open, but it was Betsey that was quick enough to understand in time. When she ran down the stairs I got up to follow her, yet I really did not guess what was happening until I heard you fall. You must thank her that you are still alive."
"But if the bad luck still holds," protested Michael pitifully, "then it will be all to do over again!"
He was silent as though gathering strength for further speech and then began once more.
"And I must tell you that what has been going amiss is, the whole of it, through fault of mine. There was a day, it was before you ever came to the cottage, when Mr. Donald was last here that—that—" His voice faltered, perhaps through weakness, perhaps through reluctance to go on, but he drew a breath and continued bravely. "That very morning, when I was getting my breakfast I spilled the salt dish and I thought to myself, 'Michael Martin, you will be losing your temper with some one this day.' But who was there for me to quarrel with except Miss Miranda and her father and the good Saints know I could never be vexed with them. So I went about my work and thought no more about it.
"But that afternoon I went over to the old house, it was late winter still and I was wishing to gather some pine cones for Miss Miranda's hearth, and,
