sking."

"Verily!" said my father, with a bitter and meaning smile.

"But he might get his own men to defend his property, and need not do
what he is bent on doing--go to the mill himself."

"Surely," was all Abel Fletcher said, planting his oaken stick firmly,
as firmly as his will, and taking his way to the river-side, in the
direction of the mill.

I caught his arm--"Father, don't go."

"My son," said he, turning on me one of his "iron looks," as I used to
call them--tokens of a nature that might have ran molten once, and had
settled into a hard, moulded mass, of which nothing could afterwards
alter one form, or erase one line--"My son, no opposition. Any who try
that with me fail. If those fellows had waited two days more I would
have sold all my wheat at a hundred shillings the quarter; now they
shall have nothing. It will teach them wisdom another time. Get thee
safe home, Phineas, my son; Jael, go thou likewise."

But neither went. John held me back as I was following my father.

"He will do it, Phineas, and I suppose he must. Please God, I'll take
care no harm touches him--but you go home."

That was not to be thought of. Fortunately, the time was too brief for
argument, so the discussion soon ended. He followed my father and I
followed him. For Jael, she disappeared.

There was a private path from the tan-yard to the mill, along the
river-side; by this we went, in silence. When we reached the spot it
was deserted; but further down the river we heard a scuffling, and saw
a number of men breaking down our garden wall.

"They think he is gone home," whispered John; "we'll get in here the
safer. Quick, Phineas."

We crossed the little bridge; John took a key out of his pocket, and
let us into the mill by a small door--the only entrance, and that was
barred and trebly barred within. It had good need to be in such times.

The mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the machinery
room, the sole flooring of which was the dark, dangerous stream. We
stood there a good while--it was the safest place, having no windows.
Then we followed my father to the top story, where he kept his bags of
grain. There were very many; enough, in these times, to make a large
fortune by--a cursed fortune wrung out of human lives.

"Oh! how could my father--"

"Hush!" whispered John, "it was for his son's sake, you know."

But while we stood, and with a meaning but rather grim smile Abel
Fletcher count