had cut the bag, and we saw thrown up to the surface, and whirled
down the Avon, thousands of dancing grains. A few of the men swam,
or waded after them, clutching a handful here or there--but by the
mill-pool the river ran swift, and the wheat had all soon
disappeared, except what remained in the bag when it was drawn on
shore. Over even that they fought like demons.

We could not look at them--John and I. He put his hand over his
eyes, muttering the Name that, young man as he was, I had never yet
heard irreverently and thoughtlessly on his lips. It was a sight
that would move any one to cry for pity unto the Great Father of the
human family.

Abel Fletcher sat on his remaining bags, in an exhaustion that I
think was not all physical pain. The paroxysm of anger past, he,
ever a just man, could not fail to be struck with what he had done.
He seemed subdued, even to something like remorse.

John looked at him, and looked away. For a minute he listened in
silence to the shouting outside, and then turned to my father.

"Sir, you must come now. Not a second to lose--they will fire the
mill next."

"Let them."

"Let them?--and Phineas is here!"

My poor father! He rose at once.