had gone their several ways; and Roger Acton found himself (through Sir
John's largess) at free quarters in the parlour of the Swan, with Grace
by his side, and many of his mates in toil and station round him.

"Grace," said her father on a sudden, "Grace--my dear child--come
hither." She stood in all her loveliness before him. Then he took her
hand, looked up at her affectionately, and leaned back in the old oak
chair.

"Hear me, mates and neighbours; to my own girl, Grace, under God, I owe
my poor soul's welfare. I have nothing, would I had, to give her in
return:" and the old man (he looked ten years older for his six weeks,
luck, and care, and trouble)--the old man could not get on at all with
what he had to say--something stuck in his throat--but he recovered, and
added cheerily, with an abrupt and rustic archness, "I don't know,
mates, whether after all I can't give the good girl something: I can
give her--away! Come hither, Jonathan Floyd; you are a noble fellow,
that stood by us in adversity, and are almost worthy of my angel Grace."
And he joined their hands.

"Give us thy blessing too, dear father!"

They kneeled at his feet on the sanded floor, in the midst of their
kinsfolk and acquaintance, and he, stretching forth his hands like a
patriarch, looked piously up to heaven, and blessed them there.

"Grace," he added, "and Jonathan my son, I need not part with you--I
could not. I have heard great tidings. To-morrow you shall know how kind
and good Sir John is: God bless him! and send poor England's children of
the soil many masters like him.