Ay; Randal Alston has loaned me his mare."

"Why, man, what a upshot we'll have, for sure--bacon pie and veal and
haggis, and top stannin pie and puddings, I reckon.... Just a hand to
her leg, parson, while I strip the coat and waistcoat off this
black-faced herdwick.... Is the mistress to come home, too?"

"Nay, Reuben, Mrs. Ritson has gone back to where she came from."

"Weel, it's no'but naturable, after all that's happent.... Easy now ...
be quiet, wilta ... dusta want another snip, eh?... And young Mistress
Greta--it's like she'll be mistress now?"

"It's very likely she'll come to the Ghyll with her husband, Reuben."

"God bless her! And there's been no luck on the land since he left
it--and everything a fault, too.... There, she's stripped. Away with
her, Natt, man, and de'il tak' her."

In the afternoon a vast crowd of men, women and children had gathered
once more about the old town-hall at Keswick. They laughed and bantered
and sung. Presently the door of the hall was thrown open, and two men
came out. One was Paul Ritson, no longer clad as a convict; the other
was Parson Christian. The people hailed them with a mighty shout, lifted
them into a gig that was drawn up in the market-place, took out the
horses and crowded into the shafts. Then they set off with a great cheer
through the town and the country road, the dust rising in clouds behind
them.

They took the road to the west of the valley, and as they passed under
the wood, an old man, much bent, was easing a smoking fire in the
charcoal pit. He paused and raised himself, his iron rod in his hand,
and lifted his heavy eyes toward the clamorous company. The gig flew
past with its shouts, its cheers, and its noisy laughter, and the old
man turned silently back to his work.

When they came near to the vicarage, Paul leaped from the carriage over
the heads of the men who pulled it, vaulted the gate, and bounded into
the house. There was one who waited for him there, and in an instant she
was locked close in his arms. "At last!" he whispered. Her heart
overflowed; she dropped her fair young head on his heaving breast, and
wept sweet tears.

Parson Christian came rolling up the path surrounded by a tumultuous
throng. Foremost and lustiest were the blacksmith and the miller, and
close behind came the landlord and the postman. All were shouting as if
their brassy throats might crack.

There was high revel at the Ghyll that evening. First came the feasti