Presently the clock in the hall proclaimed “five.” Miss Ashton closed music-books and piano; Miss Chadwick completed a loop, then put her tatting away in a small, oblong, red morocco reticule; Mrs. Ashton laid the wristband in her workbasket, which she put out of sight in a panelled cupboard within the wall, sheathed the scissors hanging from her girdle, folded up the leather housewife containing her cut skeins of thread, &c.; James brought in the tea-board, with its genuine China tea-service, plates with cake and bread-and-butter, and whilst he went back to Kezia for the tea-urn, in walked Mr. Ashton, and with him the Rev. Joshua Brookes. One might have supposed his first salutation would have been to the lady of the house. Nothing of the kind! With a passing nod to Mrs. Ashton, who had extended her hand, he marched straight to the sofa, and greeted its occupant with— “Well, young Cheat-the-fishes, so you’ve been in the wars again.” “Yes, sir,” said Jabez, attempting to rise. “Lie still, lad! And so you thought a velveteen jacket defensive armour against sharpened steel?” “I never thought about it, sir.” “Ugh! Then I suppose you reckoned a young man’s arm worth less than an old man’s head! Eh?” Jabez smiled. “Certainly, sir.” “Humph! I thought as much!” Then darting a keen inquisitive glance from under his shaggy eyebrows at the prostrate young fellow, he added in his very raspiest tones, “And I daresay you’ve no notion whose sabre carved the wing of the goose so cleverly?” What little blood was left in his body seemed to mount to the face of Jabez, the old scar on his brow—which every year made less conspicuous—purpled and grew livid. Old Joshua needed no more. “Ah, I see you do! Well, are you inclined to forgive the fellow this time?” All ears were on the alert. Jabez caught the quick turn of his kind master’s head. He hesitated, paled, and flushed again. Joshua Brookes waited. There was some indecision in the reply when it did come. “I am not sure, sir. But he was very drunk. I don’t think he would have done it if he had been sober.” “Just so, Jabez—just so!” assented Mr. Ashton with evident satisfaction and a tap on his snuff-box-lid. Ben Travis had revealed the name of Mr. Chadwick’s assailant to the manufacturer, and he to the chaplain. “Oh! that’s your opinion, is it?” cried the latter, crustily, wheeling sharply round to disguise a smile.—“Here, madam, let’s have a cup of sober tea after that!” “I think, Mr. Brookes,” said Mrs. Ashton, as she seated herself, “with all due deference to you—I think you ask too much from Jabez. I do not consider drunkenness any excuse for brutality.” “No excuse for the brute, madam, certainly; but a reason why a reasoning man should forgive the brute incapable of reason.” “Just so, Parson!” chimed in Mr. Ashton laying his Barcelona handkerchief across his knee.