"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.