"But what," replied my husband, "if the country also refuses to be saved by General Cromwell?" "Then for a New England across the seas," said Roger. "But we are not come to that yet." For even after the king's flight Roger clung to the hope of reconciliation, his hopes nourished by secret fountains flowing from the very icebergs of his fears. For with the bond which bound People and King, might be snapped for him the bond, not indeed of love, but of hope between him and Lettice. Still throughout that dreary winter negotiations went on between the Parliament and His Majesty at the Castle of Carisbrook. More and more hopeless as more and more men became mournfully convinced of the king's untruth. Until, in April, 1648, when, from the upper windows of our house, I could see on one side the trees bursting into leaf in St. James' Park, and on the other the river shining with a thousand tints of green and gold with the reflection of the wooded gardens of the palaces and mansions from Westminster to the Temple; when the fleets of swans began to pass by on their way to build their nests in the reedy islets by Richmond or Kew, the news came from all quarters that, amidst all this sweet stir of natural life, the country was stirring with fatal insurrections from Kent to the Scottish borders. The first outburst was in London itself. A few 'prentices were playing at bowls on Sunday, April 9th, in Moorfields, during church time. The train-bands tried to disperse them. They fought, were routed by the train-bands, but rallied quickly to the old cry of "Clubs." All through that night we heard the tumult surging up and down through the city. The watermen, a powerful body of men, joined them. The cry was, "For God and King Charles." And not till the Ironsides charged on them from Westminster was the riot quelled. Then came tidings that Chepstow and Pembroke were taken by the royalists, and that a Scottish army of forty thousand was coming across the borders to undo all that had been done and to restore the king. About that time Roger came into the chamber where I was busied with confections, and unlacing and laying aside his helmet, he sat down in silence. His face was fixed and very pale. "No ill-tidings?" I said. "I ought not to think so," he replied.