Peter lifted the boots and fixed them dexterously under the stump of his abridged member. The tea and coffee he deposited in his trousers' pockets, and the sugar he carried in his hand. "There'll be never no living with him," he muttered in Greta's ear as he passed out. "Don't know as I mind his going to plow--that's a job for a man with two hands--but the like o' this isn't no master's wark." "Dear me!" exclaimed the parson, who was examining his easy-chair preparatory to sitting in it, "a new cushion--and a bag on the wall for my specs--and a shelf for my pipes--and a--a--what do you call this?" "An antimacassar, Mr. Christian," the lawyer said. "I wondered was he ever going to see any difference," said Greta, with dancing eyes. "Dear me, and red curtains on the windows, and a clean print counterpane on the settle--" "A chintz--a chintz," interposed Greta, with a mock whimper. "And the old rosewood clock in the corner as bright as a looking-glass, and the big oak cabinet all shiny with oil--" "Varnish, sir, varnish." "And all the carvings on it as fresh as a new pin--St. Peter with his great key, and the rich man with his money-bag trying to defy the fiery furnace." "Didn't I say you would scarcely know your own house when you came home again?" said Greta. She was busying herself at spreading the cloth on the round table and laying the parson's supper. Parson Christian was revolving on his slippered toes, his eyes full of child-like amazement, and a maturer twinkle of knowingness lurking in that corner of his aged orbs that was not directly under the fire of the girl's sharp, delighted gaze. "Deary me, have you a young lady at home, Mr. Bonnithorne?" "You know I am a bachelor, Mr. Christian," said the lawyer, demurely. "So am I--so am I. I never knew any better--not until our old friend Mrs. Lowther died and left me to take charge of her daughter." "Mother should have asked me to take charge of Mr. Christian, shouldn't she, Mr. Bonnithorne?" said Greta, with roguish eyes. "Well, there's something in that," said the parson, with a laugh. "Peter was getting old and a bit rusty in the hinges, you know, and we were likely to turn out a pair of old crows fit for nothing but to scare good Christians from the district. But Greta came to the musty old house, with its dust and its cobwebs, and its two old human spiders, like a slant of sunlight on a muggy day. Here's supper--draw up your chair, Mr. Bonnithorne, and welcome. It's my favorite dish--she knows it--barley broth and a sheep's head, with boiled potatoes and mashed turnips. Draw up your chair--but where's the pot of ale, Greta?" "Peter! Peter!" The other spider presently appeared, carrying a quart jug with a little mountain of froth--a crater bubbling over and down the sides. "Been delving for potatoes to-day, Peter?" said the parson. Peter answered with a grumpy nod of his big head. "How many bushels?" "Maybe a matter of twelve," muttered Peter, shambling out.