The Cumberland couple had continued their rest undisturbed some few hours, when Mrs. Sandboys was aroused by hearing the circular iron trap moved above her head. She woke her husband with a violent shake, telling him, as soon as she could make him understand, that she was sure some of her friends, the London thieves, were preparing to make a descent through the pavement into their subterranean bed-chamber. Mr. Sandboys was no sooner got to comprehend the cause of her alarm, than he saw the end of the chain lifted up, and the trap removed from the pavement above them. Instinctively the couple rose up in their bed, and leant their heads forward to ascertain the precise nature of the impending danger. Suddenly they were startled by a gruff voice from above, shouting “Bee-elow,” and immediately there descended through the round hole at the top of the cellar a shower of large and small coals, the noise of which completely drowned their cries, and beneath which they were almost buried alive. Before they could extricate themselves from the black mass, that nearly filled their hammock, a second shower of Walls’ End was poured down upon them; and had it not been for the landlady observing from the kitchen that the coal-porter was about to shoot the half ton she had ordered on the previous evening to be delivered early that morning into Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys’ hammock, that worthy couple assuredly must have perished in the dusty, grimy avalanche. Mrs. Fokesell rushed into the area, cried out loudly to the man to hold back the third sack, which he had just poised over the hole on his shoulder, previous to discharging its contents on the bodies of the unhappy Sandboys, and tearing open the door, delivered the blackened and the bruised couple from the perils of their wretched situation. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VII. “But if we wullent be content Wi’ th’ blessings sec as heav’n has sent, But obstinately wad prevent Wise fate’s decree, See fwoak mun just pursue the bent I’ their own bree. “What if the hand of fate, unkind, Has us’d fremtly, need we peyne? Tho’ you’ve lost your sight an’ me meyne, We cannot mend it. Let us be glad the powers deveyne Nae war’ extendit. “Let us—sen leyfe is but a span— Still be as canty as we can, Rememb’ring Heaven has ordered Man To practise patience, An’ not to murmur ’neath his han’, Leyke feckless gations.” _John Stagg._