peter norcot had left fox tor farm the night before grace's discovery and return. upon hearing this great news, he wrote a magnanimous letter of forgiveness, congratulation and quotation; but he did not follow it himself for the space of three days. then the richer by information of very significant character, he reappeared at the dwelling of the malherbs.

meantime the sorry truth had come to grace. cecil stark and the leaders of the conspiracy at prince town were all suffering imprisonment in the cachots; john lee was at plymouth; lovey lee had vanished. these things she comprehended and mourned; her mother's grief at temporal troubles she also shared and understood; only her father had changed in every respect, and she could find little explanation for his actions. the crisis of his affairs approached, and yet he made no effort to avert it; once only she spoke to him concerning the amphora; but he desired her to leave the subject, and commanded her neither to return to her former prison nor mention the matter to anybody.

"the affair is in my hands," he said; "i pray you, grace, to leave it there for the present. utter no word upon this subject. i have reasons strong enough for desiring silence."

she promised, bewildered to think why her father could thus desert his treasure now that she had restored it to him; then norcot arrived without invitation to spend a day or two.

he quickly perceived that mighty changes marked the situation. his first intention had been to let the past alone; but, finding that maurice malherb was indifferent to it, and would not so much as express regret at all the indignity peter had suffered, the lover, for the first time in his relations with his future father-in-law, struck a firmer note and permitted some flash of that steel in him to catch the other's eye.

they rode together upon the land, and the subject was opened by peter.

"you'll guess that i'm not here just now for rest and change, malherb. there's a good deal to be said between us. but you seem indisposed to say it. naturally i should like to know all about this wonderful rescue. yet, since you are so taciturn, i'll leave that until it pleases you or grace to tell the story. suffice it that she's alive and well, and i hope wise at last. now, how do we stand?"

malherb noted the difference of tone, but made no comment upon it.

"she and i stand in the relation of father and daughter," he answered. "that is not new; and yet it is new. i have learned a good deal of late. my judgment is shaken within me."

"'where the judgment's weak, the prejudice is strong.' you talk as if you had been in fault, instead of your daughter."

"you were not wont to speak so to me."

"nor you to act so. life is short, and even my astounding patience has run out."

"listen," said malherb, reining up his horse and lifting his hand. "trouble has fallen upon me—terrible trouble. you shall know—everybody shall know; but not yet. it is in job—set there in the awful words of scripture: 'he discovereth deep things out of darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of death.' i have done evil, norcot; i have fallen as i pray you may never fall. invisible powers have rent me and torn me. i tell you that i have been through dark waters."

"bless my soul! all the deities in a rumpus over one man! tut, tut! what then? if you've learned some wisdom—if you've found out that god is jealous and takes mighty good care none of us shall be wiser than he is—then there's hope for you."

"i have learned much. this girl—my girl—she has suffered a great deal. frankly, we have overlooked her rights."

"what moonshine do you talk, my dear malherb?"

the other's eyes flashed—then dulled. his rage was but a shadow of its old self, and, like a shadow, vanished. he answered listlessly.

"i am not what i was. i have heavy anxieties, and i will not fight with my child. my opinion is changed. she is a woman."

"'little force suffices to break what's cracked already.' you mean that she has prevailed with you to forswear yourself—to turn traitor to me. you a traitor! 'tis a thing impossible!"

"what is impossible? no depth of error is impossible to one who knows not himself. to upbraid me is vain. the solid earth has shifted under my feet, peter norcot. but 'traitor'—i'll not brook that. worse than that i may be, but not that."

"not that, indeed! if you only knew how i respect you and approve your staunch, fearless outlook upon life! but i, too, have endured not a little. think of it—the marriage broken off at the altar rails! and then fifteen hours in the saddle. nocturnal adventures to fill a volume. terrific expenditure—wear and tear to body and soul and clothes.

"'and winged lovelings round my aching heart

still flutter, flutter—never to depart.'

"you cannot go back on your oath, malherb. if you did, you wouldn't be malherb."

"we are fighting against nature."

"we are fighting against cecil stark, not nature at all.

"'man's life is but a cheating game

at cards, and fortune plays the same,

packing a queen up with a knave——'

as bancroft so appositely remarks. but the knave of hearts is hard and fast in a prince town cachot and like to stop there; and the knave of clubs—so to call that meddling rascal, john lee—has stood his trial at plymouth. they are done with; and king peter shall come to his own queen again. i'm patient as a spider and sure as time. i'm going to marry grace malherb, though the heavens fall. i never change; but you? am i more steadfast than the man who taught me steadfastness?

"'an oath, an oath, i have an oath in heaven:

shall i lay perjury upon my soul?'

ask yourself that question."

"let it rest awhile. i have much else on my mind—far greater things even than this marriage. there are heavy secrets—heavy secrets."

"who has not got 'em? god knows how well i wish you. but to behold you weak! 'tis like believing that you see granite, only to find it painted paper."

the other man's mind was running on.

"i want no son of the next generation to be my glory and my hope. i want no son, nor daughter neither. i weary of the future; i turn from it; i have no longer any wish that my name should outlive me."

