of Loring's—the deception of an instant which had obliged him to practise deceit ever since?

'Yes, Catherine, I regret the obstacle.'

'And is it not in your power to overcome it?'

Yes, it was, in two ways. Either the squire could confess the injury he had done his brother, or he might make overtures of friendship without ever owning the secret wrong. The first method was too distasteful to his false pride; the second was impossible to a man whose honour had been twice denied, but had never succumbed beneath the treatment.

Call Jack brother, welcome him home, press his hand, live in his company day after day, and all the while deceive him? No; the squire's nature rebelled fiercely against this idea.

'You will find me a—tolerably patient listener, my dear; but I refuse to be "heckled,"' was his answer.

'Forgive me, uncle! I am so much in earnest that maybe I am imprudent! You know that I care very truly for you; that I care also for Uncle Jack; and while I know that he grieves for your friendship, I believe you miss his presence here more than you will own. God gave you to one another; let your warm affection be a joy to you; and now that you are estranged you both are sorry for the loss of one another. Uncle Jack tells me, "I long for Ross more than ever, now that I am growing old."'

'Catherine, Catherine, for Heaven's sake desist from these appeals and arguments, which have no respect for my feelings, but which are totally useless!'

'It is those feelings to which I wish to appeal. They have slept too long; it is well for them to be roused!' cried the girl, clasping his arm with both her hands. 'You will feel remorse and sorrow all the years of your life, if Uncle Jack dies before you have made all the amends in your power!'

'Dies!'

The squire's face had become ashen; his repetition of the word Catherine had used betrayed the shock it had caused him.

'Dies!' he repeated. 'John is my junior. The chance is that I die before him.'

'No, uncle; for his life is threatened; it might end any minute, so the doctors tell him.'

There was silence in the library for a while, only the fire flickered and spluttered fiercely, and the heavy drops of a rain-storm dashed against the windows.

The squire stood erect, gazing straight before him, with not a change of one muscle of his face. Yet no one, least of all Catherine, could have seen that face without learning that a struggle and a grief were tearing his heart. While he was silent he was looking into the far past, to the childish days when Jack had been all-in-all to him, when his affection for him had been of the loyal protecting order of the elder for the younger; looking back to the youth of mutual aspirations after higher things than worldly ambition, to the confidences of young manhood, to the devotion for one woman, which had never separated them, because for each it had been equally hopeless. How Jack had proposed, after that sorrow, 'Let us keep together through life, you and I, Ross. We shall always understand and respect one another's memories'! How the promise had been kept, even when absence made letter-writing the only method of communication! How nothing but the elder's change of disposition had weakened the old tie! Money, money, money,—this had become Ross's idol; in serving it he had lost touch with the finer nature of his soldier brother, whose loyal, pure heart had remained faithful. Then the episode of Loring Carmichael's adoption; their mutual pride in the prospects of the clever lad who was to carry the old name honourably into another generation, and keep the home and estate in order. Then Loring's favouritism for Uncle Jack; the squire's growing jealousy, and attempt to purchase his allegiance secretly. Later, Loring's choice, Loring's departure; lastly, Loring's death, and the concealed letter!

No, not lastly, for years of estrangement had followed, beginning with a mere quarrel which could easily have been made up, but which had been sealed, as it were, by the squire's act of deception, that dishonouring wrong to which he would not own.

He saw himself in his true colours now, and was bitterly shamed by the vision.

But to be ashamed, and to own to the shame, were two different things. He contrived to hide his emotion.

'I am exceedingly sorry to hear of my brother's ill-health, Catherine. Still, that does not efface the wrong he did me.'

'What if I can prove to you that Loring was not influenced in his final choice by Uncle Jack?'

'I fail to understand how that could be. You never met—my nephew.'

'No, uncle, but you have another nephew, who was his friend, who was with him before his death, who wrote for him two letters of farewell—one to you, one to Uncle Jack—my Cousin George in Melbourne.'

The squire's expression changed again. He glanced anxiously into Catherine's face. How much did she know? Was his wrong-doing to be exposed, brought home to him by this penniless niece, who had refused to sacrifice her sense of duty for the gain of a fortune?—this girl, whose spirit he had admired in times past?

It was too strange that she should humble him! Could he not think of any way in which to make sure of her silence?

No; for she was absolutely unselfish and honest.

There was admiration for her in his mind, even while she was so calmly defying him. Her truthful brown eyes did not falter beneath his glance; her temper was not aroused. She was simply in earnest—doing battle for Uncle Jack.

He could not think how to answer her, until she spoke again, quietly:

'I know all about the quarrel, Uncle Ross. George has written to me. The only thing I do not know is what became of Loring's letter to Uncle Jack, for it was not delivered to him.'

If Catherine had expected to break down the reserve of his manner, she was disappointed. Ross Carmichael was bent upon enduring his position as well as possible.

'The letter came here after my brother's departure, and I omitted to forward it. Had he sent for it at any time, he could have had it. It lies in the locked drawer of a bureau in the hall.'

'Will you let me take it to him?'

'Certainly.'

'Oh, uncle, George told me one sentence that is in it. Loring declared, "It is entirely owing to Uncle Ross's secret persuasion that I left home to enlist." Now that you know that Uncle Jack did not do you the injury of influencing Loring to leave you, won't you forgive and be friends with him again?'

Catherine's voice was no longer calm. Her appeal was made in impassioned tones, and her eyes were full of tears.

The squire unclasped her hands from his arm and turned away.

'If I am not mistaken, the—the position is changed between my brother and myself. John will probably be indignant because I—did not trouble to—to forward the letter. There was no absolute necessity for me to do so; it was his affair that he left me and went to live by himself.'

'Since you have wronged him, do you not wish to make amends to him?'

'That will be done—at least, the wrong will be ended when you have taken him the letter.'

'No, uncle, for he cares far more for you than he ever cared for Loring. He longs for your love again—your confidence. Will you not make some advance to him, as he has made so many which you have ignored? Think—it is in your power to make these later years of his life happy instead of sad! Can you be so hard-hearted as not to do it?'

The squire walked away to the window, where he stood, turning his back upon his niece,—silently fighting with his feelings.

Catherine watched him, and prayed.

At last the answer came, in a voice unlike the squire's usual harsh accents.

'You shall take the letter, and you may tell John I—am sorry. I shall be in Beverbridge this evening, at the club quite near you. You can send for me if—if John wants me.'