not their Master and
mine the prince of all field-preachers? Think, if the Apostles had
waited to collect subscriptions for a church before they spoke to
the poor heathens, where should we have been now?'

Lancelot could not but agree. But at that moment a footman came up,
and, with a face half laughing, half terrified, said,--

'Tregarva, master wants you in the study. And please, sir, I think
you had better go in too; master knows you're here, and you might
speak a word for good, for he's raging like a mad bull.'

'I knew it would come at last,' said Tregarva, quietly, as he
followed Lancelot into the house.

It had come at last. The squire was sitting in his study, purple
with rage, while his daughters were trying vainly to pacify him.
All the men-servants, grooms, and helpers, were drawn up in line
along the wall, and greeted Tregarva, whom they all heartily liked,
with sly and sorrowful looks of warning,

'Here, you sir; you--, look at this! Is this the way you repay me?
I, who have kept you out of the workhouse, treated you like my own
child? And then to go and write filthy, rascally, Radical ballads
on me and mine! This comes of your Methodism, you canting, sneaking
hypocrite!--you viper--you adder--you snake--you--!' And the
squire, whose vocabulary was not large, at a loss for another
synonym, rounded off his oration by a torrent of oaths; at which
Argemone, taking Honoria's hand, walked proudly out of the room,
with one glance at Lancelot of mingled shame and love. 'This is
your handwriting, you villain! you know it' (and the squire tossed
the fatal paper across the table); 'though I suppose you'll lie
about it. How can you depend on fellows who speak evil of their
betters? But all the servants are ready to swear it's your
handwriting.'

'Beg your pardon, sir,' interposed the old butler, 'we didn't quite
say that; but we'll all swear it isn't ours.'

'The paper is mine,' said Tregarva.

'Confound your coolness! He's no more ashamed of it than--Read it
out, Smith, read it out every word; and let them all hear how this
pauper, this ballad-singing vagabond, whom I have bred up to insult
me, dares to abuse his own master.'

'I have not abused you, sir,' answered Tregarva. 'I will be heard,
sir!' he went on in a voice which made the old man start from his
seat and clench his fist but he sat down again. 'Not a word in it
is meant for you. You have been a ki