the
"attachment" of his spouse.

"The law," said Mr. Bonnithorne, "can compel a wife to live with her
husband, or punish her with imprisonment for not doing so."

"D'ye hear?" said Drayton, slapping furiously at the sole of his boot.
"Punish her with imprisonment."

There was a pause, and then the parson said, quietly but firmly:

"I gather that it means that you want to share this lady's property."

"Well, what of it? Hain't I a right to share it, eh?"

"You have thus far enjoyed the benefit of her mortgages, on the pretense
that you are her husband; but now you are going too far."

"We'll see. Here, you," prodding the lawyer, "take proceedings at once.
If she won't come, imprison her. D'ye hear--imprison her!"

He swung about and caught the reins from the horse's mane, laughing a
hollow laugh. Greta disengaged her hand from the hand of the parson, and
stepped up to Drayton until she stood before him face to face, her eyes
flashing, her lips quivering, her cheeks pale, her whole figure erect
and firm.

"And what of that?" she said. "Do you think to frighten me with the
cruelties of the law?--me?--me?" she echoed, with scorn in every
syllable. "Have I suffered so little from it already that you dare to
say, 'Imprison her,' as if that would drive me to your house?"

Drayton tried to laugh, but the feeble effort died on his hot lips. He
spat on the ground, and then tried to lift his eyes back to the eyes of
Greta, but they fell to the whip that he held in his hand.

"Imprison me, Paul Drayton! I shall not be the first you've imprisoned.
Imprison me, and I shall be rid of you and your imposture!" she said,
raising her voice.

Drayton leaped to the saddle.

"I'll do it!" he muttered; and now, pale, crushed, his braggadocio gone,
he tugged his horse's head aside and brought down the whip on its flank.

Parson Christian turned to Mr. Bonnithorne.

"Follow him," he said, resolutely, and lifted his hand.

The lawyer made a show of explanation, then assumed an air of authority,
but finally encountered the parson's white face, and turned away.

In another moment Greta was hanging on Parson Christian's neck, sobbing
and moaning, while the good old Christian, with all the mellowness back
in his wrinkled face, smoothed her hair as tenderly as a woman.

"My poor Paul, my dear husband!" cried Greta.

"Ah! thanks be to God, things are at their worst now, and they can't
move but they must mend," said the parson.