--the
appetite of curiosity--was eating at her heart. She laid down her knife.
The parson could hide his concern no longer.

"Dear me, my lass, you and that braw lad of yours are like David and
Jonathan, and" (with a stern wag of his white head) "I'm not so sure
that I won't turn myself into Saul and fling my javelin at him for
envy."

The parson certainly did not look too revengeful at that moment, with
the mist gathering in his eyes.

"Talking of Saul," said little Jacob, "there's that story of the witch
of Endor, and Saul seein' Sam'el when he was dead. I reckon as that's
no'but another version of what happened at the fire a' Saturday neet."

Parson Christian glanced furtively at Greta's drooping head, and then
meeting the tailor's eye, he put his finger to his lips.

When dinner was over the parson lifted from the shelf the huge tome,
"made to view his life and actions in." He drew his chair to the fire
and began to turn over the earliest leaves. Greta had thrown on her
cloak and was fixing her hat.

"I'm going to see poor Mrs. Truesdale," she said. Then, coming behind
the old man, and glancing over his shoulder at the book on his knees,
"What are you looking for?" she asked, and smiled; "a prescription for
envy?"

The parson shook his old head gravely. "You must know I met young Mr.
Ritson this morning?"

"Hugh?"

"Yes; he was riding home from his iron pits, but stopped and asked me if
I could tell him when his father, who is dead and gone, poor fellow,
came first to these parts, and how old his brother Paul might be at that
time."

"Why did he ask?" said Greta, eagerly.

"Nay, I scarce can say. I told him I could not tell without looking at
my book. Let me see; it must be a matter of seven-and-twenty years ago.
How old is your sweetheart, Greta?"

"Paul is twenty-eight."

"And this is the year seventy-five. Twenty-eight from
seventy-five--that's forty-seven. Paul was a wee toddle, I remember.
I'll look for forty-seven. Eighteen forty-four, forty-five,
forty-six--here it is--forty-seven. And, bless me, the very page! Look,
here we have it."

Then the parson read this entry in his diary:

"'Nov. 18th.--Being promised to preach at John Skerton's church, at
Ravenglass, I got ready to go thither. I took my mare and set forward
and went direct to Thomas Storsacre's, where I was to lodge. It rained
sore all the day, and I was wet, and took off my coat and let it run an
hour. Then we supped and sat d