tant
sight.

"Er--why, what's that?" he said; "the sneck of a gate, eh?"

Greta drew herself up.

"How can you--and all the people looking--they might really think that
we were--we were--"

Paul came behind, put his head over one shoulder, and said:

"And we're not, are we?"

"They're weel matched, mother, eh?" said Allan, turning to his wife.
"They're marra-to-bran, as folks say. Greta, he's a girt booby, isn't
he?"

Greta stepped up to the old man, and with a familiar gesture laid a hand
on his arm. At the same moment Paul came to his side. Allan tapped his
son on the back.

"Thou girt lang booby," he said, and laughed heartily. All the shadows
that had hung over him were gone. "And how's Parson Christian?" he asked
in another tone.

"Well, quite well, and as dear an old soul as ever," said Greta.

"He's father and mother to thee baith, my lass. I never knew thy awn
father. He was dead and gone before we coom't to these parts. And thy
mother, too, God bless her! she's dead and gone now. But if this lad of
mine, this Paul, this girt lang--Ah, and here's Mr. Bonnithorne, and
Hughie, too."

The return of the lawyer and Hugh Ritson abridged the threat of
punishment that seemed to hang on the old man's lips.

Hugh Ritson's lifted eyes had comprehended everything. The girl leaning
over his father's arm; the pure, smooth cheeks close to the swarthy,
weather-beaten, comfortable old face; the soft gaze upward full of
feeling; the half-open lips and the teeth like pearls; then the glance
round, half of mockery, half of protest, altogether of unconquerable
love, to where Paul Ritson stood, his eyes just breaking into a smile;
the head, the neck, the arms, the bosom still heaving gently after the
race; the light loose costume--Hugh Ritson saw it all, and his heart
beat fast. His pale face whitened at that moment, and his infirm foot
trailed heavily on the gravel.

Allan shook hands with Mr. Bonnithorne, and then turned to his sons.
"Come, you two lads have not been gude friends latterly, and that's a
sair grief baith to your mother and me. You're not made in the same mold
seemingly. But you must mak' up your fratch, my lads, for your auld
folks' sake, if nowt else."

At this he stretched out both arms, as if with the intention of joining
their hands. Hugh made a gesture of protestation.

"I have no quarrel to make up," he said, and turned aside.

Paul held out his hand. "Shake hands, Hugh," he said. Hugh too