When Parson Christian finished his plowing, the day was far spent. He gave the boy a shilling as day's wage for leading the horses, drove the team back to their owner, Robert Atkinson, paid five shillings for the day's hire of them, and set out for home. On the way thither he called at Henry Walmsley's, the grocery store in the village, and bought half a pound of tea, a can of coffee, and a stone of sugar; then at Randal Alston's, the shoemaker's, and paid for the repairing of a pair of boots, and put them under his arm; finally, he looked in at the Flying Horse and called for a pot of ale, and drank it, and smoked a pipe and had a crack with Tommy Lowthwaite, the publican. The mist had risen as the day wore on, and now that the twilight was creeping down the valley, the lane to the vicarage could be plainly seen in its yellow carpeting of fallen leaves. An outer door of the house stood open, and a rosy glow streamed from the fire into the porch. Not less bright was the face within that was waiting to welcome the old vicar home. "Back again, Greta, back again!" shouted the parson, rolling into the cozy room with his ballast under either arm. "There--wait--fair play, girl--ah, you rogue!--now that's what I call a mean advantage!" There was a smack of lips, a little laugh in a silvery voice with a merry lilt in it, and then a deep-toned mutter of affected protestation breaking down into silence and a broad smile. At arms-length Greta glanced at the parson's burdens, and summoned an austere look. "Now, didn't I tell you never to do it again?" she said, with an uplifted finger and an air of stern reproof. "Did you now?" said the parson, with an expression of bland innocence--adding, in an accent of wonderment: "What a memory I have, to be sure!" "Leave such domestic duties to your domestic superiors," said the girl, keeping a countenance of amazing severity. "Do you hear me, you dear old darling?" "I hear, I hear," said the old man, throwing his purchases on the floor one by one. "Why, bless me, and here's Mr. Bonnithorne," he added, lifting his eyes to the chimney-corner, where the lawyer sat toasting his toes. "Welcome, welcome." "Peter, Peter!" cried Greta, opening an inner door. A gaunt old fellow, with only one arm, shambled into the room. "Peter, take away these things to the kitchen," said Greta. The old man glanced down at the parson's purchases with a look of undisguised contempt. "He's been at it again, mistress," he said. The parson had thrown off his coat, and was pushing away his long boots with the boot-jack. "And how's Mr. Bonnithorne this rusty weather? Wait, Peter, give me the slippers out of the big parcel. I got Randal Alston to cut down my old boots into clock sides, and make me slippers out of the feet. Only sixpence, and see what a cozy pair. Thank you, Peter. So you're well, Mr. Bonnithorne. Odd, you say? Well, it is, considering the world of folk who are badly these murky days."