t; then John shall have his heart's desire, and start the
cloth-mills at Enderley."

John smiled, half-sadly. Every man has a hobby--this was his, and had
been for fifteen years. Not merely the making a fortune, as he still
firmly believed it could be made, but the position of useful power, the
wide range of influence, the infinite opportunities of doing good.

"No, love; I shall never be 'patriarch of the valley,' as Phineas used
to call it. The yew-hedge is too thick for me, eh, Phineas?"

"No!" cried Ursula--we had told her this little incident of our
boyhood--"you have got half through it already. Everybody in Norton
Bury knows and respects you. I am sure, Phineas, you might have heard
a pin fall at the meeting last night when he spoke against hanging the
Luddites. And such a shout as rose when he ended--oh, how proud I was!"

"Of the shout, love?"

"Nonsense!--but of the cause of it. Proud to see my husband defending
the poor and the oppressed--proud to see him honoured and looked up to,
more and more every year, till--"

"Till it may come at last to the prophecy in your birthday verse--'Her
husband is known in the gates; he sitteth among the elders of the
land.'"

Mrs. Halifax laughed at me for reminding her of this, but allowed that
she would not dislike its being fulfilled.

"And it will be too. He is already 'known in the gates'; known far and
near. Think how many of our neighbours come to John to settle their
differences, instead of going to law! And how many poachers has he not
persuaded out of their dishonest--"

"Illegal," corrected John.

"Well, their illegal ways, and made decent, respectable men of them!
Then, see how he is consulted, and his opinion followed, by rich folk
as well as poor folk, all about the neighbourhood. I am sure John is
as popular, and has as much influence, as many a member of parliament."

John smiled with an amused twitch about his mouth, but he said nothing.
He rarely did say anything about himself--not even in his own
household. The glory of his life was its unconsciousness--like our own
silent Severn, however broad and grand its current might be, that
course seemed the natural channel into which it flowed.

"There's Muriel," said the father, listening.

Often thus the child slipped away, and suddenly we heard all over the
house the sweet sounds of "Muriel's voice," as some one had called the
old harpsichord. When almost a baby she would feel her way