The first of the snow was driving across the prairie before a bitter wind, when Maud Barrington stood by a window of the Grange looking out into the night. The double casements¹ rattled², the curtains behind her moved with the icy draughts³, until, growing weary of watching the white flakes⁴ whirl past, she drew them to and walked slowly towards a mirror. Then a faint tinge⁵ of pink crept into her cheek, and a softness that became her into her eyes. They, however, grew critical as she smoothed back a tress of lustrous⁶ hair a trifle from her forehead, straightened the laces at neck and wrist, and shook into more flowing lines the long black dress. Maud Barrington was not unduly⁷ vain, but it was some time before she seemed contented⁸, and one would have surmised⁹ that she desired to appear her best that night.  
The result was beyond cavil¹⁰ in its artistic¹¹ simplicity¹², for the girl, knowing the significance that trifles have at times, had laid aside every adornment¹³ that might hint at wealth, and the somber¹⁴ draperies alone emphasized the polished whiteness of her face and neck. Still, and she did not know whether she was pleased or otherwise at this, the mirror had shown the stamp which revealed itself even in passive pose and poise¹⁵ of head. It was her birthright, and would not be disguised.
 
Then she drew a low chair towards the stove, and once more the faint color crept into her face as she took up a note. It was laconic¹⁶, and requested permission to call at the Grange, but Maud Barrington was not deceived, and recognized the consideration each word had cost the man who wrote it. Afterwards she glanced at her watch, raised it with a little gesture of impatience¹⁷ to make sure it had not stopped, and sat still, listening to the moaning of the wind, until the door opened and Miss Barrington came in. She glanced at her niece, who felt that her eyes had noticed each detail of her somewhat unusual dress, but said nothing until the younger woman turned to her.
 
"They would scarcely come to-night, aunt," she said. Miss Barrington, listening a moment, heard the wind that whirled the snow about the lonely building, but smiled incredulously.
 
"I fancy you are wrong, and I wish my brother were here," she said. "We could not refuse Mr. Winston permission to call, but whatever passes between us will have more than its individual significance. Anything we tacitly promise, the others will agree to, and I feel the responsibility of deciding for Silverdale."
 
Miss Barrington went out; but her niece, who understood her smile and that she had received a warning, sat still with a strained expression in her eyes. The prosperity of Silverdale had been dear to her, but she knew she must let something that was dearer still slip away from her, or, since they must come from her, trample¹⁸ on her pride as she made the first advances. It seemed a very long while before there was a knocking at the outer door, and she rose with a little quiver when light steps came up the stairway.
 
In the meanwhile two men stood beside the stove in the hall until an English maid returned to them.
 
"Colonel Barrington is away, but Miss Barrington, and Miss Maud are at home," she said. "Will you go forward into the morning-room when you have taken off your furs?"
 
"Did you know Barrington was not here?" asked Winston, when the maid moved away.
 
Dane appeared embarrassed. "The fact is, I did."
 
"Then," said Winston dryly, "I am a little astonished you did not think fit to tell me."
 
Dane's face flushed, but he laid his hand on his comrade's arm. "No," he said, "I didn't. Now, listen to me for the last time, Winston. I've not been blind, you see, and, as I told you, your comrades have decided¹⁹ that they wish you to stay. Can't you sink your confounded pride, and take what is offered you?" Winston shook his grasp off, and there was weariness in his face. "You need not go through it all again. I made my decision a long while ago."
 
"Well," said Dane, with a gesture of hopelessness, "I've done all I could, and, since you are going on, I'll look at that trace clip while you tell Miss Barrington. I mean the younger one."
 
"The harness can wait," said Winston. "You are coming with me."
 
A little grim smile crept into Dane's eyes. "I am not. I wouldn't raise a finger to help you now," he said, and retreated hastily.
 
It was five minutes later when Winston walked quietly into Maud Barrington's presence, and sat down when the girl signed to him. He wondered if she guessed how his heart was beating.
 
"It is very good of you to receive me, but I felt I could not slip away without acknowledging the kindness you and Miss Barrington have shown me," he said. "I did not know Colonel Barrington was away."
 
The girl smiled a little. "Or you would not have come? Then we should have had no opportunity of congratulating you on your triumphant²⁰ acquittal. You see, it must be mentioned."
 
"I'm afraid there was a miscarriage²¹ of justice," said Winston quietly. "Still, though it is a difficult subject, the deposition²² of the man I supplanted²³ went a long way, and the police did not seem desirous of pressing a charge against me. Perhaps I should have insisted on implicating²⁴ myself, but you would scarcely have looked for that after what you now know of me."
 
Maud Barrington braced²⁵ herself for an effort, though she was outwardly very calm. "No," she said, "no one would have looked for it from any man placed as you were, and you are purposing to do more than is required of you. Why will you go away?"
 
"I am a poor man," said Winston. "One must have means to live at Silverdale!"
 
"Then," said the girl with a soft laugh which cost her a good deal, "it is because you prefer poverty, and you have at least one opportunity at Silverdale. Courthorne's land was mine to all intents and purposes before it was his, and now it reverts²⁶ to me. I owe him nothing, and he did not give it me. Will you stay and farm it on whatever arrangement Dane and Macdonald may consider equitable²⁷? My uncle's hands are too full for him to attempt it."
 
"No," said Winston, and his voice trembled a little. "Your friends would resent it."
 
"Then," said the girl, "why have they urged you to stay?"
 
"A generous impulse. They would repent²⁸ of it by and by. I am not one of them, and they know it, now, as I did at the beginning. No doubt they would be courteous²⁹, but you see a half-contemptuous toleration would gall³⁰ me."
 
There was a little smile on Maud Barrington's lips, but it was not in keeping with the tinge in her cheek and the flash in her eyes.
 
"I once told you that you were poor at subterfuge³¹, and you know you are wronging them," she said. "You also know that even if they were hostile to you, you could stay and compel them to acknowledge you. I fancy you once admitted as much to me. What has become of the pride of the democracy you showed me?"
 
Winston made a deprecatory gesture. "You must have laughed at me. I had not been long at Silverdale then," he said dryly. "I should feel very lonely now. One man against long generations. Wouldn't it be a trifle unequal?"
 
Maud Barrington smiled again. "I did not laugh, and this is not England, though what you consider prejudices do not count for so much as they used to there, while there is, one is told quite frequently, no limit to what a man may attain³² to here, if he dares sufficiently³³."
 
A little quiver ran through Winston, and he rose and stood looking down on her, with one brown hand clenched³⁴ on the table and the veins³⁵ showing on his forehead.
 
"You would have me stay?" he said.
 
Maud Barrington met his eyes, for the spirit that was in her was the equal of his. "I would have you be yourself--what you were when you came here in defiance³⁶ of Colonel Barrington, and again when you sowed the last acre of Courthorne's land, while my friends, who are yours too, looked on wondering. Then you would stay--if it pleased you. Where has your splendid audacity³⁷ gone?"
 
Winston slowly straightened himself, and the girl noticed the da............