ed his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gold--we
heard a hammering at the door below. The rioters were come.

Miserable "rioters!"--A handful of weak, starved men--pelting us with
stones and words. One pistol-shot might have routed them all--but my
father's doctrine of non-resistance forbade. Small as their force
seemed, there was something at once formidable and pitiful in the low
howl that reached us at times.

"Bring out the bags!--Us mun have bread!"

"Throw down thy corn, Abel Fletcher!"

"Abel Fletcher WILL throw it down to ye, ye knaves," said my father,
leaning out of the upper window; while a sound, half curses, half
cheers of triumph, answered him from below.

"That is well," exclaimed John, eagerly. "Thank you--thank you, Mr.
Fletcher--I knew you would yield at last."

"Didst thee, lad?" said my father, stopping short.

"Not because they forced you--not to save your life--but because it was
right."

"Help me with this bag," was all the reply.

It was a great weight, but not too great for John's young arm, nervous
and strong. He hauled it up.

"Now, open the window--dash the panes through--it matters not. On to
the window, I tell thee."

"But if I do, the bag will fall into the river. You cannot--oh,
no!--you cannot mean that!"

"Haul it up to the window, John Halifax."

But John remained immovable.

"I must do it myself, then;" and, in the desperate effort he made,
somehow the bag of grain fell, and fell on his lame foot. Tortured
into frenzy with the pain--or else, I will still believe, my old father
would not have done such a deed--his failing strength seemed doubled
and trebled. In an instant more he had got the bag half through the
window, and the next sound we heard was its heavy splash in the river
below.

Flung into the river, the precious wheat, and in the very sight of the
famished rioters! A howl of fury and despair arose. Some plunged into
the water, ere the eddies left by the falling mass had ceased--but it
was too late. A sharp substance in the river's bed had cut the bag,
and we saw thrown up to the surface, and whirled down the Avon,
thousands of dancing grains. A few of the men swam, or waded after
them, clutching a handful here or there--but by the mill-pool the river
ran swift, and the wheat had all soon disappeared, except what remained
in the bag when it was drawn on shore. Over even that they fought like
demons.

We could not look at them--John and