their force seemed, there was something at once formidable and pitiful in the low howl that reached us at times.

"Bring out the bags! Us mun have bread! Throw down thy corn, Abel Fletcher!"

"Abel Fletcher will throw it down to ye, ye knaves," said my father, leaning out of the upper window; while a sound, half-curses, half-cheers of triumph, answered him from below. "That is well," exclaimed John, eagerly. "Thank you, thank you, Mr. Fletcher; I knew you would yield at last." "Didst thee, lad?" said my father, stopping short. "Not because they forced you, not to save your life, but because it was right."

66

'Help me with this bag," was all the reply.

It was a great weight, but not too great for John's young arm, nervous and strong. He hauled it up.

"Now open the window, - dash the panes through, matters not. On to the window, I tell thee."

"But if I do, the bag will fall into the river.

oh, no! you cannot mean that."

"Haul it up to the window, John Halifax."

But John remained immovable.

- it

You cannot,

"I must do it myself, then ;" and in the desperate effort he made, somehow the bag of grain fell, and fell on his lame foot. Tortured into frenzy with the pain, or else, I will still believe, my old father would not have done such a deed, -his failing strength seemed doubled and trebled. In an instant more he had got the bag half through the window, and the next sound we heard was its heavy splash in the river below.

Flung into the river, the precious wheat, and in the very sight of the famished rioters! A howl of fury and despair arose. Some plunged into the water ere the eddies left by the falling mass had ceased; but it was too late. A sharp substance in the river's bed had cut the bag, and we saw thrown up to the surface, and whirled down the Avon, thousands of dancing grains. A few of the men swam or waded after them, clutching a handful here or there; but by the mill pool the river ran swift, and the wheat had all soon disappeared, except what remained in the bag when it was drawn on shore. Over even that they fought like demons.

We could not look at them-John and I. He put his hand over his eyes, muttering the name that, young man as he

was, I had never yet heard irreverently and thoughtlessly on his lips. It was a sight that would move any one to cry unto the Great Father of the human family.

Abel Fletcher sat on his remaining bags in an exhaustion that I think was not all physical pain. The paroxysm of anger past, he, ever a just man, could not fail to be struck with what he had done. He seemed subdued, even to something like

remorse.

John looked at him, and looked away. For a minute he listened in silence to the shouting outside, and then turned to my father.

"Sir, you must come now. will fire the mill next."

"Let them."

Not a second to lose; they

"Let them? and Phineas is here!"

My poor father!

He rose at once.

We got him downstairs, - he was very lame, his ruddy face all drawn and white with pain; but he did not speak one word of opposition, or utter a groan of complaint.

The flour mill was built on piles in the center of the narrow river. It was only a few steps of bridge work to either bank. The little door was on the Norton Bury side, and was hid from the opposite shore, where the rioters had now collected. In a minute we had crept forth and dashed out of sight in the narrow path which had been made from the mill to the tanyard.

"Will you take my arm? we must get on fast."

"Home?" said my father, in a strangely quiet tone, as John led him passively along.

"No, sir, not home; they are there before you. Your life's not safe an hour- unless, indeed, you get soldiers to guard it." Abel Fletcher made a decisive, negative gesture. The stern old Quaker held to his principles still.

"Then you must hide for a time, both of you. Come to my room. You will be secure there. Urge him, Phineas, for your sake and his own."

But my poor, broken-down father needed no urging. Grasping more tightly both John's arm and mine, which for the first time in his life he leaned upon, he submitted to be led whither we chose. So, after this long interval of time, I once more stood in Sally Watkins' small attic, where, ever since I first brought him there, John Halifax had lived.

Sally knew not of our entrance; she was out watching the rioters. No one saw us but Jem, and Jem's honor was as safe as a rock. I knew that in the smile with which he pulled off his cap to "Mr. Halifax.”

"Now," said John, hastily smoothing his bed so that my father might lie down, and wrapping his cloak round me, “you must both be very still. You will likely have to spend the night here. Jem shall bring you a light and supper. You will make yourself easy, Abel Fletcher?"

66

'Ay." It was strange to see how decidedly, yet respectfully, John spoke, and how quietly my father answered.

"And Phineas," he put his arm round my shoulder in his old way, "you will take care of yourself. Are you any stronger than you were?"

I clasped his hand without reply.

"Now good-by; I must be off."

"Whither?" said my father, rousing himself.

"To try and save the house and the tanyard; I fear we must give up the mill. "No, don't hold me, Phineas. I run no risk; everybody knows me. Besides, I am young. There! see after your father. I shall come back in good time."

