ties, and it was agreed unanimously, excepting
only one dissenting vote--a rich and radical Quaker, one Isaac Sneak,
grocer, and of the body corporate, who refused to lose one day's service
of his shopmen, and thereby (I rejoice to add) succeeded in getting rid
of fifteen good annual customers--it was agreed, then, and arranged that
the morrow should be a public holiday. All Sir John's own tenantry, as
well as Squire Ryle's, and some of other neighbouring magnates, were to
have a day's wages without work, on the easy conditions of attending the
procession in their smartest trim, and of banqueting at Hurstley
afterwards. So, then, the town-band was ordered to be in attendance next
morning by eleven at the Swan, a lot of old election colours were shaken
from their dust and cobwebs, the bell-ringers engaged, vasty
preparations of ale and beef made at Hurstley Hall--an ox to be roasted
whole upon the terrace, and a plum-pudding already in the cauldron of
two good yards in circumference--and all that every body hoped for that
night, was a fine May-day to-morrow.

CHAPTER LII.

ROGER AT THE SWAN.

Meanwhile, eventide came on: the crowd of kindly gentle-folks
had gone their several ways; and Roger Acton found himself (through Sir
John's largess) at free quarters in the parlour of the Swan, with Grace
by his side, and many of his mates in toil and station round him.

"Grace," said her father on a sudden, "Grace--my dear child--come
hither." She stood in all her loveliness before him. Then he took her
hand, looked up at her affectionately, and leaned back in the old oak
chair.

"Hear me, mates and neighbours; to my own girl, Grace, under God, I owe
my poor soul's welfare. I have nothing, would I had, to give her in
return:" and the old man (he looked ten years older for his six weeks,
luck, and care, and trouble)--the old man could not get on at all with
what he had to say--something stuck in his throat--but he recovered, and
added cheerily, with an abrupt and rustic archness, "I don't know,
mates, whether after all I can't give the good girl something: I can
give her--away! Come hither, Jonathan Floyd; you are a noble fellow,
that stood by us in adversity, and are almost worthy of my angel Grace."
And he joined their hands.

"Give us thy blessing too, dear father!"

They kneeled at his feet on the sanded floor, in the midst of their
kinsfolk and acquaintance, and he, stretching forth his hands like a
patriarch,