'There,' he said, when all was ready, 'is a house for you. It will have to rain hard and long before the water begins to drop through the branches which make the roof and the slabs of turf. Well, 'tis a shelter. Not so comfortable as the old cottage, perhaps, but nearly as commodious. If it is not a palace, it will serve us to keep off the sun by day and the dew by night.' Next he gathered a great quantity of dry fern, dead leaves, and heather, and these he disposed within the hut, so that they made a thick and warm carpet or covering. Nay, at night they even formed a covering for the feet and prevented one from feeling cold. When all was done, he lifted my father gently and laid him with great tenderness upon this carpet within the rude shelter. 'This shall be a warmer night for thee than the last, Dad,' he said. 'There shall be no jolting of thy poor bones. What, mother? We can live here till the cold weather comes. The wind will perhaps blow a bit through the leaves to-night, but not much, and to-morrow I will see to that. Be easy in your mind about the provisions'--Alas! my poor mother was thinking of anything in the world except the provisions--'There are rabbits and birds in plenty; we can catch them and eat them; bread we must do without when what we have is gone, and as for strong drink and tobacco'--he sighed heavily--'they will come again when better times are served out.' In these labours I helped as much as I was able, and particularly in twisting the branches together. And thus the whole day passed, not tediously, and without any alarms, the labour being cheered by the hopefulness of Barnaby's honest face. No one, to look at that face, could believe that he was flying for his life, and would be hanged if he was caught. After sunset we lit a fire, but a small one only, and well hidden by the woods, so that its light might not be seen from below. Then Barnaby dexterously plucked and trussed the birds and roasted them in the embers, so that had my heart been at rest I should have had a most delicious supper. And I confess that I did begin to pluck up a little courage, and to hope that we might yet escape, and that Robin might be living. After supper my mother prayed, and I could join with more of resignation and something of faith. Alas! in times of trial how easily doth the Christian fall from faith! The day before, prayer seemed to me a mockery; it was as if all prayer were addressed to a deaf God, or to one who will not hear; for our prayers had all been for safety and victory, and we were suddenly answered with disaster and defeat. After supper, Barnaby sat beside the embers and began to talk in a low voice. ''Twill be a sorrowful barley-mow song this year,' he said; 'a dozen brave lads from Bradford alone will be dead.' 'Not all dead, Barnaby! Oh! not all!' 'I know not. Some are prisoners, some are dead, some are running away.' Then he began to sing in a low voice, 'Here's a health to the barley-mow--