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 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 ... 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 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 , “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 gloomily on its black surface, his body 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 .
 
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 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!”
&nbs............