Scarcely a fortnight after that evening at Netherby, tidings of the Irish massacre thrilled through all the land with one shudder of horror and helpless indignation for the past; awakening one bitter cry for rescue and vengeance in the future. On the 20th of October the Parliament had met again. It was a gray and comfortless evening early in November when a Post spurred into the village of Netherby, and stopped at Job Forster's forge to have some slight repair made in the gear of his horse. Rachel was there immediately with a jug of ale for the weary rider and water for his horse. The horseman took both in silence. "Thou art scant of greetings to-day, good-master," said Job, as he busied himself about the broken bit, without looking in the rider's face. But Rachel, who had caught in an instant the weight of heavy tidings on the stranger's face, laid her hand with a silencing gesture on her husband's arm. Then Job looked up, and meeting the horseman's eye, dropped the bit, and said abruptly,-- "What tidings, master? We are not of those who look for smooth things." "Rough enough," was the reply. "A hundred thousand Protestants,* men, women, and children, surprised, and robbed, and massacred in Ireland, scarce more than a sennight agone. At morning, met with good-days and friendly looks by the Papists around them; before evening, driven from their burning homes, naked and destitute, into the roads and wildernesses. Thousands murdered amidst their ruined homes; happy those who were only murdered, or murdered quickly; no mercy on age or sex, no memory of kindness; treachery and torture; women and little children turning into fiends of cruelty. Dublin itself only saved by one who gave warning the evening before. But the worst was for the women, and the little helpless tortured babes." * This was the number commonly believed among us at the time. Since I have heard it disputed. But that the slaughter and the atrocities were terrible, there can be no doubt. "Softly, softly, master," said Job; for Rachel had fallen on his shoulder fainting. "She can bear to hear any dreadful thing, or to see any dreadful sight, if she can be of any help; but this is too much for her." Gently he bore her in and laid her on the bed, and hesitated an instant what to do, not liking to leave her. "She always seems to know whether it's me or any one else, even when she's clean gone like this," he said; "but yet I dare not hinder the Post." "Leave her to me, Job," I said; "she'll not feel strange with me." And after a moment's further pause, lifting her into an easier position, he went out. Sprinkling water on her face and chafing her hands, breathing on her lips and temples, as I had seen Aunt Gretel do in such a case, I had the comfort of soon seeing Rachel languidly open her eyes. For a moment there was a bewildered, inquiring look in them, but quickly it gave place to a mournful collectedness.