me," he said; "drive home."

Natt drove as far homeward as the Flying Horse, and then turned in there
for a crack, leaving the trap in the road. Before he left the inn, a
discovery yet more astounding, if somewhat less amusing, was made by his
swift and subtle intellect.

CHAPTER XII.

An itinerant mendicant preacher had walked through the valley that day,
and when night fell in he had gravitated to the parson's door.

"Seeing the sun low," he said, "and knowing it a long way to Keswick,
and I not being able to abide the night air, but sure to catch a cold, I
came straight to your house."

Like other guests of high degree, the shoeless being made a virtue of
accepting hospitality.

"Come in, brother, and welcome," said Parson Christian; and that night
the wayfarer lodged at the vicarage. He was a poor, straggle-headed
creature, with a broken brain as well as a broken purse, but he had the
warm seat at the ingle.

Greta heard Paul's step on the path and ran to meet him.

"Paul, Paul! thank God you are here at last!"

Her manner was warm and impulsive to seriousness, but Paul was in no
humor to make nice distinctions.

Parson Christian rose from his seat before the fire and shook hands with
feeling and gravity.

"Right glad to see you, good lad," he said. "This is Brother Jolly," he
added, "a fellow-soldier of the cross, who has suffered sore for
neglecting Solomon's injunction against suretyship."

Paul took the flaccid hand of the fellow-soldier, and then drew Greta
aside into the recess of the square window.

"It's all settled," he said, eagerly; "I saw my father's old friend, and
agreed to go out to his sheep runs as steward, with the prospect of
farming for myself in two years' time. I have been busy, I can tell you.
Only listen. On Monday I saw the good old gentleman--he's living in
London now, and he won't go back to Victoria, he tells me--wants to lay
his bones where they were got, he says--funny old dog, rather--says he
remembers my father when he wasn't as solemn as a parish clerk on Ash
Wednesday. Well, on Monday I saw the old fellow, and settled terms and
things--liberal old chap, too, if he has got a hawk beak--regular
Shylock, you know. Well--where was I? Oh, of course--then on Tuesday I
took out our berths--yours, mother's, and mine--the ship is called the
'Ballarat'--queer name--a fine sea-boat, though--she leaves the London
docks next Wednesday--"

"Next Wednesday?" said Greta, a