ig oak cabinet all shiny with oil--"

"Varnish, sir, varnish."

"And all the carvings on it as fresh as a new pin--St. Peter with his
great key, and the rich man with his money-bag trying to defy the fiery
furnace."

"Didn't I say you would scarcely know your own house when you came home
again?" said Greta.

She was busying herself at spreading the cloth on the round table and
laying the parson's supper.

Parson Christian was revolving on his slippered toes, his eyes full of
child-like amazement, and a maturer twinkle of knowingness lurking in
that corner of his aged orbs that was not directly under the fire of
the girl's sharp, delighted gaze.

"Deary me, have you a young lady at home, Mr. Bonnithorne?"

"You know I am a bachelor, Mr. Christian," said the lawyer, demurely.

"So am I--so am I. I never knew any better--not until our old friend
Mrs. Lowther died and left me to take charge of her daughter."

"Mother should have asked me to take charge of Mr. Christian, shouldn't
she, Mr. Bonnithorne?" said Greta, with roguish eyes.

"Well, there's something in that," said the parson, with a laugh. "Peter
was getting old and a bit rusty in the hinges, you know, and we were
likely to turn out a pair of old crows fit for nothing but to scare good
Christians from the district. But Greta came to the musty old house,
with its dust and its cobwebs, and its two old human spiders, like a
slant of sunlight on a muggy day. Here's supper--draw up your chair, Mr.
Bonnithorne, and welcome. It's my favorite dish--she knows it--barley
broth and a sheep's head, with boiled potatoes and mashed turnips. Draw
up your chair--but where's the pot of ale, Greta?"

"Peter! Peter!"

The other spider presently appeared, carrying a quart jug with a little
mountain of froth--a crater bubbling over and down the sides.

"Been delving for potatoes to-day, Peter?" said the parson.

Peter answered with a grumpy nod of his big head.

"How many bushels?"

"Maybe a matter of twelve," muttered Peter, shambling out.

Then the parson and his guest fell to.

"You're a happy man, Mr. Christian," said Mr. Bonnithorne, as Greta left
the room on some domestic errand.

Parson Christian shook his head.

"No call for grace," he said, "with all the luxuries of life thrown into
one's lap--that's the worst of living such a happy life. No trials, no
cross--nothing to say but 'Soul, take thine ease'--and that's bad when
you think of it.... Have some