down and go away."

There was a pause, during which the bell rang again, and there was a
violent lunge at the door.

"They won't--they won't go away, Miss, without they get something
first," said the butler, who was as white as a sheet.

"Tell them," began Mr. Wedmore, in a loud tone of easy confidence, "to
take it round to the back door, and--and to send a--deputation to me in
the morning; when--er--they shall be properly rewarded for their
trouble."

"They ought to reward us for _our_ trouble, papa, don't you think?"
suggested Doreen.

"There! They've begun to reward themselves," said Queenie, as a stone
came through one of the windows.

Mr. Wedmore was furious. He saw the mistake he had made, but he would
not own it. Putting strong constraint upon himself, he assumed a gay
geniality of manner which his looks belied, and boldly advanced to the
door. But Mrs. Wedmore flung her arms round her husband in a capacious
embrace, dragging him backward with an energy there was no use
resisting.

"No, no, no, George! I won't have you expose yourself to those horrid
roughs! Don't open the door, Bartram! Put up the bolt!"

"Nonsense! Nonsense, my dear!" retorted Mr. Wedmore, who was, perhaps,
not so unwilling to be saved from the howling mob as he wished to
appear. "It's only good-humored fun--of a rough sort, perhaps, but quite
harmless. It's some mischievous boy who threw the stone. But, of course,
they must go round to the back."

"Cook won't dare to open the door to 'em, sir," said the butler.

The situation was becoming serious. There was no denying that the house
was besieged. Mrs. Wedmore began to feel like a chatelaine of the
Cavalier party, with the Roundhead army at the doors clamoring for her
husband's blood. The cries of the villagers were becoming more derisive.

As a happy thought, Mrs. Wedmore suggested haranguing the mob from an
upper window. This course seemed rather ignominious, but prudence
decided in its favor.

There was a rush upstairs, and Mr. Wedmore, followed by all the ladies,
flung himself into the bathroom and threw up the window.

It was not at all the sort of thing that merry squire of the olden times
might have been expected to do. In fact, as Doreen remarked, there were
no bathrooms in the olden time to harangue a mob from. But Mr. Wedmore's
medieval ardor being damped, he submitted to circumstances with
fortitude.

"Yah! There 'e is at last!" "'Ow are you, old un?" "Don't put you