will not practise: both bad; traitors it may be, or, at the best,
hare-brained men."

"Stephen is prejudiced," said Gerard. "He is a visionary, indulging in
impossible dreams, and if possible, little desirable. He knows nothing
of the feeling of the country or the character of his countrymen.
Englishmen want none of his joint-stock felicity; they want their
rights,--rights consistent with the rights of other classes, but without
which the rights of other classes cannot, and ought not, to be secure."

"Stephen is at least your friend, my father; and once you honoured him."

"And do so now; and love him very dearly. I honour him for his great
abilities and knowledge. Stephen is a scholar; I have no pretensions
that way; but I can feel the pulse of a people, and can comprehend the
signs of the times, Sybil. Stephen was all very well talking in our
cottage and garden at Mowbray, when we had nothing to do; but now we
must act, or others will act for us. Stephen is not a practical man; he
is crotchety, Sybil, and that's just it."

"But violence and action," said Sybil, "are they identical, my father?"

"I did not speak of violence."

"No; but you looked it. I know the language of your countenance, even to
the quiver of your lip. Action, as you and Stephen once taught me, and
I think wisely, was to prove to our rulers by an agitation, orderly and
intellectual, that we were sensible of our degradation; and that it
was neither Christianlike nor prudent, neither good nor wise, to let us
remain so. That you did, and you did it well; the respect of the world,
even of those who differed from you in interest or opinion, was not
withheld from you; and can be withheld from none who exercise the moral
power that springs from great talents and a good cause. You have
let this great moral power, this pearl of price," said Sybil with
emotion,--"we cannot conceal it from ourselves, my father,--you have let
it escape from your hands."

Gerard looked at her as she spoke with an earnestness unusual with him.
As she ceased, he cast his eyes down, and seemed for a moment deep in
thought; then looking up, he said, "The season for words is past. I must
be gone, dear Sybil." And he moved towards the door.

"You shall not leave me," said Sybil, springing forward, and seizing his
arm.

"What would you, what would you?" said Gerard, distressed.

"That we should quit this city to-night."

"What, quit my post?"

"Why yours? Have not your co