yet do good there; and 'tis like a coward to desert my post
because the enemy fire thick upon me. They have only wounded me
yet and, I believe, _can't_ kill me. I hope to be home by
Xmass. God help my poor family! . . .

By the end of the year (the Archbishop and other friends assisting) a
good part of his debts had been paid and Mr. Wesley was at home
again. From Epworth he refused to budge; and there, for three years
and more, the rage of his enemies slumbered and his affairs grew
easier. John (if we do not count the poor infant overlaid) had been
the last child born before his imprisonment. Now arrived Patty, in
the autumn of 1706, and Charles, in December, 1707. A third was
expected, and shortly, when in the night of February 9th, 1709, the
parsonage took fire again and burned to the ground in fifteen
minutes.

On Wednesday last, at half an hour after eleven at night, in a
quarter of an hour's time or less, my house at Epworth was
burned down to the ground--I hope by accident; but God knows
all. We had been brewing, but had done all; every spark of fire
quenched before five o'clock that evening--at least six hours
before the house was on fire. Perhaps the chimney above might
take fire (though it had been swept not long since) and break
through into the thatch. Yet it is strange I should neither see
nor smell anything of it, having been in my study in that part
of the house till above half an hour after ten. Then I locked
the doors of that part of the house where my wheat and other
corn lay, and went to bed.

The servants had not been in bed a quarter of an hour when the