"No," retorted she passionately, as she lifted herself from the floor; "it's your squanderings in the publics o' nights, that have helped to break up our home." It was a little of both. The quarrel was interrupted by a commotion outside, and Mrs. Cross darted out to look--glad, perhaps, to escape from her husband's anger. An official from the workhouse had come down with an order for the admission of Susan Fisher instanter. Timothy Carter, in his meek and humane spirit, had so enlarged upon the state of affairs in general, touching Mrs. Fisher, that the workhouse bestirred itself. An officer was despatched to marshal them into it at once. The uproar was caused by her resistance: she was still sitting in the road. "I won't go into the work'us," she screamed; "I won't go there to be parted from my children and my husband. If I'm to die, I'll die out here." "Just get up and march, and don't let's have no row," said the officer. "Else I'll fetch a wheel-barrer, and wheel ye to it." She resisted, shrieking and flinging her arms and her wild hair about her, as only a foolish woman would do; the children, alarmed, clung to her and cried, and all Honey Fair came out to look. Mr. Joe Fisher also staggered up, in a state not to be described. He had been invited by some friend, more sympathizing than judicious, to solace his troubles with strong waters; and down he fell in the mud, helpless. "Well, here's a pretty kettle of fish!" cried the perplexed workhouse man. "A nice pair, they are! How I am to get 'em both there, is beyond me! She can walk, if she's forced to it; but he can't! They spend their money in sotting, and when they have no more to spend they come to us to keep 'em! I must get an open cart." The cart was procured somewhere and brought to the scene, a policeman in attendance; and the children were lifted into it one by one. Next the man was thrown in, like a clod; and then came the woman's turn. With much struggling and kicking, with shrieks that might have been heard a mile off, she was at length hoisted into it. But she tumbled out again: raving that "no work'us shouldn't hold her." The official raved in turn; and Honey Fair hugged itself. It had not had the gratification of so exciting a scene for many a day; to say nothing of the satisfaction it derived from hearing the workhouse set at defiance. The official and the policeman at length conquered. She was secured, and the cart started at a snail's pace with its load--Mrs. Fisher setting up a prolonged and dismal lamentation not unlike an Irish howl: and Honey Fair, in its curiosity, following the cart as its train. CHAPTER X. A STRAY SHILLING. "Whose shilling is this on my desk?" inquired Mr. Ashley of Samuel Lynn, one morning towards the close of the summer. "I cannot tell thee," was the reply of the Quaker. "I know nothing of it." "It is none of mine, to my knowledge," remarked Mr. Ashley.