Parson Christian lifted from a shelf a ponderous tome bound in leather
and incased in green cloth.

"I must make my day's entry," he said, "and get off to bed. I was astir
before day-break this morning."

Greta crept up behind the old man, and looked over his shoulder as he
wrote:

"Nov. 21.--Retired to my lodging-room last night, and commended my
all to God, and lay down, and fell asleep; but Peter minded the
heifer that was near to calving; so he came and wakened me, and we
went down and sealed her, and foddered her, and milked her. Spent all
day plowing the low meadow, Peter delving potatoes. Called at the
Flying Horse, and sat while I drank one pot of ale and no more, and
paid for it. Received ten shillings from Lawyer Bonnithorne for
funeral sermon, and one pound two from Bolton charity; also five
shillings quarterage from Henry Walmsley, and seven from Robert
Atkinson, and a penny to square accounts from Randal Alston, and so
retired to my closet at peace with all the world. Blessed be God."

The parson returned to its shelf the ponderous diary "made to view his
life and actions in," and called through the inner door for his bedroom
candle. A morose voice answered "Coming," and presently came.

"Thank you, Peter; and how's the meeting-house, and who preaches there
next Sunday, Peter?"

Peter grumbled out:

"I don't know as it's not yourself. I passed them my word as you'd
exhort 'em a' Sunday afternoon."

"But nobody has ever asked me. You should have mentioned the matter to
me first, Peter, before promising. But never mind, I'm willing, though
it's a poor discourse they can get from me."

Turning to Paul, who sat silent before the fire:

"Peter has left us and turned Methodist," said the parson; "he is now
Brother Peter Ward, and wants me to preach at the meeting-house. Well, I
won't say nay. Many a good ordained clergyman has been dissenting
minister as well. Good-night to you.... Peter, I wish you to get some
whipcord and tie up the reel of my fishing-rod--there it is, on the
rafters of the ceiling; and a bit more cord to go round the handle of my
whip--it leans against the leads of the neuk window; and, Peter, I'm
going to go to the mill with the oats to-morrow, and Robin Atkinson has
loaned me his shandry and mare. Robin always puts a bushel of grain into
the box, but it's light and only small feeding. I wish you to get a
bushel of better to mix with it, and mak