"William can never be indifferent where his friends are concerned."

"Oh, then, perhaps he will be pleased that I am going to remain to keep house for you."

And then the subject dropped.

Directly supper was over, Ralph retired to his work-room and laboratory, and began with such appliances as he had to grind the stones into powder. It was no easy task, for the rock was hard and of exceedingly fine texture.

Ruth joined him when she had finished her work, and watched him with great interest. His first test was made with the ordinary "vanning shovel," his second with the aid of chemicals. But neither test seemed conclusive or satisfactory.

"There's something wrong somewhere," he said, as he put away his tools.

"I must do my next test in the daylight."

Ruth got very anxious as the days pa.s.sed away. She learned from her brother that he had employed more men to sink further prospecting pits along the course of the lode, but with what results she was unable to discover.

Ralph, for some reason, had grown strangely reticent. He spent very little time at home, and that little was chiefly pa.s.sed in his laboratory. His face became so serious that she feared for the worst, and refrained from asking questions lest she should add to his anxiety.

William Menire dropped in occasionally of an evening, but she noticed that the one topic of all others was avoided as if by mutual consent. At last Ruth felt as if she could bear the suspense no longer.

"Do tell me, Ralph," she said; "is the whole thing what you call a frost?"

"Why do you ask?" he questioned.

"Because you are so absorbed, and look so terribly anxious."

"I am anxious," he said, "very anxious."

"Then, so far, the lode has proved to be worthless?" she questioned.

"It is either worthless, or else is so rich in mineral that I hardly like to think about it."

"I don't understand," she said.

"Well, it is this way. The tests we have made so far show such a large percentage of tin that I am afraid we are mistaken."

"How? In what way?"

"If there had been a less quant.i.ty, I should not have doubted that it was really tin, but there is so much of it that I'm afraid. Now do you understand?"

"But surely you ought to be able to find out?"

"Oh yes; we shall find out in time. A quant.i.ty of stuff is in the hands of expert a.s.sayers at the present time, and we are awaiting their report. If their final test should harmonise with the others, why--well, I will not say what."

"And when do you expect to hear?"

"I hope, to-morrow morning."

"But why have you kept me in the dark all this time?"

"Because we did not wish to make you anxious. It is bad enough that William and I should be so much on the _qui vive_ that we are unable to sleep, without robbing you of your sleep also."

"I don't think I shall be robbed of my sleep," she said, with a laugh.

"Then you are not anxious?" he questioned.

"Not very."

"Why not?"

"Because father was not the man to be mistaken in a matter of that kind.

If any man in Cornwall knew tin when he saw it, it was father."

"I am glad you are so hopeful," he said; and he went off into his laboratory. He did not tell her that the possibilities of mistake were far more numerous than she had any conception of, and that it was possible for the cleverest experts to be mistaken until certain tests had been applied.

William Menire turned up a little later in the evening, and joined Ralph in his laboratory. He would have preferred remaining in the sitting-room, but Ruth gave him no encouragement to stay. She had grown unaccountably reserved with him of late. He was half afraid sometimes that in some way he had offended her. There was a time, and not so long ago, when she seemed pleased to be in his company, when she talked with him in the freest manner, when she even showed him little attentions.

But all that was at an end. Ever since that morning when he had rushed into the house with the announcement that their offer for Hillside Farm had been accepted, she had been distinctly distant and cool with him.

He wondered if Ruth had read his heart better than he had been able to read it himself; wondered whether his love for her had coloured his motives. He had been anxious to act unselfishly; to act without reference to his love for Ruth. He was not so sure that he had done so.

And if Ruth had guessed that he hoped to win her favour by being generous to her brother--and to her--then he could understand why she was distant with him now. Ruth's love was not to be bought with favours.

Unconsciously William himself became shy and reserved when Ruth was about. The fear that she mistrusted him made him mistrustful of himself.

He felt as though he had done a mean thing, and had been found out. If by chance he caught her looking at him, he fancied there was reproach in her eyes, and so he avoided looking at her as much as possible.

All this tended to deepen the reserve that had grown up between them.

Neither understood the other, and William had not the courage to have the matter out with her. A few plain questions and a few plain answers would have solved the difficulty and made two people as happy as mortals could ever hope to be; but, as often happens in this world, the questions were not asked and the unspoken fear grew and intensified until it became absolute conviction.

Ruth did not join her brother and William in the laboratory. She sat near the fire with a lamp by her side and some unfinished work in her lap. She caught up her work every now and then, and plied a few vigorous st.i.tches; then her hands would relax again, and a dreamy, far-away look would come into her eyes.

Now and then a low murmur of voices would come through from the little shed at the back, but she could distinguish nothing that was said. One thing she was conscious of, there was no note of mirth or merriment, no suggestion of laughter, in the sounds that fell on her ear. The hours were so big with Fate, so much was trembling in the balance, that there was no place for anything but the most serious talk.

"Nothing seems of much importance to men but business," she said to herself, with a wistful look in her eyes. "Life consists in the abundance of the things which they possess. They get their joy out of conflict--battle. We women live a life apart, and dream dreams with which they have no sympathy, and see visions which they never see."

The evening wore away unconsciously. The men talked, the woman dreamed, but neither the talk nor the dreams brought much satisfaction.

Ruth stirred herself at length and got supper ready for three, but William would not stay. He had remained much too long already, and had no idea it was so late.

Ruth did not press him, she left that to her brother. Once or twice William looked towards her, but she avoided his glance. Like all women, she was proud at heart. William was conscious that Ruth's invitation was coldly formal. If he remained he would be very uncomfortable.

"No, I must get back," he said decidedly, without again looking at Ruth; and with a hasty good-evening he went out into the dark.

For a few minutes he walked rapidly, then he slackened his pace.

"She grows colder than ever," he said to himself. "She intends me to see without any mistake that if I expected to win her love by favours, I'm hugely mistaken. Well, well!" and he sighed audibly. "To-morrow morning we shall know, I expect, whether it is failure or fortune," he went on, after a long pause. "It's a tremendous risk we are running, and yet I would rather win Ruth Penlogan than all the wealth there is in Cornwall."

William did not sleep well that night. Neither did Ralph nor Ruth. They were all intensely anxious for what the morrow should bring.