better than, any present, had taken but little part in the
conversation. He had, in fact, only half listened, and when a rare
smile passed across his grey face it invariably owed its existence
to some sally made by his son, Alfred Pleydell, gay, light-hearted,
debonnaire, at the far end of the table. When Sir John's thoughtful
eyes rested on his motherless son, a dull and suppressed light
gleamed momentarily beneath his heavy lids. Superficial observers
said that John Pleydell was an ambitious man; 'not for himself,'
added the few who saw deeper.

When his quick mind now took in the import of the sound that broke
the outer silence of the night, Sir John's glance sought his son's
face. In moments of alarm the glance flies to where the heart is.

'What is that?' asked Alfred Pleydell, standing up.

'The Chartists,' said Sir John.

Alfred looked round. He was a soldier, though the ink had hardly
dried upon the parchment that made him one--the only soldier in the
room.

'We are eleven here,' he said, 'and two men downstairs--some of you
fellows have your valets too--say fifteen in all. We cannot stand
this, you know. '

As he spoke the first volley of stones crashed through the windows,
and the broken glass rattled to the floor behind the shutters. The
cries of the ladies in the drawing-room could be heard, and all the
men sprang to their feet. With blazing eyes Alfred Pleydell ran to