spirit and brains. Now, that's the husband for Greta – that is, if you can get him – and I don't know that you can – but if it were only possible – "
Parson Christian faced about.
"Mr. Bonnithorne," he said, gravely, "the girl is not up for sale, and the richest man in Cumberland can't buy her. The thirty pieces of silver for which Judas sold his master may have been smelted and coined afresh, but not a piece of that money shall touch fingers of mine!"
"You mistake me, Mr. Christian, believe me, you do," protested the lawyer, with an aggrieved expression. "I was speaking in our young friend's interests. Whatever occurs, I beg of you, as a friend and well-wisher of the daughter of Robert Lowther, now in his grave, never to allow her to marry Paul Ritson."
"That shall be as God wills it," said the parson quietly.
The lawyer had risen and drawn on his great-coat.
"She can stay here with me," continued the parson.
"No, she should marry now," said Mr. Bonnithorne, stepping to the door. "She's all but of age. It is hardly fair to keep her."
"Why, what do you mean?" asked the parson, a puzzled look on his face.
"She is rich and she is young. Her wealth can buy comforts, and her youth win pleasures."
The good old Christian opened wide his great gray eyes with a blank expression. He glanced vacantly about the simple room, rose to his feet, and sat down again.
"I never thought of that before," he said, faintly, and staring long into the fire.
There was a heavy foot on the path outside. The latch was lifted, and Paul Ritson stepped into the room. At the sound of his step Greta tripped through the inner door, all joy and eagerness, to welcome him. The parson got up and held out both hands, the clouds gone from his beaming face.
"Well, good-night," said the lawyer, opening the door. "I've four long miles before me. And how dark! how very dark!"
Paul Ritson was in truth a changed man.
His face was pale and haggard, and his eyes were bleared and heavy. He dropped with a listless weariness into the chair that Greta drew up to the fire. When he smiled the lips lagged back to a gloomy repose, and when he laughed the note of merriment rang hollow and fell short.
"Just in time for a game with me, my lad!" said the parson. "Greta, fetch the chessboard and box."
The board was brought, the pieces fixed; the parson settled himself at his ease, with slippers on the hearth-rug and a handkerchief across his knee.
"Do you know, Paul, I heard a great parl about you to-day?"
"About me! Where?" asked Paul, without much curiosity in his tone.
"At Mr. Proudfoot's smithy, while I was turning the fallows in the meadow down at the crossroads. Little Mr. Oglethorpe was saying that you slept at the Pack Horse, in Keswick, the night before last; but Mr. Job Sheepshanks, the letter-cutter, said nay, and they had high words indeed, wherein Job called Mr. Oglethorpe all but his proper name, and flung away in high dudgeon."
Paul moved his pawn and said, "I never slept at the Pack Horse in my life, Mr. Christian."
Greta sat knitting at one side of the ingle. The kitten, with a bell attached to a ribbon about its neck, sported with the bows of her dainty slippers. Only the click of the needles, and the tinkle of the bell, and the hollow tick of the great clock in the corner broke the silence.
At last Parson Christian drew himself up in his chair.
"Well, Paul, man, Paul – deary me, what a sad move! You're going back, back, back; once you could beat me five games to four. Now I can run away with you."
The game soon finished, amid a chuckle from the parson, a bantering word from Greta, and a loud, forced laugh from Paul.
Parson Christian lifted from a shelf a ponderous tome bound in leather and incased in green cloth.
"I must make my day's entry," he said, "and get off to bed. I was astir before day-break this morning."
Greta crept up behind the old man, and looked over his shoulder as he wrote:
"Nov. 21. – Retired to my lodging-room last night, and commended my all to God, and lay down, and fell asleep; but Peter minded the heifer that was near to calving; so he came and wakened me, and we went down and sealed her, and foddered her, and milked her. Spent all day plowing the low meadow, Peter delving potatoes. Called at the Flying Horse, and sat while I drank one pot of ale and no more, and paid for it. Received ten shillings from Lawyer Bonnithorne for funeral sermon, and one pound two from Bolton charity; also five shillings quarterage from Henry Walmsley, and seven from Robert Atkinson, and a penny to square accounts from Randal Alston, and so retired to my closet at peace with all the world. Blessed be God."
The parson returned to its shelf the ponderous diary "made to view his life and actions in," and called through the inner door for his bedroom candle. A morose voice answered "Coming," and presently came.
"Thank you, Peter; and how's the meeting-house, and who preaches there next Sunday, Peter?"
Peter grumbled out:
"I don't know as it's not yourself. I passed them my word as you'd exhort 'em a' Sunday afternoon."
"But nobody has ever asked me. You should have mentioned the matter to me first, Peter, before promising. But never mind, I'm willing, though it's a poor discourse they can get from me."
Turning to Paul, who sat silent before the fire:
"Peter has left us and turned Methodist," said the parson; "he is now Brother Peter Ward, and wants me to preach at the meeting-house. Well, I won't say nay. Many a good ordained clergyman has been dissenting minister as well. Good-night to you… Peter, I wish you to get some whipcord and tie up the reel of my fishing-rod – there it is, on the rafters of the ceiling; and a bit more cord to go round the handle of my whip – it leans against the leads of the neuk window; and, Peter, I'm going to go to the mill with the oats to-morrow, and Robin Atkinson has loaned me his shandry and mare. Robin always puts a bushel of grain into the box, but it's light and only small feeding. I wish you to get a bushel of better to mix with it, and make it more worth the mare's labor to eat it. Good-night all; good night."
Peter grumbled something beneath his breath and shambled out.
"God bless him!" said Greta presently; and Paul, without lifting his eyes from the fire, said quietly:
"'Christe's lore, and His apostles twelve
He taught; but first he followed it himselve.'"
Then there was silence in the little vicarage. Paul sat without animation until Greta set herself to bewitch him out of his moodiness. Her bright eyes, dancing in the rosy fire-light that flickered in the room; her high spirits bubbling over with delicious teasing and joyous sprightliness; her tenderness, her rippling laughter, her wit, her badinage – all were brought to the defeat and banishment of Paul's heaviness of soul. It was to no purpose. The gloom of the grave face would not be conquered. Paul smiled slightly into the gleaming eyes, and laughed faintly at the pouting lips, and stroked tenderly the soft hair that was glorified into gold in the glint of the fire-light; but the old sad look came back once and again.
Greta gave it up at last. She rose from the hassock
