he would have fallen, had not his two friends caught him and carried
him, at Joyce's request, to his own room.

Gilbert tried to make light of his condition, and said it was only the
noise and shouting which had bewildered him.

"We lost sight of you after the troops cleared Queen's Square, Arundel.
What became of you?"

"I got separated in the rush just by Wine Street, and there a woman and
a baby were in some danger; and as I made a plunge to get them to a
place of safety, someone gave me a chance thump on the head, and I
might have been trampled to death had not a man saved me, in his turn to
be cut down by the sabre of one of the soldiers; he now lies dying in
the Infirmary; and the man, Joyce, is Bob Priday."

"He kept his promise, then." Joyce said, clasping her hands; "he kept
his promise to me."

"Yes, darling, it was the touch of your little, white hand, he said,
which brought to his heart the hope that God would forgive him."

Joyce, kneeling by the sofa where her husband lay, hid her face in the
pillow, while Mr. Bengough and Mr. Cooper, his two friends, left the
room with Mrs. Arundel, and promised to send a surgeon who lived near
them in Berkley Square.

"He is as brave as a lion," Mr. Bengough said; "you may well be proud of
your son."

The doctor came, and advised entire rest and quiet, and told Joyce that
she might console herself with the certainty that her husband would be
unfit for any action, as special constable for many a day to come.

How thankful Joyce felt that she had not left the house with her
children, and that she was there to nurse and tend her husband with the
thousand sweet observances which are the consolation of every true wife
to render, in the hour of need.

The Sunday morning broke over an apparently quiet city, and as Joyce
looked from the window of her room, after two hours of refreshing sleep,
she could see no one moving in the distant streets, and heard no sound.

It seemed a true sabbath stillness, which was in itself a healing power.

As the mist of the October morning lifted, the Cathedral Tower, and that
of St. Mary Redclyffe, stood out in solemn majesty, steadfast and
unmoved for all the riot and confusion which had so lately reigned
beneath them.

St. Stephen's stately tower, further to the left, raised its head above
the street where Joyce knew her husband had been in such peril; and her
heart swelled with thankfulness to God, who had preserved his life. Th