"Who's there?" said a husky voice from behind the dark hangings of a four-post bed that was all but hidden in the gloom. "The friends are here," said Hugh Ritson, cheerily. "How long will you be?" There was a suppressed chuckle. "All right." "We will begin breakfast," said Hugh. He was turning to go. "Is that lawyer man back from Scotland?" asked Drayton. "Bonnithorne? He's here--he didn't say that he'd been away," said Hugh. "All right." Hugh Ritson returned to the bed-head. "Have you heard," he said in a subdued voice, "that the doctors have operated on the girl Mercy, and that she is likely to regain her sight?" "Eh? What?" Drayton had started up in bed. Then rolling down his sleeves and buttoning them leisurely, he added: "But that ain't nothing to me." Hugh Ritson left the room. He was in spirits indeed, for he had borne even this encounter with equanimity. As he passed through the house, Brother Peter entered at the porch with a letter in his hand. "Is Parson Christian coming?" said Hugh. "Don't know 'at I've heard," said Peter. "He's boddered me to fetch ye a scribe of a line. Here 'tis." Hugh Ritson opened the envelope. The note ran: "I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to break bread with one who has broken the peace of my household; nor is it agreeable to my duty as a minister of Christ to give the countenance of my presence to proceedings which must be a sham, inasmuch as the person concerned is an imposter--with the which name I yet hope to brand him when the proper time and circumstances arrive." Hugh smiled as he read the letter; then he thrust a shilling into Peter's unyielding hand, and shot away. "The parson will not come," said Hugh, drawing Bonnithorne aside; "but that can not matter. If he is Greta's guardian, you are her father's executor." Then, raising his voice, "Gentlemen," he said, "my brother wishes us to begin breakfast; he will join us presently." The company was soon seated; the talk was brisk and cheerful. "Glorious prospect," said a gentleman sitting opposite the open window. "Often wonder you don't throw out a bay, Mr. Ritson." "I've thought of it," said Hugh, "but it's not worth while to spend such money until one is master of one's own house." "Ah, true, true!" said several voices in chorus. Drayton entered, his eyes red, his face sallow. "Morning, gents," he said in his thick guttural. Two of the gentlemen rose, and bowed with frigid politeness. "Good morning, Mr. Ritson," said the third. The servant had followed Drayton into the room with a beefsteak underdone. "Post not come?" he asked, shifting his plates. "It can't be long now," said Bonnithorne, consulting his watch. "Sooner the better," Drayton muttered. He took some papers from a breast-pocket and counted them; then fixed them in his waistcoat, where his watch would have been if he had worn one.