At length they sat down to dinner. A large substantial pudding was placed before them. In those days, the guests of the poor had not each a knife and fork; nay, they had not each a plate. All things were in common. The miller clasped his hands together and looked up for a blessing. And here, let not our readers expect something long and very piously expressed. The spirit of the times was too much debased by blasphemous allusions, which are only redeemed from condemnation by their quaintness. “Hans,” whispered Rachel, “give us your best blessing. Let it be the one in rhyme.” A pause was made. Cromwell’s eyes were shut, and Hans solemnly began,-- “Lord bless us! Devil miss us! Rachel--bring the spoons to us!” The good dame was hastening to comply with the request, when Cromwell cried, “Nay, miller, thou hast but asked a blessing on us. Let us ask a blessing on the provisions. Your’s is but a vulture’s blessing,” and he himself poured forth thanksgivings to God, for all his mercies. After the repast, Cromwell spoke but little, except to Mary Evelyn, to whose lot he promised better days. But the miller was a little curious to know his intended movements, as it was not every day which brought him such opportunities for looking into the future. “They expect you at Lancaster, General,” said he turning to Cromwell. “And yet,” was the answer, “I shall prove that although they expect me, they are not quite prepared for my reception. The walls of Jericho must fall down. And saidst thou, pretty innocent,” as he looked upon Miss Evelyn with a kind eye, “that the Governor of Lancaster Castle, gave evidence against thy father, even to the death?” “He did, noble warrior. My father was an old friend of Charles. But he could not support him in his tyrannic measures with the Parliament. Whisperings went abroad that my father had agreed to assassinate him. The Governor of Lancaster Castle was reported to have heard him say, that if the king went further, the nation must purchase a block, and that no nobleman who loved his country, would refuse to be the executioner; and such evidence was given; it was false. Oh! my poor father.” Her eye rolled wildly around, as when in her moments of madness. The miller and his dame perceived it, and went kindly to console her. But the voice of Cromwell, though neither sweet nor full toned, seemed to exercise a charm over her grief, as if he had been some superior being; and instead of raving, she only fell into a fit of insensibility. “Leave her to me, good people. Now my pretty one, put your hands in mine.” He looked up solemnly, whilst he whispered,