determination of his future path. Nothing is more painful to a man of any energy than the inability to put things in order in himself—to place before himself what he has to do, and arrange the means for doing it. To be the passive victim of a rushing stream of disconnected impressions is torture, especially if the emergency be urgent. So when the sun came up Zachariah began to be ashamed of himself that the night had passed in these idiotic moonings, which had left him just where he was, and he tried to settle what he was to do when he reached Manchester. He did not know a soul; but he could conjecture why he was advised to go thither. It was a disaffected town, and Friends of the People were very strong there. His first duty was to get a lodging, his second to get work, and his third to find out a minister of God under whom he could worship. He put this last, not because it was the least important, but because he had the most time to decide upon it. At about ten o’clock at night he came to his journey’s end, and to his joy saw his wife waiting for him. They went at once to a small inn hard by, and Mrs. Coleman began to overwhelm him with interrogation; but he quietly suggested that not a syllable should be spoken till they had had some rest, and that they should swallow their supper and go to bed. In the morning Zachariah rose and looked out of the window. He saw nothing but a small backyard in which some miserable, scraggy fowls were crouching under a cart to protect themselves from the rain, which was falling heavily through the dim, smoky air. His spirits sank. He had no fear of apprehension or prosecution, but the prospect before him was depressing. Although he was a poor man, he had not been accustomed to oscillations of fortune, and he was in an utterly strange place, with five pounds in his pocket, and nothing to do. He was, however, resolved not to yield, and thought it best to begin with his wife before she could begin with him. “Now, my dear, tell me what has happened, who sent you here, and what kind of a journey you have had?” “Mr. Bradshaw came about seven o’clock, and told me the Government was about to suppress the Friends of the People; that you did not know it; that I must go to Manchester; that you would come after me; and that a message would be left for you. He took me to the coach, and paid for me.” “Mr. Bradshaw! Did he tell you anything more?” “No; except that he did not think we should be pursued, and that he would send our things after us when he knew where we were.” “You have not heard anything more, then?” “No.” “You haven’t heard that the Secretary was shot?” “Shot! Oh dear! Zachariah, what will become of us?” Her husband then told her what he knew, she listening with great eagerness and in silence. “Oh, Zachariah, what will become of us?” she broke out again.