CHAPTER LI.

POPULARITY.


THE storm is lulled: the billows of temptation have ebbed away
from shore, and the clouds of adversity have flown to other skies.

"The winter is past; the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear upon
the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of
the turtle is heard in our land: the fig-tree putteth forth his green
figs, and the blossoms of the vine smell sweetly. Arise, and come away."

Yesterday's trial, and its unlooked-for issue, have raised Roger Acton
to the rank of hero. The town's excitement is intense: and the little
inn, where he and Grace had spent the night in gratitude and prayerful
praise, is besieged by carriages full of lords and gentlemen, eager to
see and speak with Roger.

Humbly and reverently, yet preserving an air of quiet self-possession,
the labourer received their courteous kindnesses; and acquitted himself
of what may well be called the honours of that levee, with a dignity
native to the true-born Briton, from the time of Caractacus at Rome to
our own.

But if Roger was a demi-god, Grace was at the least a goddess; she
charmed all hearts with her modest beauty. Back with the shades of
night, and the prison-funeral of Jennings, fled envy, hatred, malice,
and all uncharitableness; the elderly sisterhood of Hurstley, not to be
out of a fashion set by titled dames, hastened to acknowledge her