sheep's head, Mr. Bonnithorne; you've not
got any tongue--here's a nice sweet bit."

"Thank you, Mr. Christian. I came round to pay the ten shillings for
Joseph Parkinson's funeral sermon last Sunday sennight, and the one
pound two half-yearly allowance from the James Bolton charity for poor
clergy-men."

"Well, well! they may well say it never rains but it pours," said the
parson. "I called at Henry Walmsley's and Robert Atkinson's on my way
home from the crossroads, and they both paid me their Martinmas
quarterage--Henry five shillings, and Robert seven shillings--and when I
dropped in on Randal Alston to pay for the welting and soling of my
shoes he said they would come to one and sixpence, but that he owed me
one and seven-pence for veal that Peter sold him, so he paid me a penny,
and we are clear from the beginning of the world to this day."

"I also wanted to speak about our young friend Greta," said Mr.
Bonnithorne, softly. "I suppose you are reconciled to losing her?"

"Losing her?--Greta!" said the parson, laying down his knife. Then
smiling, "Oh, you mean when Paul takes her--of course, of course--only
the marriage will not be yet awhile--he said so himself."

"Marriage with Paul--no," said Mr. Bonnithorne, clearing his throat and
looking grave.

Parson Christian glanced into the lawyer's face uneasily and lapsed into
silence.

"Mr. Christian, you were left guardian of Greta Lowther by our dear
friend, her mother. It becomes your duty to see that she does the best
for her future welfare and happiness."

"Surely, surely!" said the parson.

"You are an old man, Mr. Christian, and she is a young girl. When you
and I are gone, Greta Lowther will still have the battle of life before
her."

"Please God--please God!" said the parson, faintly.

"Isn't it well that you should see that she shall have a husband that
can fight it with her side by side?"

"So she shall, so she shall--Paul is a manly fellow, and as fond of her
as of his own soul--nay, as I tell him, it's idolatry and a sin before
God, his love of the girl."

"You're wrong, Mr. Christian. Paul Ritson is no fit husband for Greta.
He is a ruined man. Since his father's death he has allowed the Ghyll to
go to wreck. It is mortgaged to the last blade of grass. I know it."

Parson Christian shifted his chair from the table and gazed into the
fire with bewildered eyes.

"I knew he was in trouble," he said, "but I didn't guess that things
wore s