hours gone by; so much so that they could not divest themselves of the idea that it was a manifestation of power in Master Gammon to show forth undisturbed while they were feeling their life shaken in them to the depths.  I have never had the opportunity of examining the idol-worshipping mind of a savage; but it seems possible that the immutability of aspect of his little wooden God may sometimes touch him with a similar astounded awe;—­even when, and indeed especially after, he has thrashed it.  Had the old man betrayed his mortality in a sign of curiosity to know why the hubbub of trouble had arisen, and who was to blame, and what was the story, the effect on them would have been diminished.  He really seemed granite among the turbulent waves.  “Give me Gammon’s life!” was Farmer Fleming’s prayerful interjection; seeing him come and go, sit at his meals, and sleep and wake in season, all through those tragic hours of suspense, without a question to anybody.  Once or twice, when his eye fell upon the doctor, Master Gammon appeared to meditate.  He observed that the doctor had never been called in to one of his family, and it was evident that he did not understand the complication of things which rendered the doctor’s visit necessary.

“You’ll never live so long as that old man,” the farmer said to Robert.

“No; but when he goes, all of him’s gone,” Robert answered.

“But Gammon’s got the wisdom to keep himself safe, Robert; there’s no one to blame for his wrinkles.”

“Gammon’s a sheepskin old Time writes his nothings on,” said Robert.  “He’s safe—­safe enough.  An old hulk doesn’t very easily manage to founder in the mud, and Gammon’s been lying on the mud all his life.”

“Let that be how ‘t will,” returned the farmer; “I’ve had days o’ mortal envy of that old man.”

“Well, it’s whether you prefer being the fiddle or the fiddle-case,” quoth Robert.

Of Anthony the farmer no longer had any envy.  In him, though he was as passive as Master Gammon, the farmer beheld merely a stupefied old man, and not a steady machine.  He knew that some queer misfortune had befallen Anthony.

“He’ll find I’m brotherly,” said Mr. Fleming; but Anthony had darkened his golden horizon for him, and was no longer an attractive object to his vision.

Upon an Autumn afternoon; Dahlia, looking like a pale Spring flower, came down among them.  She told her sister that it was her wish to see Edward.  Rhoda had lost all power of will, even if she had desired to keep them asunder.  She mentioned Dahlia’s wish to her father, who at once went for his hat, and said:  “Dress yourself neat, my lass.”  She knew what was meant by that remark.  Messages daily had been coming down from the Hall, but the rule of a discerning lady was then established there, and Rhoda had been spared a visit from either Edward or Algernon, though she knew them to be at hand.  During Dahlia’s convalescence, the farmer had not spoken to Rhoda of her engagement to the young squire.  The great misery intervening, seemed in her mind to have cancelled all earthly engagements; and when he said that she must use care in her attire he suddenly revived a dread within her bosom, as if he had plucked her to the verge of a chasm.