gone free of punishment. The law refused to
receive Abel Fletcher's testimony--he was "only a Quaker."

The knocking grew louder, as if the person had no time to hesitate at
making a noise. "Who's there?" called out my father; and at the answer
he opened the front door, first shutting mine.

A minute afterwards I heard some one in my room. "Phineas, are you
here?--don't be frightened."

I was not--as soon as his voice reached me, John's own familiar voice.
"It's something about the tan-yard?"

"Yes; the waters are rising, and I have come to fetch your father; he
may save a good deal yet. I am ready, sir"--in answer to a loud call.
"Now, Phineas, lie you down again, the night's bitter cold. Don't
stir--you'll promise?--I'll see after your father."

They went out of the house together, and did not return the whole night.

That night, February 5, 1795, was one long remembered at Norton Bury.
Bridges were destroyed--boats carried away--houses inundated, or sapped
at their foundations. The loss of life was small, but that of property
was very great. Six hours did the work of ruin, and then the flood
began to turn.

It was a long waiting until they came home--my father and John. At
daybreak I saw them standing on the doorstep. A blessed sight!

"O father! my dear father!" and I drew him in, holding fast his
hands--faster and closer than I had done since I was a child. He did
not repel me.

"Thee'rt up early, and it's a cold morning for thee, my son. Go back
to the fire."

His voice was gentle; his ruddy countenance pale; two strange things in
Abel Fletcher.

"Father, tell me what has befallen thee?"

"Nothing, my son, save that the Giver of all worldly goods has seen fit
to take back a portion of mine. I, like many another in this town, am
poorer by some thousands than I went to bed last night."

He sat down. I knew he loved his money, for it had been hardly earned.
I had not thought he would have borne its loss so quietly.

"Father, never mind; it might have been worse."

"Of a surety. I should have lost everything I had in the world--save
for--Where is the lad? What art thee standing outside for? Come in,
John, and shut the door."

John obeyed, though without advancing. He was cold and wet. I wanted
him to sit down by the fireside.

"Ay! do, lad," said my father, kindly.

John came.

I stood between the two--afraid to ask what they had undergone; but
sure, from the old man's grave