he bedroom occupied by Paul Drayton. He
opened the door without knocking. It was dark within. Thin streaks of
dusty sunlight shot from between a pair of heavy curtains. The air was
noisome with dead tobacco smoke and the fumes of stale beer. Hugh's
gorge rose, but he conquered his disgust.

"Who's there?" said a husky voice from behind the dark hangings of a
four-post bed that was all but hidden in the gloom.

"The friends are here," said Hugh Ritson, cheerily. "How long will you
be?"

There was a suppressed chuckle.

"All right."

"We will begin breakfast," said Hugh. He was turning to go.

"Is that lawyer man back from Scotland?" asked Drayton.

"Bonnithorne? He's here--he didn't say that he'd been away," said Hugh.

"All right."

Hugh Ritson returned to the bed-head. "Have you heard," he said in a
subdued voice, "that the doctors have operated on the girl Mercy, and
that she is likely to regain her sight?"

"Eh? What?" Drayton had started up in bed. Then rolling down his sleeves
and buttoning them leisurely, he added: "But that ain't nothing to me."

Hugh Ritson left the room. He was in spirits indeed, for he had borne
even this encounter with equanimity. As he passed through the house,
Brother Peter entered at the porch with a letter in his hand.

"Is Parson Christian coming?" said Hugh.

"Don't know 'at I've heard," said Peter. "He's boddered me to fetch ye a
scribe of a line. Here 'tis."

Hugh Ritson opened the envelope. The note ran:

"I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to break bread with one who
has broken the peace of my household; nor is it agreeable to my duty
as a minister of Christ to give the countenance of my presence to
proceedings which must be a sham, inasmuch as the person concerned is
an imposter--with the which name I yet hope to brand him when the
proper time and circumstances arrive."

Hugh smiled as he read the letter; then he thrust a shilling into
Peter's unyielding hand, and shot away.

"The parson will not come," said Hugh, drawing Bonnithorne aside; "but
that can not matter. If he is Greta's guardian, you are her father's
executor." Then, raising his voice, "Gentlemen," he said, "my brother
wishes us to begin breakfast; he will join us presently."

The company was soon seated; the talk was brisk and cheerful.

"Glorious prospect," said a gentleman sitting opposite the open window.
"Often wonder you don't throw out a bay, Mr. Ritson."

"I've tho