"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.
Then the parson and his guest fell to.
"You're a happy man, Mr. Christian," said Mr. Bonnithorne, as Greta left the room on some domestic errand.