"why then, the case is clear: you're ill! how blind one can be! somehow i'd never associated your iron constitution with physical griefs. yet you, too, can be sick. your vitality is lowered; i see it in your face. at such times there is danger of cancers, declines and murrains. they fix their dreadful fangs in us when we are enervated and weak. man! trust me more. i'm no wind-bag. i can do things. i have many very definite deeds to my credit. often i came to you for advice; now take from me what's better; coin of the realm. forgive bluntness and accept blunt. this has nought to do with grace at all. 'i will not purchase hope with ready money.' there's no room for false pride between us, thank god! i say you shall! i hate to see you troubled over the trashy aspect of human life. to be cornered for a little metal! consider:

"'friendship! mysterious cement of the soul,

sweet'ner of life! and solder of society!'

blair. but what is friendship if we do not permit it to take shape or substance?"

the older man was touched instantly and deeply. he bent from his saddle and shook peter's hand.

"you've a great, generous soul, norcot," he said. "i thank you with my heart, but not with words. you don't guess what manner of man you would befriend. yet thank you a thousand times. no, no—such things have happened that i would starve sooner than accept a loan. and you—if you knew—as you must know—you would desire grace no more. i am growing old, peter. age surprises such men as i am—age and crime. yes, i say 'crime.' but age creeps with calmer men. upon me he has sprung. i'm not so wise as people have been good enough to think. but i'm going to pay for that. i'm going to pay for everything."

"leave your affairs for the present. we'll return to them. you must see a physician. meanwhile i insist on your taking five thousand pounds. 'tis pure friendship, and so i hope you'll hold it. now grace—well, she is a woman. you said that not long since. i was struck with the remark. now, being a woman, she cannot possibly know her own mind. trite but true. it is only fair that i should make a final appeal—only fair to both of us. something leads me to think that she may yet see the true and proper course.

"'hope, heaven-born cherub, still appears,

howe'er misfortune seem to lower.

see! she comes out to meet us! it is an augury! how lovely she looks, despite her trying experiences. ride you off, malherb; but hear me promise ere you go that i'll not distress her."

"better that you should leave us all and forget us all, peter norcot."

"ride on, i say, and let the maid come with me. this business shall be ended for ever, before time for tea-drinking."

grace approached, and peter waved his hat with customary politeness. malherb turned away and galloped off; then the girl, dismayed, was about to follow him, when she found norcot already at her side.

"don't go!" he said. "'twas your father's wish that we should speak in private together. have no fear. 'tis but a simple matter to do with the future, not the past. but we'll get within doors, so please you. i hate talking of anything important from the back of a horse. i believe in transmigration of souls, you see. who knows what spirit inhabits your gallant 'c?sar'?"

without answer grace turned homeward, and ere long she sat in the dining-room of fox tor farm, while peter stood before her and twirled his seals.

"your father has explained facts, my dear. he is very unwell, and his judgment has left him with his health. he's haunted by something. i hope drugs will lay the ghost. now you—i begged for the boon of a little talk. tut, tut! 'tis beginning all over again—and that after the banns were called for the third and last time! poor cousin relton—how he squinted when tom putt brought the news of your retreat!"

"'to begin again'! oh, peter, have i not made my answer clear?"

"no; because your actions were not clear. they were very mysterious actions. for two pins i was going to rescue you from your father myself. but i had a suspicion that even if i brought wings you wouldn't wear 'em. really, grace, you've wickedly wronged a good man, though i say it. you've hurt me through and through."

"and what of all that you have made me suffer?"

"you haven't suffered. you've merely enjoyed an extremely exciting experience. mentally you have not endured anything to name. no woman can suffer acutely so long as she's interested in three men. i say 'three.' 'twas john lee helped you to escape and risked his life and ruined his fortune for you. first, how do you stand towards that romantic young fellow now? 'tis rather important—for him. to be frank, his life is in your hands. the law of the land has dealt with him finally; but the book of john lee's days lies with you to shut or open at will. have you forgot him, or do you desire to? that hardly sounds like another offer of marriage, does it? yet i'm proposing with all my heart."

"forget john! forget him—forget to love him? never. he saved my life."

"indeed! all these delightful incidents are still hidden from me. but the question now is his life—happily not yours. you've doubtless heard that he helped that formidable skeleton, his grandmother, to dig a tunnel under the walls of the war prison. maybe he did it as much for you as anybody—to assist the young hero no. 2—stark of the 'stars and stripes.' well, call it what you like, 'twas high treason and poor john lee must hang for it. i heard sentence of death pronounced at plymouth yesterday—a solemn experience."

"john lee—john!"

the girl reeled backwards, then started to her feet.

"he must be saved; he shall be saved. i cannot live if he dies. the guards—the soldiers. there must be some among them who would—oh, god, help me now! he must be saved if i tramp to the king myself!"

"bravely spoken!

"'god and a soldier all people adore

in time of war—but not before.'

better leave the king out and trust to god and a soldier. and we'll set the soldier first, since pounds get answered quicker than prayers. there's no time to pray when the gibbet's up."

"he must be saved."

"he shall be—if i can save him. he shall be saved, though the price should be my wool factory. but this is a proposal of marriage—don't forget that."

"he must be saved."

norcot nodded.

"so be it. 'i'll dare all heat but that in gracie's eyes.' i may add that i'm probably the only man in devonshire who could save him. and even i must do it by foul means, not fair ones. say the word then!"

"i implore you, if ever you loved me. oh, if i could do it myself i would not ask you."

"you can't do it."

"then do you."

"and afterwards? tut, tut! i may dance on the gallows i rob of him! one doesn't risk these highly coloured possibilities for a hand-shake. what afterwards, grace?"

as she answered, mr. kekewich entered at the other end of the chamber, and he heard her reply.

"if you save john lee's life, i'll marry you."

"before heaven you mean it?"

"before heaven."

"there's my brave heroine!"

"tea is served in the drawing-room, miss grace," said kekewich.