he way I told you of
before, but the man denied that he was what Hugh called him, and clung
to it that he was Paul Ritson, and brought documents to show that Paul
was his father's rightful heir, after all."

"Well, well?" asked Greta, breathlessly.

Peter had shambled on to the house.

"Well, Natt is no very trustworthy chronicler, I fear, but one thing is
plain, and that is, that Mr. Hugh, who thought to turn yon man out of
the house, has been turned out of it himself."

Greta stood in the road, trembling from head to foot.

"My poor husband!" she said in a whisper. Then came a torrent of
questions. "When did this happen? What think you will come of it? Where
will Hugh go? What will he do? Ah, Mr. Christian, you always said the
cruel instrument would turn in his hand!"

There was a step behind them. In their anxiety they had not noticed it
until it was close at their heels. They turned, and were face to face
with Mr. Bonnithorne.

The lawyer bowed, but before they had exchanged the courtesies of
welcome, a horse's tramp came from the road, and in a moment Drayton
rode up the lonnin. His face was flushed, and his manner noisy as he
leaped from the saddle into their midst.

Greta lifted one hand to her breast, and with the other hand she clasped
that of the parson. The old man's face grew rigid in an instant, and
all the mellowness natural to it died away.

Drayton made up to Greta and the parson with an air of braggadocio.

"I've come to tell you once for all that my wife must live under my
roof."

No one answered. Drayton took a step near, and slapped his boot with his
riding-whip.

"The law backs me up in it, and I mean to have it out."

Still there was no answer, and Drayton's braggadocio gathered assurance
from the silence.

"Not as I want her. None of your shrinking away, madame." A hoarse
laugh. "Burn my body! if I wouldn't as soon have my mother for a wife."

"What then?" said the parson in a low tone.

"Appearances. I ain't to be a laughing-stock of the neighborhood any
longer. My wife's my wife. A husband's a husband, and wants obedience."

"And what if you do not get it?" asked the parson, his old face
whitening.

"What? Imprisonment--that's what." Drayton twisted about and touched the
lawyer with the handle of his whip. "Here, you, tell 'em what's what."

Thus appealed to, Mr. Bonnithorne explained that a husband was entitled
to the restitution of connubial rights, and, in default, to