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shillings,” mused Mr. Thorpe, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
    â€œBut you won’t pay, Father?” burst out John.
    His voice was so clear and ringing that we all looked at him. He coloured, but held firmly on. “You will not pay a tax levied without consent of Parliament, surely, Father?” he said. His dark eyes glowed, his face was stern and set; I thought he had never looked so much a man or so handsome.
    Mr. Thorpe wagged his head, uncertain, and Mr. Ferrand laughed sneeringly, looking sideways at him.
    â€œIf you don’t pay, Thomas, you’ll find yourself in the Tower, perhaps,” he said. “Or stay—since you’re only assessed for a half score of shillings, you’ll be sent for to London and made into a common soldier in St. Martin’s Yard.”
    â€œI should like to go to London,” put in Francis eagerly.
    â€œThat is not the argument,” piped up little David with the saucy air he often used to Francis.
    â€œWho said it was, scholar?” drawled Francis haughtily.
    â€œHold your tongue, Frank,” bellowed his father, venting his own vexation on his son.
    â€œGet your lute, Francis love,” lisped Mrs. Ferrand, hurriedly.
    â€œAye—if you’ve all done we’ll have some music,” said Mr. Ferrand, glancing round the table at his guests and with an effort discarding his surly tone. “And no more politics. Pen, love, come and sit by me—that is, if your brother there will permit you to sit by an Arminian.”
    He laughed, but not very heartily; he still seemed sore at being called by this foreign-sounding name.
    I went to him without more ado, so as not to embroil him again with Will, for whom, now that I understood what was troubling him, I was very sorry. It would be a bitter disappointment to him indeed if, after all his anxious study, he could find nobody to give him a title to some curacy or benefice.
    As the days went by and Will still stayed at home without employment, and the delay in his marriage kept him doubly dejected, David and I grew to hate Bishop Laud, who by his tyrannous enactments kept our good honest brother so wretched, and a little vexed with Mr. Thorpe too, whose conduct, to children’s eyes, seemed severe and mercenary.
    Then, after a long time of trial, at last the way was made clear for Will. Mr. Okell being old began to fail somewhat, and spoke of giving up his ministry. His parishioners, who valued him highly, begged him not to do so, but to take an under-minister instead. Since Mr. Okell had a private estate as well as his benefice, he was able to do this, and he offered the place to Will, and promised to obtain him a preaching licence from the Bishop. Will, dear lad, thought this preferment was, under Providence, due to his own eloquence and learning, but I thought more likely it sprang from Mr. Okell’s great affection for my father. Whichever it was, Will now with great delight settled in a house on Church Bank, and married Elizabeth Thorpe. He made a worthy minister, very industrious; his sermons winning his hearers’ goodwill by a kind of honest simplicity in them.
    I thought that Francis would now ride over to Will’s house for his lessons, and indeed at first he did so. But after a few weeks of this he suddenly, as Will—who was glad of the fee, his stipend not being large and Eliza proving a somewhat ineffectual manager—told me regretfully, broke off from his tuition; he did not mean to be a peering scholar, said Francis, so be hanged to stupid books. I was now as distressed by his breaking off lessons as I had been once before by his continuing them, and I urged Francis not to cease from mere caprice what must be of great use to him at the University. But he only laughed, and teasingly asked me why I was so set on sending him away where I could not see him, and at last one day little David, his blue eyes vexed, asked me why I troubled myself, since Francis had