rite here, so close to the battlefields of
Tewkesbury and Marston Moor. It is called 'Barbara's Fugitive.' Now
listen, my dears."

BARBARA'S FUGITIVE

On a bright June morning, early in the Protectorate, Colonel Myddelton,
followed by a groom, rode through the gates of the old Hall and turned
his horse's head towards London. At the bend in the road, halfway up
Sheringham Hill, he stopped a moment and waved his hand in the
direction of the house. A white handkerchief fluttered at an upper
window in reply.

"My poor lonely Barbara!" said the Colonel, smiling tenderly as he
passed again out of sight of his daughter.

"Dear father!" said Barbara, as the Colonel disappeared from view. She
did not, however, at once leave the window, but remained leaning out,
with the warm touch of the sun on her head, drinking in the morning
sounds.

The village, half a mile distant, was just visible to Barbara through
the trees--red-roofed, compact, the cottages gathering about the church
like chickens round the mother hen. On a summer day like this anyone
listening at the Hall could hear the busy noises, the hum of this
little hive of humanity, with perfect clearness; the beat of the hammer
on the anvil in Matthew Hale's smithy, the "Gee, whoa!" of the carter
on the distant road, the scrunching of the wagon-wheels, the crowing
cocks, and now and then the shouts of boys and the laughter of
children. These audible tokens of active life were a comfort to
Barbara. A moment before, on parting with her father, she was aware of
a new and disturbing loneliness, but now she felt no longer with the
same melancholy that she was solitary, apart from her fellows.

It was the time when the country was divided between the followers of
the Throne and the followers of Cromwell; the time when sour visages,
who were for the moment in the places of authority, glowered beneath
black hats, and the village games were forbidden; the time when
Royalist gentlemen dropped a crumb into their wineglasses after dinner,
and, looking meaningly at each other, tossed off the red liquor, saying
fervently as they did so, "God send this CRUMB WELL down." But actual
fighting was over, and the country on the surface peaceable again,
although a word often was sufficient to draw forth steel among the high
folks or set an inn full of villagers to fisticuffs. There was not a
Royalist in the country but awaited the moment when he could strike
another blow to avenge his dead