his
hand into his pocket, feeling as if he had dipped it into a bag of eels,
and drew out the lawyer's letter. It was wet, and the ink of the
superscription was beginning to run.

Tom o' Dint also began to run. Fearing trouble, he left his
unsympathetic cronies, hurried on to the church, went into the vestry,
where he knew there would be a fire, and proceeded to dry the letter.
The water had softened the gum, and the envelope had opened.

"So much the mair easier dried," thought Tom, and, nothing loath, he
drew out the letter, unfolded it, and held it to the fire.

The paper was smoking with the heat, and so was Tom, when he heard
carriage-wheels without, and then a mighty hubbub, and loud voices
mentioning his own name without reverence: "Where's that clothead of a
fiddler?" and sundry other dubious allusions.

Tom knew that he ought to be at the gate striking up a merry tune to
welcome the bride. But then the letter was not dry. There was not a
moment to lose. Tom spread the paper and envelope on the fender,
intending to return for them, and dashed off with his fiddle to the
discharge of his artistic duty.

As Tom o' Dint left the vestry, Parson Christian entered it. The parson
saw the papers on his fender, picked them up, and in all innocence read
them. The letter ran as follows:

"Morley's Hotel, Trafalgar Square, Nov. 28.

"Dear Bonnithorne,--The man who was in Newlands is Paul Lowther,
Greta's half-brother. Paul Ritson is my own brother, my father's son.
Keep this to yourself as you value your salvation, your pride, or
your purse, or whatever else you hold most dear. Send me by wire
to-day the name of their hotel in London, the time of their train
south, and who, if any, are with them.

Yours,

"HUGH RITSON."

"P.S.--The girl Mercy will be troublesome."

The parson had scarcely time to understand the words he read, when he,
too, was compelled to leave the vestry. The bride and bridegroom had met
at the church door. It was usual to receive them at the altar with
music. The fiddler's function was at an end for the present. Parson
Christian could not allow the fiddle to be heard in church. There a less
secular instrument was required. The church was too poor for an organ;
it had not yet reached the dignity of a harmonium; but it had an
accordion, and among the parson's offices was the office of
accordionist. So, throwing his gown over his head, he walked into the
c