says he only wants the use of the stream
three days a week, to make fountains at Luxmore Hall. But I see what
it is--I have seen it coming a whole year. He is determined to ruin
me!"

John said this in much excitement. He hardly felt Muriel's tiny
creeping hands.

"What does 'ruin' mean? Is anybody making father angry?"

"No, my sweet--not angry--only very, very miserable!"

He snatched her up, and buried his head in her soft, childish bosom.
She kissed him and patted his hair.

"Never mind, dear father. You say nothing signifies, if we are only
good. And father is always good."

"I wish I were."

He sat down with her on his knee; the murmur of the elm-leaves, and the
slow dropping of the stream, soothed him. By and by, his spirit rose,
as it always did, the heavier it was pressed down.

"No, Lord Luxmore shall not ruin me! I have thought of a scheme. But
first I must speak to my people--I shall have to shorten wages for a
time."

"How soon?"

"To-night. If it must be done--better done at once, before winter sets
in. Poor fellows! it will go hard with them--they'll be hard upon me.
But it is only temporary; I must reason them into patience, if I
can;--God knows, it is not they alone who want it."

He almost ground his teeth as he saw the sun shining on the far white
wing of Luxmore Hall.

"Have you no way of righting yourself? If it is an unlawful act, why
not go to law?"

"Phineas, you forget my principle--only mine, however; I do not force
it upon any one else--my firm principle, that I will never go to law.
Never! I would not like to have it said, in contradistinction to the
old saying, 'See how these Christians FIGHT!'"

I urged no more; since, whether abstractedly the question be right or
wrong, there can be no doubt that what a man believes to be evil, to
him it is evil.

"Now, Uncle Phineas, go you home with Muriel. Tell my wife what has
occurred--say, I will come to tea as soon as I can. But I may have
some little trouble with my people here. She must not alarm herself."

No, the mother never did. She wasted no time in puerile
apprehensions--it was not her nature; she had the rare feminine virtue
of never "fidgetting"--at least, externally. What was to be borne--she
bore: what was to be done--she did; but she rarely made any "fuss"
about either her doings or her sufferings.

To-night, she heard all my explanation; understood it, I think, more
clearly than I did--probably