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 for pity 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. Not a second to lose--they will fire the mill
next."

"Let them."

"Let them?--and Phineas is here!"

My poor father! He rose at once.

We got him down-stairs--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 centre 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 tan-yard.

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

"Home?" said my father, 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 gave a decided negative. 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 honour was 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 h