"You are an old man, Mr. Christian, and she is a young girl. When you and I are gone, Greta Lowther will still have the battle of life before her."
"Please God—please God!" said the parson, faintly.
"Isn't it well that you should see that she shall have a husband that can fight it with her side by side?"
"So she shall, so she shall—Paul is a manly fellow, and as fond of her as of his own soul—nay, as I tell him, it's idolatry and a sin before God, his love of the girl."
"You're wrong, Mr. Christian. Paul Ritson is no fit husband for Greta. He is a ruined man. Since his father's death he has allowed the Ghyll to go to wreck. It is mortgaged to the last blade of grass. I know it."
Parson Christian shifted his chair from the table and gazed into the fire with bewildered eyes.
"I knew he was in trouble," he said, "but I didn't guess that things wore so grave a look."
"Don't you see that he is shattered in mind as well as purse?" said the lawyer.
"No, no; I can't say that I do see that. He's a little absent sometimes, but that's all. When I talk of Matthew Henry and discuss his commentaries, or recite the story of dear Adam Clarke, he is a little—just a little forgetful—that's all—yes, that is all."
"Compared with his brother—what a difference!" said Mr. Bonnithorne.