Paul had forced up Greta's face with gentle violence, and now he held her at arm's length, surveying her with bewildered looks.
Parson Christian twisted about in his chair. He had not been so much immersed in wars and rumors of wars as to be quite ignorant of what was going on around him. "Greta is but in badly case," he said, pretending to laugh. "She has fettled things in the house over and over again, and she has if't and haffled over everything. She's been longing, surely." The deep voice had a touch of tremor in it this time, and the twinkling old eyes looked hazy.
"Ah, of course!" shouted Paul, in stentorian tones, and he laughed about as heartily as the parson.
Greta's tears were gone in an instant.
"You must go home at once, Paul," she said; "your mother must not wait a moment longer."
He laughed and bantered and talked of his dismissal. She stopped him with a grave face and a solemn word. At last his jubilant spirit was conquered; he realized that something was amiss. Then she told him what happened at the Ghyll on Monday night. He turned white, and at first stood tongue-tied. Next he tried to laugh it off, but the laughter fell short.
"Must have been my brother," he said; "it's true, we're not much alike, but then it was night, dark night, and you had no light but the dim lamp—and at least there's a family resemblance."
"Your brother Hugh was sitting in his room."
Paul's heart sickened with an indescribable sensation.
"You found the door of my mother's room standing open?"