ot, and relished his
daughter's independence and spirit. Julia was the only creature in the
household who dared to hold her own against him. He was proud of her
beauty and what he called her 'lurning,' and, more or less grumblingly,
petted her a good deal, and would have spoiled her had she been of
spoilable material. But till this heavy blow fell he had never sounded
the depths of his own affection for her. The suddenness of the blow
stunned and bewildered him. He remembered his words to Dick during their
stormy interview in the road, when he had said that he would rather see
Julia dead than married to him. Had Providence taken him at his word? He
did not say it, he did not even think it consciously, but he would have
submitted to almost any conceivable indignity at the hands of Abel Eeddy
himself, to have felt his daughter's arms about his neck again. Little
incidents of Julia's past life were fresh and vivid in his memory. He
had forgotten many of them, years ago, but they sprang up in his mind
now, like things of yesterday.

He had wandered back to the front of the house, and sat upon the rustic
bench beside the porch, with his elbows propped upon his knees, and his
eyes hidden in his shaking hands, when a voice fell on his ear.

'Neighbour!'

He raised his head. Abel Reddy stood before him.

With something of the old instinct of hatred he had believed to be
unconquerable he rose and straightened himself before the hereditary
enemy.

'Neighbour,' said Reddy again. The word was pacific, but Mountain's
blurred eyes, dim with pain and dazzled by the sunlight, could not see
the pity in his old enemy's face, and he waited doggedly. 'It's come to
my ears as you're i' sore trouble. So am I. Your trouble's mine, though
not so great for me as it is for you, I was wi' Dick when he heard o'
your daughter's danger, an' what I'd suspected a long time I know now to
be the truth. I did my best to keep 'em apart--it was that as Dick was
going to London for. It seemed to behove me to come to you and offer you
my hand i' your affliction. I take shame to myself that I didn't mek
an effort to end our quarrel long ago. We're gettin' on in life, Mr.
Mountain, and we've got th' excuse o' hot blood no longer.'

Therewith he held out his hand, and Samson, with hanging head, took it
with a growl, which might have been anathema or blessing. And as the
life-long enemies stood so linked, a window was suddenly opened above,
and Mrs. Mount