nd stick out
in front like a pouter pigeon. Alas! its glory and starch were alike
departed; it now appeared nothing but a heap of crumpled and yellowish
muslin. Poor Jael! I knew this was the most heroic personal sacrifice
she could have made, yet I could not help smiling; even my father did
the same.

"Dost thee mock me, Abel Fletcher?" cried she angrily. "Preach not to
others while the sin lies on thy own head."

And I am sure poor Jael was innocent of any jocular intention, as
advancing sternly she pointed to her master's pate, where his long-worn
powder was scarcely distinguishable from the snows of age. He bore the
assault gravely and unshrinkingly, merely saying, "Woman, peace!"

"Nor while"--pursued Jael, driven apparently to the last and most
poisoned arrow in her quiver of wrath--"while the poor folk be starving
in scores about Norton Bury, and the rich folk there will not sell
their wheat under famine price. Take heed to thyself, Abel Fletcher."

My father winced, either from a twinge of gout or conscience; and then
Jael suddenly ceased the attack, sent the other servants out of the
room, and tended her master as carefully as if she had not insulted
him. In his fits of gout my father, unlike most men, became the
quieter and easier to manage the more he suffered. He had a long fit
of pain which left him considerably exhausted. When, being at last
relieved, he and I were sitting in the room alone, he said to me--

"Phineas, the tan-yard has thriven ill of late, and I thought the mill
would make up for it. But if it will not it will not. Wouldst thee
mind, my son, being left a little poor when I am gone?"

"Father!"

"Well, then, in a few days I will begin selling my wheat, as that lad
has advised and begged me to do these weeks past. He is a sharp lad,
and I am getting old. Perhaps he is right."

"Who, father?" I asked, rather hypocritically.

"Thee knowest well enough--John Halifax."

I thought it best to say no more; but I never let go one thread of hope
which could draw me nearer to my heart's desire.

On the Monday morning my father went to the tan-yard as usual. I spent
the day in my bed-room, which looked over the garden, where I saw
nothing but the waving of the trees and the birds hopping over the
smooth grass; heard nothing but the soft chime, hour after hour, of the
Abbey bells. What was passing in the world, in the town, or even in
the next street, was to me faint as dreams.