"Shak' hands, I tell thee." The old man's fists were clinched. His body quivered in every limb. His son's lips were firmly set; he made no answer. The old man snatched from Mr. Bonnithorne the stick he carried. At this Hugh lifted his eyes sharply until they met the eyes of his father. Allan was transfixed. The stick fell from his hand. Then Hugh Ritson halted into the house. "Come back, come back ... my boy ... Hughie ... come back!" the old man sobbed out. But there was no reply. "Allan, be patient, forgive him; he will ask your pardon," said Mrs. Ritson. Paul and Greta had stolen away. The old man was now speechless, and his eyes, bent on the ground, swam with tears. "All will be 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--"