He grasped my hands warmly, then unloosed them; and I heard his step descending the staircase..

After midnight, — I know not how long, for I lost count of the hours by the abbey chimes, and our light had gone out. — after midnight I heard, by my father's breathing, that he was asleep. I was thankful to see it for his sake, and also for another reason.

I could not sleep; all my faculties were preternaturally alive. My weak body and timid soul became strong and active, able to compass anything. For that one night, at least, I felt myself a man.

My father was a very sound sleeper. I knew nothing would disturb him till daylight, therefore my divided duty was at an end. I left him and crept downstairs into Sally Watkins' kitchen. It was silent; only the faithful warder Jem dozed over the dull fire. I touched him on the shoulder, at which he collared me and nearly knocked me down.

"Beg pardon, Mr. Phineas; hope I didn't hurt 'ee, sir?” cried he, all but whimpering; for Jem, a big lad of fifteen, was the most tender-hearted fellow imaginable. "I thought it were some of them folk that Mr. Halifax ha' gone among."

"Where is Mr. Halifax?"

"Doan't know, sir; wish I did! wouldn't be long a finding out, though, on'y he says, 'Jem, you stop 'ere wi' they (pointing his thumb up the staircase). So, Master Phineas, I stop."

And Jem settled himself, with a doggedly obedient but most dissatisfied air, down by the fireplace. It was evident nothing would move him thence; so he was as safe a guard over my poor old father's slumber as the mastiff in the tanyard, who was as brave as a lion and as docile as a child. My last lingering hesitation ended.

"Jem, lend me your coat and hat; I'm going out into the town."

Jem was so astonished that he stood with open mouth, while I took the said garments from him and unbolted the door. At last it seemed to occur to him that he ought to intercept

And I escaped outside. Anything beyond his literal duty did not strike the faithful Jem. He stood on the doorsill and gazed after me with a hopeless expression.

"I s'pose you mun have your way, sir; but Mr. Halifax said, 'Jem, you stop y'ere'—and y'ere I stop."

He went in, and I heard him bolting the door with a sullen determination, as if he would have kept guard behind it — waiting for John- until doomsday.

I stole along the dark alley into the street. It was very silent. I need not have borrowed Jem's exterior in order to creep through a throng of maddened rioters. There was no sign of any such, except that under one of the three oil lamps that lit the night darkness of Norton Bury lay a few smouldering hanks of hemp, well resined. They, then, had thought of that dreadful engine of destruction, fire. Had my terrors been true? Our house, and perhaps John within it!

On I ran, speeded by a dull murmur which I fancied I heard; but still there was no one in the street, no one except the abbey watchman lounging in his box. I roused him, and asked if all was safe? where were the rioters? "What rioters?"

now

"At Abel Fletcher's mill; they may be at his house

"Ay, I think they be."

"And will not one man in the town help him; no consta bles, no law?"

"Oh, he's a Quaker! the law don't help Quakers.'

That was the truth,—the hard, grinding truth in those days. Liberty, justice, were idle names to Nonconformists of every kind; and all they knew of the glorious constitution of English law was when its iron hand was turned against them. I had forgotten this; bitterly I remembered it now. So, wasting no more words, I flew along the churchyard until I saw, shining against the boles of the chestnut trees, a red light. It was one of the hempen torches. Now, at last, I had got in the midst of that small body of men," the rioters."

A mere handful they were, not above two score, apparently the relics of the band which had attacked the mill, joined with a few plow lads from the country round; but they were desperate. They had come up the Coltham road so quietly that, except this faint murmur, neither I nor any one in the town could have told they were near. Wherever they had been ransacking, as yet they had not attacked my father's house; it stood up on the other side the road, barred, black, silent.

I heard a muttering: "Th' old man bean't there"-"Nobody knows where he be." No, thank God!

"Be us all y'ere?" said the man with the torch, holding it up so as to see round him. It was well then that I appeared as Jem Watkins. But no one noticed me, except one man, who skulked behind a tree, and of whom I was rather afraid, as he was apparently intent on watching.

66

Ready, lads? Now for the rosin! Blaze 'un out."

But in the eager scuffle, the torch, the only one alight, was knocked down and trodden out. A volley of oaths arose, though whose fault it was no one seemed to know; but I missed my man from behind the tree, nor found him till after the angry throng had rushed on to the nearest lamp. One of them was left behind, standing close to our own railings. He looked around to see if none were by, and then sprang over the gate. Dark as it was, I thought I recognized him. "John?"

"Phineas?" He was beside me in a bound. "How could you do"

"I could do anything to-night. But you are safe; no one has harmed you? Oh, thank God, you are not hurt!"