s that of the old grandfather's clock that stood in the hall.
I remember that my mother and father were very fond of it, and when my
brother and I once grumbled, saying, 'That old clock is always slow,' my
mother reproved us with the words: 'Oh, children, you must not say that,
for the fact that it often goes slow when the big hand is going up
towards the hour was the very thing that once saved your
great-grandfather's life.'

That was the curious thing about the clock. Every now and then, for some
reason, the minute-hand seemed to work loose, soon after the half-hour,
and, before it reached the three-quarters, it lost five minutes. It
might manage to go a whole day without doing this; but sooner or later
it always happened, so that the clock could not be relied upon for time.

Of course, we were very eager to hear the story, and, as we sat round
the fire that evening, my mother told us the following tale:--

'You know, children, that we have not always lived in England; my
ancestors were French, and lived at Chateau Roquefort, in the province
of La Vendee. When the great insurrection broke out in the year 1792, my
grandfather, Philippe de Roquefort, was one of the leading insurgents
against the Republic. For a time the insurrection was successful, and
the Republican generals were driven across the Loire. But at last there
came a time when Philippe de Roquefort saw that to resist any longer was
hopeless, and, as he had a wife and a little son, he resolved that, for
their sakes, it was prudent to flee to England.

'They had abandoned Roquefort itself three days before, but the evening
before their leaving France, Philippe was obliged to ride over to the
chateau (five miles or so from the little town where he and his family,
with about a dozen trusty followers, had taken refuge) to fetch some
important papers.

'The whole neighbourhood swarmed with Republicans, but, with his
knowledge of the country, he reached the deserted chateau safely.

'The whole place had a forsaken air as Philippe entered the hall he knew
so well, where all his happy boyhood had been spent; but one familiar
object caught his eye--the old clock, which had been too cumbersome to
take with them in their flight, and which was still ticking in its
accustomed manner. Philippe secured his papers, and was just leaving the
chateau, taking a last fond look at his home, when a heavy hand pulled
him backwards, and, before he could reach his sword, he was