"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."