as any of them. And he said, 'You be young men,
but I am old. Nevertheless, I will not be robbed by three, or by thirty
of you. If you be cowards enough, come on.'

"Two of them held off, and I heard them say, 'Let him alone, he is a
brave old cock.' For you never seed anyone look more braver, and his
heart was up with righteousness. But the other, who seemed to be the
oldest of the three, shouted out something, and put his leg across, and
made at the squire with a long blue thing that shone in the sun, like a
looking-glass. And the squire, instead of turning round to run away as
he should have, led at him with the thick end of the fishing rod, to
which he had bound an old knife of Mother Pring's for to stick it in the
grass, while he put his flies on. And I heard the old knife strike the
man in his breast, and down he goes dead as a door-nail. And before I
could look again almost, another man ran a long blade into squire, and
there he was lying as straight as a lath, with the end of his white
beard as red as a rose. At that I was so scared that I couldn't look no
more, and the water came bubbling into my mouth, and I thought I was at
home along of mother.

"By and by, I came back to myself with my face full of scratches in a
bush, and the sun was going low, and the place all as quiet as Cheriton
church. But the noise of the water told me where I was; and I got up,
and ran for the life of me, till I came to the goyal. And then I got
into a fuzz-rick, and slept all night, for I durstn't go home to tell
Mother Pring. But I just took a look before I began to run, and the
Doone that was killed was gone away, but the squire lay along with
his arms stretched out, as quiet as a sheep before they hang him up to
drain."

CHAPTER III.--WISE COUNSEL.

Some pious people seem not to care how many of their dearest hearts the
Lord in heaven takes from them. How well I remember that in later life,
I met a beautiful young widow, who had loved her husband with her one
love, and was left with twin babies by him. I feared to speak, for I had
known him well, and thought her the tenderest of the tender, and my eyes
were full of tears for her. But she looked at me with some surprise, and
said: "You loved my Bob, I know," for he was a cousin of my own, and as
good a man as ever lived, "but, Sylvia, you must not commit the sin of
grieving for him."

It may be so, in a better world, if people are allowed to die there; but
as long as