o grave a look."

"Don't you see that he is shattered in mind as well as purse?" said the
lawyer.

"No, no; I can't say that I do see that. He's a little absent sometimes,
but that's all. When I talk of Matthew Henry and discuss his
commentaries, or recite the story of dear Adam Clarke, he is a
little--just a little forgetful--that's all--yes, that is all."

"Compared with his brother--what a difference!" said Mr. Bonnithorne.

"Well, there is a difference," said the parson.

"Such spirit, such intelligence--he'll be the richest man in Cumberland
one of these days. He has bought up a royalty that is sweating ore, and
now he is laying down pumping engines and putting up smelting-houses,
and he is getting standing orders to fix a line of railway for the ore
he is fetching up."

"And where did the money come from?" asked the parson; "the money to
begin?"

Mr. Bonnithorne glanced up sharply.

"It was his share of his father's personalty."

"A big tree from such a little acorn," said the parson, meditatively,
"and quick growth, too."

"There's no saying what intelligence and enterprise will not do in this
world, Mr. Christian," said the lawyer, who seemed less certain of the
next. "Hugh Ritson is a man of 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."