"The mob are in the Mansion House," he said; "they are throwing out the
furniture; it is worse than ever."

"Where are the authorities?" asked one of the surgeons, who had a roll
of bandages in his hand.

"Rushing away, for their lives, like cats on the roofs of the houses.
They are hunting for Colonel Brereton, and calling upon all the people
in College Green to come to the aid of the magistrates in the King's
name."

"And the magistrates climbing over the roofs of the houses; dear, dear!"
said the old surgeon. "Pray, madam," he said, turning to Joyce, "is
there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," Joyce said; "this young woman's father is dying in one of the
wards."

"What ward? what ward? We are all so busy."

"He was brought in yesterday by a gentleman whose head had been hurt;
Mr. Arundel, one of the special constables."

"All right--yes--this way, madam; but let me advise you to make short
work of your visit, and get back to your own house! this way."

"Is the man conscious?"

"Yes, there is a flicker up before the end; but he is dying."

Poor Susan pressed her hand upon her side, and clung to her mistress's
arm.

"Oh, dear lady, pray for me," she said. "I have come because I knew
mother would have wished it."

"Take courage, Susan, and God will help you."

Many wistful eyes were turned upon the mistress and her maid, as they
entered the ward. Some of the wounded people were groaning, others
crying aloud for help; but Bob Priday, lying against pillows propped
behind him, was still and silent.

Joyce led Susan to the bed, and said:

"I have brought your daughter, and I come to thank you for keeping your
promise; for you saved my husband's life."

A strange, half-conscious smile flitted over the man's face.

"I'm sorry I've been such a bad husband to thee, Susan, for thou wert a
tidy lass when I married thee. What are thee come to fetch me for?
Susan, don't'ee cry."

"Father, father! my dear mistress has brought me to say 'Good-bye.'"

"Aye, I remember now; tell her 'twas the touch of her little, white
hand that did it. Says I to myself, if she can touch the likes of me,
perhaps God may forgive me, do you see, Sue? I thought 'twas your mother
at first; I see now; 'tis little Sue--a woman grown. Tell your mistress
'twas her little, white hand that did it. Lor! she is like an angel."

Then Joyce took the hand lying nearest once more in hers, and, kneeling
down, raised her clear, sweet voice a