well, please God," said Mrs. Ritson. "Remember, he is
sorely tried, poor boy. He expected you to do something for him.'"

"And I meant to, I meant to--that I did," the father answered in a
broken cry.

"But you've put it off, and off, Allan--- like everything else."

Allan lifted his hazy eyes from the ground, and looked into his wife's
face. "If it had been t'other lad I could have borne it maybe," he said,
feelingly.

Mr. Bonnithorne, standing aside, had been plowing the gravel with one
foot. He now raised his eyes, and said: "And yet, Mr. Ritson, folk say
that you have always shown most favor to your eldest son."

The old man's gaze rested on the lawyer for a moment, but he did not
speak at once, and there was an awkward silence.

"I've summat to say to Mr. Bonnithorne, mother," said the statesman. He
was quieter now. Mrs. Ritson stepped into the house.

Allan Ritson and the lawyer followed her, going into a little parlor to
the right of the porch. It was a quaint room, full of the odor of a
by-gone time. The floor was of polished black oak covered with skins;
the ceiling was paneled oak and had a paneled beam. Bright oak
cupboards, their fronts carved with rude figures, were set into the
walls, which were whitened, and bore one illuminated text and three
prints in black and white. The furniture was heavy and old. There was a
spinning-wheel under the wide window-board. A bluebottle buzzed about
the ceiling; a slant of sunlight crossed the floor. The men sat down.

"I sent for thee to mak' my will, Mr. Bonnithorne," said the old man.

The lawyer smiled.

"It is an old maxim that delay in affairs of law is a candle that burns
in the daytime; when the night comes it is burned to the socket."

Old Allan took little heed of the sentiment.

"Ey," he said, "but there's mair nor common 'casion for it in my case."

Mr. Bonnithorne was instantly on the alert.

"And what is your especial reason?" he asked.

Allan's mind seemed to wander. He stood silent for a moment, and then
said slowly, as if laboring with thought and phrase:

"Weel, tha must know ... I scarce know how to tell thee ... Weel, my
eldest son, Paul, as they call him--"

The old man stopped, and his manner grew sullen. Mr. Bonnithorne came to
his help.

"Yes, I am all attention--your eldest son--"

"He is--he is--"

The door opened and Mrs. Ritson entered the room, followed close by the
Laird Fisher.

"Mr. Ritson, your sheep, them black-f