Allan shook hands with Mr. Bonnithorne, and then turned to his sons. "Come, you two lads have not been gude friends latterly, and that's a sair grief baith to your mother and me. You're not made in the same mold seemingly. But you must mak' up your fratch, my lads, for your auld folks' sake, if nowt else."
At this he stretched out both arms, as if with the intention of joining their hands. Hugh made a gesture of protestation.
"I have no quarrel to make up," he said, and turned aside.
Paul held out his hand. "Shake hands, Hugh," he said. Hugh took the proffered hand with unresponsive coldness.
Paul glanced into his brother's face a moment, and said:
"What's the use of breeding malice? It's a sort of live stock that's not worth its fodder, and it eats up everything."
There was a scarcely perceptible curl on Hugh Ritson's lip, but he turned silently away. With head on his breast, he walked toward the porch.
"Stop!"
It was old Allan's voice. The deep tone betrayed the anger that was choking him. His face was flushed, his eyes were stern, his lips trembled.
"Come back and shak' hands wi' thy brother reet."