hand clutched the silk shawl crossed upon her bosom. He noted, too,
that the hand was shapely, though roughened with housework where the
mitten did not hide it.

She had scarcely glanced at him, and after a while he dropped his
scrutiny and gazed with her across the ring.

"H'm," said he, "dander up, this time!"

"Yes," the lady answered, "I know that look, sir, though I have never
seen it on _him_. And I trust to see him wear it, one day, in a
better cause."

"Tut, madam, the cause is good enough. You don't tell me I'm talking
to a Whig?--not that I'd dispute with a lady, Whig or Tory."

"A Whig?" She fetched up a smile: she had evidently a reserve of
mirth. "Indeed, no: but I was thinking, sir, of the cause of
Christ."

"Oh!" said the old gentleman shortly, and took snuff.

They were right. Young Wesley stepped out this time with a honeyed
smile, but with a new-born light in his hazel eyes--a demoniac light,
lambent and almost playful. Master Randall, caressed by them, read
the danger signal a thought too late. A swift and apparently
reckless feint drew another of his slogging strokes, and in a flash
the enemy was under his guard. Even so, for the fraction of a
second, victory lay in his arms, a clear gift to be embraced: a quick
crook of the elbow, and Master Wesley's head and neck would be snugly