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have cleared the beck, and that would have been a joy to see.
    Then suddenly Mr. Ferrand came in, very large and bright and jovial, and told us that the physician had been and pronounced Francis not hurt but only severely shaken; the lad begged his uncle’s pardon, he said, for behaving unmannerly on his land, and he himself was sorry that he had spoken sharply down by the beck.
    â€œI meant no harm, Tom,” he shouted in his loud cheerful voice. “I was distressed about the lad—that lad’ll be the death of me one of these days. Sybil dotes on him. I offer my apologies.”
    Mr. Thorpe in a gruff but ungrudging tone bade him think no more of it. Then he made my father and Mr. Ferrand known to each other, and they were all veryfriendly together. But soon somehow they fell into an argument I did not quite understand, about sheep and wool. Mr. Ferrand, it seemed, was not a clothier, but a gentleman; he owned land and kept sheep, and he thought it right to sell their wool abroad. But Mr. Thorpe grew very warm and angry, and said that to sell English wool to foreign countries was to ruin the English cloth trade.
    â€œIf they take to making cloth abroad, what are we clothiers here to live on?” he said.
    â€œAye, and many poor men here who only subsist by spinning and carding of wools,” added Mrs. Thorpe.
    â€œIt is a deep question,” said my father thoughtfully.
    â€œThere’s nowt deep about it. Exporting wools from England,” said Mr. Thorpe, “ought to be forbidden by law.”
    â€œYou want to ruin me, do you?” snorted Mr. Ferrand. “Who’ll grow your wool for you then, eh? Forbidden by law! As far as I know, it’s lawful for an Englishman to do what he likes with his own.”
    â€œIt’s to be hoped the new King will think so,” grumbled Mr. Thorpe, “and not start levying taxes before Parliament grants them, like his father.”
    â€œHe’ll think so right enough, God bless him,” cried Mr. Ferrand heartily, “if the Parliament give him proper supplies without too much talk and dallying. He’s a gradely lad is Charles. Give him a chance now, Thomas; don’t curb him before he starts.”
    â€œThere are certain grievances which he ought to remedy,” put in my father mildly.
    â€œI don’t deny it, Mr. Clarkson, I don’t deny it for a moment,” conceded Mr. Ferrand. “But the Government has to be carried on, you know. England’s good name is at stake, abroad. We’re fighting for the King’s sister against the Spaniard, after all. Supplies must come first, for England’s sake.”
    â€œGrievances must come first,” objected Mr. Thorpe. “If they don’t come first, they don’t come at all.”
    â€œReligion comes first,” said my father quietly.
    They all looked at him with respect, and were silent.
    â€œThat is very true, Robert Clarkson,” said Mrs. Thorpe at length, and her husband muttered agreement, while Mr. Ferrand gave an embarrassed cough of an approving kind. “After all this worldly talk,” she went on: “we shall do well to refresh our souls with holy words. Robert Clarkson, will you read to us? Son, get the Bible.”
    â€œIt is Will who means to be a minister,” said my father, smiling.
    â€œLet it be Will, then,” agreed Mrs. Thorpe. “Will you stay and hear a chapter, Giles?”
    â€œNay, nay!” said Mr. Ferrand hurriedly, rising. “Chapters are nowt in my line. I heard enough to last me my life when I was courting your Sybil here. Church once a week is enough for me. I’d best be off. No offence meant, Tom.”
    â€œNone taken, Giles,” murmured Mr. Thorpe.
    â€œGlad to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Clarkson,” went on Mr. Ferrand affably. “And that of the little maid here. So your lad’s to be a minister, eh? Very right and proper. Well, good-night