The old Scotchman, striding through the snow, was holding the child fiercely to him. She had not stirred since he folded the great coat about her and he felt the warmth nestling there close to his heart. But the heart beat hot and resentful. Under his breath he swore and muttered as he stumbled through the wood, straying from the path and finding it again with gaunt step. The lantern gripped in his tense hand would have lighted the faint track through the snow. But he did not look down. His eyes were on a light that glimmered and shifted among the trees, shining across the long fields of snow beyond.... Ellen was waiting, her heart sore for the bairn. He clasped the little form closer and strode on-bitterness in his heart.... “Curse him—!” He had robbed them of work and their good name and now he would take the child ... luring her from them through the dark and cold, making her love him. The great arms strained her close as he stumbled on, coming with each uncertain step nearer to the glimmering light till it fell full in his face from the uncurtained window and he flung open the door and strode in.

She looked up with quick glance. Then a little cry broke from her—“Ye did na’ find her!”

He opened the great-coat where she lay like a flower, and the grandmother came close bending to the soft vision. Her hand touched the limp one that hung down, its soft, pink palm upturned.

“The little hand!” she whispered like a slow caress, “It ’s warm, Hugh!” She lifted her eyes to his face.

“Aye—warm.” There was no light in the stern face. “Ye best put her in bed.” He held her out—a little from him—and the child stirred. Her sleepy eyes opened and smiled to them and closed slowly. The little smile faded to a dream and the lips groped with words and breathed a name softly—“Cin-na-mon—”

The grandmother gave a startled glance. “She is fey!” she said.

“‘Cinnamon!—’ what does she mean—‘Cinnamon’?”

The old man looked resentful and said nothing.

The sleepy lips shaped themselves again—“Gran-nie.” It slipped into a little sigh of content as she nestled into the arms that reached out to her.

The old woman smoothed the tumbled hair and rocked her shoulders gently to the cradling of her arms. “Where was she, Hugh?—Where did ye find her!”

“Where she ’d no right to he,” he said grimly.

“She’d no right but to be in her bed,” said the grandmother softly.

“Ye ’d best put her there,” he responded, looking down at the sleeping flower-face with unfathomable eyes.

When she came back she found him sitting by the stove, his gaze fixed gloomily on its black surface, his body bent forward and his great hands swung loosely before him.

She stirred the fire a little and pushed back the kettle on the stove. “We ’re no needing it, the night,” she said with happy face.

But there was no happiness in the old face across the stove.

“What is it, Hugh?” She was looking at him with keen, gentle eyes that searched his soul.

“Sim Tetlow,” he said briefly.

Her hand dropped from the kettle—“Ye ’ve seen him, the night!”

“He had the bairn,” said Hugh. “He was holding it—in his arms—like his own.” He looked up to her—bitter hatred in the red-rimmed eyes.

But she came close to him, her soft dress making no sound. “He cared for the bairn!” It was half a question—a little cry of disbelief and longing—“He cared for the bairn!”

“He were holding her,” said Hugh gruffly—“Same as you—or me.” He lifted his hand with a swift gesture—“Curse—”

She caught the hand, holding it to her bosom, forcing it there—“No—Hugh—no,” she breathed the words with little gasps—“Ye ’ll no curse—we maun—”

He turned on her savagely, struggling for a minute to free his hand. Then his eyes dropped. “Ye ’re a woman,” he said grimly. “Ye ’ve no call to know.”

She stroked the hand with thin, knotted fingers, but her lips made no reply.

He looked up under fierce brows. “I ’ll do to him as he ’s done to me.” He said the words with deep accent.

“No,—no”—

He swept aside the words—“He took away my engine,” he said with slow wrath—

“But ye slept, Hugh—And ye could not help the sleeping!” It was a little cry of defence.

“I’d been waking, the night and the day—and the night again,” he replied fiercely, “and I slept—Is sleepin’ a crime!—She was safe on the sidin’,” he added. “There was no harm to Her—”

She waited with bent head. So many times they had lived through the steps of his disgrace—

“An’ then he gi’e me the switch. He were kind an’ just. He gi’e me the switch to tend—” Impotent bitterness filled the words—“we—that’d drove the best engines on the road! Tendin’ a switch—in the freight yard—” His head sunk a little.

“Ye was old, Hugh.” It was the little cry again.

“An’ he will be old!” he broke in with tense, swift gesture—“Old before his time, bent and broke! Oh, Lord—” He lifted his gaunt face, “Gi’e him to me! Gi’e him into my hand!” The keen eyes, fixed on something unseen, stared before him. Hope struggled in them—a bitter, disbelieving hope. “Gi’e him into my hand!”—he whispered.... “into my hand!” He bent forward, staring at the vision. Then the face changed subtly. He drew a quick, deep breath.... His head had dropped to his breast.

She bent above him, “Hugh—” She called it to the unseeing eyes—“Hugh!”

He drew back a little dazed. The look in the face broke—“Why, Ellen—woman.” He put his arm almost tenderly about her—“What frighted ye?” he asked.

“Ye ’ll not harm him?” she cried. She leaned against him, her anxious, questioning eyes searching his face.

“I ’ll not harm him,” said the man briefly, “except the Lord deliver him into my hand—I have it for a sign.”

Her Scotch blood thrilled to the vague menace of the words. She pressed closer to him, her thin hands raised to his coat, grasping it on either side. She looked up into his face—“Hugh, ye must forgi’e—ye must e’en—”

“I must e’en do the Lord’s will,” he said sternly. He loosed the clinging hands—“Ye must sleep, Ellen,” he said more gently.

Her hands had dropped. They hung loose at her sides. But her meek eyes were still on his face. “Ye will forgi’e him,” she whispered low, under her breath.

But his face gave no sign that he heard. He put out the lantern and raked together the coals in the stove, covering them carefully with ashes to save the smouldering heat. “Come to bed, Ellen,” he said when it was done, “the bairn is safe. Ye can sleep now.”