"I believe it, Mistress Dorothy," he replied; "and if in new times and in new dangers I should need new weapons, believe me, I will only go to my fathers' armoury for them." I was provoked with myself when he had left, that of all the wise discourse that had been held since he came, the things that kept recurring to my mind were what Job had said of Dr. Antony, and how foolish I had been in the answers I gave him on our way home from Rachel's. He must deem me so unmannerly, I thought. And, besides, so many fitting things now occurred which I might have said. Nothing occupies one like a conversation in which one has failed to say what one ought to have said. It haunts one like a melody of which you cannot find the end. It was evident, moreover, that Aunt Dorothy took the same view of Dr. Antony's age as Job. It made Dr. Antony seem like some one quite new, to think of this; new, and yet certainly not strange. The next Christmas, the army being in winter-quarters, my Father spent with us, which made it a holiday indeed. In February, 1645, he read us a letter which Dr. Antony wrote to him, narrating what was going on in London. At the beginning there was a considerable piece which he did not read to us. He said it related to family matters, which he could speak of hereafter, and contained greetings to us. Thus the letter proceeded--it was dated January 21st, 1645: "Sir Thomas Fairfax is this day appointed by the Commons' House general-in-chief, in lieu of Lord Essex; Skipton major-general; while the post of lieutenant-general is _left open_. Most men deem that he who fills it will fill _more than it_, as his name and fame now fill all men's mouths. There have been fierce debates, whisperings, conspirings, mysterious midnight meetings at Essex House: the aim of the whole of these conspirings, the bond of all these gatherings, being to 'remove out of the way General-Lieutenant Cromwell, whom,' said the Scottish Commissioners, 'ye ken very weel is no friend of ours.' This 'obstacle,' this '_remora_' this 'INCENDIARY,' as they called him (soaring high into Latin in their vain endeavours to find words lofty enough to express their abhorrence), had hundreds of grave English and Scottish Presbyterian divines, soldiers and lawyers, been labouring for months to remove out of the way; yet, nevertheless, on the 9th of December, there he stood in the Commons' House, as immovable an obstacle and '_remora_' as ever, and about to prove himself an 'Incendiary' indeed by kindling a flame which should consume their eloquent Latin accusations and their authority at once. "There was a long silence in the House. General Cromwell broke it, speaking abruptly, and not in Latin.