go. If the Grace Ormerod who married Lowther had
indeed been his own mother, then--a thousand to one--Paul was Lowther's
son. If Paul was Lowther's son he was also half brother of Greta. If
Paul was not the son of Allan Ritson, then he himself, Hugh Ritson, was
his father's heir.

In the present whirlwind of feeling he did not inquire too closely into
the pros and cons of probability. Enough that evidence seemed to be with
him, and that it transformed the world in his view.

Perhaps the first result of this transformation was that he
unconsciously assumed a different attitude toward the unhappy passage in
his life wherein Mercy Fisher was chiefly concerned. What his feeling
was before Mr. Bonnithorne's revelation, we have already seen. Now the
sentiment that made much of such an "accident" was fit only for a
"turgid melodrama," and the idea of "atonement" by "marriage" was the
mock heroic of those "great lovers of noble histories," the spectators
who applaud it from the pit.

When he passed Mr. Bonnithorne in the hall at the Ghyll he was on his
way to the cottage of the Laird Fisher. He saw in the road ahead of him
the group which included his father and the charcoal-burner, and to
avoid them he cut across the breast of the Eel Crags. After a sharp
walk of a mile he came to a little white-washed house that stood near
the head of Newlands, almost under the bridge that crosses the fall. It
was a sweet place in a great solitude, where the silence was broken only
by the tumbling waters, the cooing of pigeons on the roof, and the
twittering of ringouzels by the side of the torrent. The air was fresh
with the smell of new peat. There was a wedge-shaped garden in front,
and it was encompassed by chestnut-trees. As Hugh Ritson drew near he
noticed that a squirrel crept from the fork of one of these trees. The
little creature rocked itself on the thin end of a swaying branch,
plucking sometimes at the drooping fan of the chestnut, and sometimes at
the prickly shell of its pendulous nut. When he opened the little gate
Hugh Ritson observed that a cat sat sedately behind the trunk of that
tree, glancing up at intervals at the sporting squirrel in her moving
seat.

As he entered the garden Mercy was crossing it with a pail of water just
raised from the well. She had seen him, and now tried to pass into the
house. He stepped before her and she set down the pail. Her head was
held very low, and her cheeks were deeply flushed.