Then the men laughed, and the landlord handed the bottles round, and all drank out of the necks, and puffed dense volumes of smoke from their pipes, and spat on the carpet. And still the birds sung in the clear air without, and still the ghylls rumbled, and still the light wind souched through the grass, and still the morning sunlight shone over all. The door opened, and Hugh Ritson entered, followed by the lawyer, Mr. Bonnithorne. There was a steely glimmer in his eyes as he stood just inside the threshold and looked round. "Come, get out of this!" he said. The men shuffled to their feet and were elbowing their way out. Drayton, who sat on the table, removed his pipe from between his teeth and called on them to remain. Hugh Ritson stepped up to Drayton and touched him on the shoulder. "I want to speak with you," he said. "What is it?" demanded Drayton. "I want to speak with you," repeated Hugh. "What is it? Out with it. You've got the gift of the gab, hain't ye? Don't mind my friends." Hugh Ritson's face whitened, and a cold smile passed over it. "Your time is near," he muttered, and he turned on his heel. As he stepped out of the noisesome chamber, a loud, hoarse laugh followed him. He drew a long breath. "Thank God it will soon be over!" he said. Bonnithorne was at his side. "Is it to be to-morrow?" asked the lawyer. "To-morrow," said Hugh Ritson. "Have you told him?" "Tell him yourself, Bonnithorne. I can bear with the man no longer. I shall be doing something that I may repent." "Have you apprised Parson Christian?" Hugh Ritson bent his head. "And Greta?" "She won't come," said Hugh. "The girl could never breathe the same air as that scoundrel for five minutes together." "And yet he's her half-brother," said the lawyer, softly; and then he added, with the conventional smile: "Odd, isn't it?" CHAPTER II. When the procession of children had passed the little cottage at the angle of the roads, the old man who leaned on his staff at the gate turned about and stepped to the porch. "Did the boy see them?--did he see the children?" said the young woman who held the child by the hand. "I mak' na doot," said the old man. He stooped to the little one and held out one long, withered finger. The soft baby hand closed on it instantly. "Did he laugh? I thought he laughed," said the young woman. A bright smile played on her lips. "Maybe so, lass." "Ralphie has never seen the children before, father. Didn't he look frightened--just a little frightened--at first, you know? I thought he crept behind my gown." "Maybe, maybe." The little one had dropped the hand of his young mother, and, still holding the bony finger of his grandfather, he toddled beside him into the house. Very cool and sweet was the kitchen, with white-washed walls and hard earthen floor. A table and a settle stood by the window, and a dresser that was an armory of bright pewter dishes, trenchers, and piggins crossed the opposite wall.