"Poor little soul—I'm sorry—very."
"As for Greta and her lover—well—"
Mr. Bonnithorne nodded his head significantly, and left his words unfinished.
"My father is crossing the stack-yard," said Hugh Ritson. "You shall see him in good time. Come this way."
The shadows were lengthening in the valley. A purple belt was stretching across the distant hills, and a dark-blue tint was nestling under the eaves. A solitary crow flew across the sky, and cawed out its guttural note. Its shadow fell, as it passed, on two elderly people who were coming into the court-yard.
CHAPTER IV.
"It's time for that laal Mr. Bonnithorne to be here," said Allan Ritson.
"Why did you send for him?" asked Mrs. Ritson, in the low tone that was natural to her.
"To get that matter about the will off my mind. It'll be one thing less to think about, and it has boddert me sair and lang."