It was nearly the end of March when the Bill once more got through the Commons; and hitherto the nation had waited as men wait the preliminaries of a battle. But they were like hounds held by a leash when the great question as to whether the Lords would now give way, or not, was to be determined. The Squire was an exceedingly sensitive man; for he was exceedingly affectionate, and he was troubled continually by the hungry, wretched, anxious crowds through which he often picked his way to Westminster, the more so, as his genial, bluff, thoroughly English appearance seemed to please and encourage these non-contents. At every step he was urged to vote on the right side. "God bless you, Squire!" was a common address. "Pity the poor! Vote for the right! Go for Reform, Squire! Before God, Squire, we must win this time, or die for it!" And the Squire, distressed, and half-convinced of the justice of their case, would lift his hat at such words, and pass a sovereign into the hand of some lean, white-faced man, and answer, "God defend the Right, friends!" He could not tell them, as he had done in his first session, to "go home and mind their business." He could not say, as he did then, a downright "No;" could not bid them, "Reform themselves, and let the Government alone," or ask, "If they were bereft of their senses?" If he answered at all now, it was in the motto so familiar to them, "God and my Right;" or, if much urged, "I give my word to do my best." Or he would bow courteously, and say, "God grant us all good days without end." Before the Bill passed the Commons, at the end of March, it had, at any rate, come to this,--he was not only averse to vote against the Bill, he was also averse to tell these waiting sufferers that he intended to vote against it. On the night of the thirteenth of April, when the Bill was before the Lords, the Squire was too excited to go to bed, though prevented from occupying his seat in the Commons by a smart attack of rheumatism. He sat in his club, waiting for intelligence, and watching the passing crowds to try and glean from their behaviour the progress of events. Piers had promised to bring him word as soon as the vote was taken. He did not arrive until eight o'clock the next morning. The Squire was drinking his coffee, and making up his mind to return to Atheling, "whatever happened," when Piers, white and exhausted, drew his chair to the table. "The Bill has passed this reading by nine votes," he said wearily; "and Parliament has adjourned for the Easter recess; that is, until the seventh of May. Three weeks of suspense! I do not know how it is to be endured." "I am going to Atheling. Edgar will very likely go to Ashley, and I think you had better go with us. Three weeks of Exham winds will make a new man of you."