of grain. There were very many; enough, in these times, to make a
large fortune by--a cursed fortune wrung out of human lives.

"Oh! how could my father--"

"Hush!" whispered John, "it was for his son's sake, you know."

But while we stood, and with a meaning but rather grim smile Abel
Fletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gold--we
heard a hammering at the door below. The rioters were come.

Miserable "rioters!"--A handful of weak, starved men--pelting us with
stones and words. One pistol-shot might have routed them all--but my
father's doctrine of non-resistance forbade. Small as their force
seemed, there was something at once formidable and pitiful in the low
howl that reached us at times.

"Bring out the bags!--Us mun have bread!"

"Throw down thy corn, Abel Fletcher!"

"Abel Fletcher WILL throw it down to ye, ye knaves," said my father,
leaning out of the upper window; while a sound, half curses, half
cheers of triumph, answered him from below.

"That is well," exclaimed John, eagerly. "Thank you--thank you, Mr.
Fletcher--I knew you would yield at last."

"Didst thee, lad?" said my father, stopping short.