brows as belong to the few accustomed
to confront great thoughts. It gave her the ineffable touch of
greatness which more than redeemed her shabby black gown and antique
bonnet; and, on an afterthought, the old gentleman decided that it
must have been beautiful in its day. Just now it was pale, and one
hand clutched the silk shawl crossed upon her bosom. He noted, too,
that the hand was shapely, though roughened with housework where the
mitten did not hide it.

She had scarcely glanced at him, and after a while he dropped his
scrutiny and gazed with her across the ring.

"H'm," said he, "dander up, this time!"

"Yes," the lady answered, "I know that look, sir, though I have never
seen it on _him_. And I trust to see him wear it, one day, in a
better cause."

"Tut, madam, the cause is good enough. You don't tell me I'm talking
to a Whig?--not that I'd dispute with a lady, Whig or Tory."

"A Whig?" She fetched up a smile: she had evidently a reserve of
mirth. "Indeed, no: but I was thinking, sir, of the cause of
Christ."

"Oh!" said the old gentleman shortly, and took snuff.

They were right. Young Wesley stepped out this time with a honeyed
smile, but with a new-born light in his hazel eyes--a demoniac light,
lambent and almost playful. Master Randall, caressed by them, read
the danger signal a thought too late. A swift and apparently
reckless feint drew another of his slogging strokes, and in a flash
the enemy was under his guard. Even so, for the fraction of a
second, victory lay in his arms, a clear gift to be embraced: a quick
crook of the elbow, and Master Wesley's head and neck would be snugly
in Chancery. Master Wesley knew it--knew, further, that there was no
retreat, and that his one chance hung on getting in his blow first
and disabling with it. He jabbed it home with his right, a little
below the heart: and in a second the inclosing fore-arm dragged limp
across his neck. He pressed on, aiming for the point of the jaw; but
slowly lowered his hands as Randall tottered back two steps with a
face of agony, dropped upon one knee, clutching at his breast, and so
to the turf, where he writhed for a moment and fainted.

As the ring broke up, cheering, and surged across the green, the old
gentleman took snuff again and snapped down the lid of his box.

"Good!" said he; then to the lady, "Are you a relative of his?"

"I am his mother, sir."

CHAPTER II.

She moved across the green to