Mrs. Anthony bit her lips to prevent herself from smiling.

"We will not speak any more about that, Richard," she said; "because,
if we did, we should begin to argue. You know it is my opinion,
and always has been, that Carson deliberately set you against the
boy; that he was always telling you tales to his disadvantage;
and although I admit that the lad was very wrong to knock him down
when he struck him, I think, my dear, I should have done the same
had I been in his place."

"Then, madam," Mr. Anthony said solemnly, "you would have deserved
what happened to him--that you should be turned neck and crop
into the street."

Mrs. Anthony gave a determined nod of her head--a nod which
signified that she should have a voice on that point. However,
seeing that in her husband's present mood it was better to say no
more, she resumed her work.

While this conversation had been proceeding, Jack Stilwell, who
had fled hastily when surprised by the mayor as he was talking to
his daughter at the back gate of the garden, had made his way down
to the wharves, and there, seating himself upon a pile of wood,
had stared moodily at the tract of mud extending from his feet to
the strip of water far away. His position was indeed an unenviable
one. As Mrs. Anthony had said, his father was a clergyman of the
Church of England, the vicar of a snug living in Lincolnshire, but
he had been cast out when the Parliamentarians gained the upper
hand, and his living was handed over to a Sectarian preacher.
When, after years of poverty, King Charles came to the throne, the