Parson Christian shook his head.
"No call for grace," he said, "with all the luxuries of life thrown into one's lap—that's the worst of living such a happy life. No trials, no cross—nothing to say but 'Soul, take thine ease'—and that's bad when you think of it.... Have some sheep's head, Mr. Bonnithorne; you've not got any tongue—here's a nice sweet bit."
"Thank you, Mr. Christian. I came round to pay the ten shillings for Joseph Parkinson's funeral sermon last Sunday sennight, and the one pound two half-yearly allowance from the James Bolton charity for poor clergy-men."
"Well, well! they may well say it never rains but it pours," said the parson. "I called at Henry Walmsley's and Robert Atkinson's on my way home from the crossroads, and they both paid me their Martinmas quarterage—Henry five shillings, and Robert seven shillings—and when I dropped in on Randal Alston to pay for the welting and soling of my shoes he said they would come to one and sixpence, but that he owed me one and seven-pence for veal that Peter sold him, so he paid me a penny, and we are clear from the beginning of the world to this day."
"I also wanted to speak about our young friend Greta," said Mr. Bonnithorne, softly. "I suppose you are reconciled to losing her?"
"Losing her?—Greta!" said the parson, laying down his knife. Then smiling, "Oh, you mean when Paul takes her—of course, of course—only the marriage will not be yet awhile—he said so himself."
"Marriage with Paul—no," said Mr. Bonnithorne, clearing his throat and looking grave.
Parson Christian glanced into the lawyer's face uneasily and lapsed into silence.
"Mr. Christian, you were left guardian of Greta Lowther by our dear friend, her mother. It becomes your duty to see that she does the best for her future welfare and happiness."
"Surely, surely!" said the parson.