from him, and the burglar had gone free of punishment. The law
refused to receive Abel Fletcher's testimony--he was "only a Quaker."

The knocking grew louder, as if the person had no time to hesitate at
making a noise. "Who's there?" called out my father; and at the
answer he opened the front door, first shutting mine.

A minute afterwards I heard some one in my room. "Phineas, are you
here?--don't be frightened."

I was not--as soon as his voice reached me, John's own familiar
voice. "It's something about the tan-yard?"

"Yes; the waters are rising, and I have come to fetch your father; he
may save a good deal yet. I am ready, sir"--in answer to a loud
call. "Now, Phineas, lie you down again, the night's bitter cold.
Don't stir--you'll promise?--I'll see after your father."

They went out of the house together, and did not return the whole
night.

That night, February 5, 1795, was one long remembered at Norton Bury.
Bridges were destroyed--boats carried away--houses inundated, or
sapped at their foundations. The loss of life was small, but that of
property was very great. Six hours did the work of ruin, and then
the flood began to turn.

It was a long waiting until they came home--my father and John. At
daybreak I saw them standing on the doorstep. A blessed sight!