came behind, put his head over one shoulder, and said:
"And we're not, are we?"
"They're weel matched, mother, eh?" said Allan, turning to his wife. "They're marra-to-bran, as folks say. Greta, he's a girt booby, isn't he?"
Greta stepped up to the old man, and with a familiar gesture laid a hand on his arm. At the same moment Paul came to his side. Allan tapped his son on the back.
"Thou girt lang booby," he said, and laughed heartily. All the shadows that had hung over him were gone. "And how's Parson Christian?" he asked in another tone.
"Well, quite well, and as dear an old soul as ever," said Greta.
"He's father and mother to thee baith, my lass. I never knew thy awn father. He was dead and gone before we coom't to these parts. And thy mother, too, God bless her! she's dead and gone now. But if this lad of mine, this Paul, this girt lang – Ah, and here's Mr. Bonnithorne, and Hughie, too."
The return of the lawyer and Hugh Ritson abridged the threat of punishment that seemed to hang on the old man's lips.
Hugh Ritson's lifted eyes had comprehended everything. The girl leaning over his father's arm; the pure, smooth cheeks close to the swarthy, weather-beaten, comfortable old face; the soft gaze upward full of feeling; the half-open lips and the teeth like pearls; then the glance round, half of mockery, half of protest, altogether of unconquerable love, to where Paul Ritson stood, his eyes just breaking into a smile; the head, the neck, the arms, the bosom still heaving gently after the race; the light loose costume – Hugh Ritson saw it all, and his heart beat fast. His pale face whitened at that moment, and his infirm foot trailed heavily on the gravel.
Allan shook hands with Mr. Bonnithorne, and then turned to his sons. "Come, you two lads have not been gude friends latterly, and that's a sair grief baith to your mother and me. You're not made in the same mold seemingly. But you must mak' up your fratch, my lads, for your auld folks' sake, if nowt else."
At this he stretched out both arms, as if with the intention of joining their hands. Hugh made a gesture of protestation.
"I have no quarrel to make up," he said, and turned aside.
Paul held out his hand. "Shake hands, Hugh," he said. Hugh took the proffered hand with unresponsive coldness.
Paul glanced into his brother's face a moment, and said:
"What's the use of breeding malice? It's a sort of live stock that's not worth its fodder, and it eats up everything."
There was a scarcely perceptible curl on Hugh Ritson's lip, but he turned silently away. With head on his breast, he walked toward the porch.
"Stop!"
It was old Allan's voice. The deep tone betrayed the anger that was choking him. His face was flushed, his eyes were stern, his lips trembled.
"Come back and shak' hands wi' thy brother reet."
Hugh Ritson faced about, leaning heavily on his infirm foot.
"Why to-day more than yesterday or to-morrow?" he said, calmly.
"Come back, I tell thee!" shouted the old man more hotly.
Hugh maintained his hold of himself, and said in a quiet and even voice, "I am no longer a child."
"Then bear thysel' like a man – not like a whipped hound."
The young man shuddered secretly from head to foot. His eyes flashed for an instant. Then, recovering his self-control, he said:
"Even a dog would resent such language, sir."
Greta had dropped aside from the painful scene, and for a moment Hugh Ritson's eyes followed her.
"I'll have no sec worriment in my house," shouted the old man in a broken voice. "Those that live here must live at peace. Those that want war must go."
Hugh Ritson could bear up no longer.
"And what is your house to me, sir? What has it done for me? The world is wide."
Old Allan was confounded. Silent, dumb, with great staring eyes, he looked round into the faces of those about him. Then in thick, choking tones he shouted:
"Shak' thy brother's hand, or thou'rt no brother of his."
"Perhaps not," said Hugh very quietly.
"Shak' hands, I tell thee." The old man's fists were clinched. His body quivered in every limb.
His son's lips were firmly set; he made no answer.
The old man snatched from Mr. Bonnithorne the stick he carried. At this Hugh lifted his eyes sharply until they met the eyes of his father. Allan was transfixed. The stick fell from his hand. Then Hugh Ritson halted into the house.
"Come back, come back … my boy … Hughie … come back!" the old man sobbed out. But there was no reply.
"Allan, be patient, forgive him; he will ask your pardon," said Mrs. Ritson.
Paul and Greta had stolen away. The old man was now speechless, and his eyes, bent on the ground, swam with tears.
"All will be well, please God," said Mrs. Ritson. "Remember, he is sorely tried, poor boy. He expected you to do something for him.'"
"And I meant to, I meant to – that I did," the father answered in a broken cry.
"But you've put it off, and off, Allan – like everything else."
Allan lifted his hazy eyes from the ground, and looked into his wife's face. "If it had been t'other lad I could have borne it maybe," he said, feelingly.
Mr. Bonnithorne, standing aside, had been plowing the gravel with one foot. He now raised his eyes, and said: "And yet, Mr. Ritson, folk say that you have always shown most favor to your eldest son."
The old man's gaze rested on the lawyer for a moment, but he did not speak at once, and there was an awkward silence.
"I've summat to say to Mr. Bonnithorne, mother," said the statesman. He was quieter now. Mrs. Ritson stepped into the house.
Allan Ritson and the lawyer followed her, going into a little parlor to the right of the porch. It was a quaint room, full of the odor of a by-gone time. The floor was of polished black oak covered with skins; the ceiling was paneled oak and had a paneled beam. Bright oak cupboards, their fronts carved with rude figures, were set into the walls, which were whitened, and bore one illuminated text and three prints in black and white. The furniture was heavy and old. There was a spinning-wheel under the wide window-board. A bluebottle buzzed about the ceiling; a slant of sunlight crossed the floor. The men sat down.
"I sent for thee to mak' my will, Mr. Bonnithorne," said the old man.
The lawyer smiled.
"It is an old maxim that delay in affairs of law is a candle that burns in the daytime; when the night comes it is burned to the socket."
Old Allan took little heed of the sentiment.
"Ey," he said, "but there's mair nor common 'casion for it in my case."
Mr.
