"Listen," Joyce said, standing up in the carriage with her child in her arms; "I am on my way home with these little children. Surely you will not stop me and endanger their lives?" "We will! we will! if you don't give us your word you are for Reform and dead against Wetherall." "Why," Joyce said fearlessly, "only a year ago, and near this very place, the men and women of Bristol shouted, 'Long live Wetherall!' And now!" "Now we say, _curse_ him!" growled a big, brawny man. The little girls, awakened by the uproar, began to cry with fear, and Falcon called out, "Let mother go on, you bad men! I say, let her go on! Father will be so angry with you!" "Hush! hush! dear Master Falcon," Susan said; "you will only make them worse. Hush!" And now, as Joyce looked over the faces crowding round her, she beckoned to the woman, who had been thrust back by the pressure of others who wanted to see the inhabitants of the carriage. "Come here," she said, holding out some of the buns; "I am so sorry for your hungry baby. Give her one of these buns, and do believe me when I say I am sorry for all your troubles." The sweet, ringing voice began to have effect, and the clamour ceased. "I am no enemy of the poor. My husband and I wish to do what we can for you, and I believe, nay, I know, he is an advocate of Reform, but not for rebellion against authority, and violence." The execrations were changed now to cheers. "Let 'em pass, she is a good 'un; let 'em pass, she has a kind heart; she has a pretty face, too. Here," said a man, "I am the father of that poor babby; shake hands, missus." Joyce stretched out her hand at once, and it was taken in a strong grip. "Thank you," she said; "I knew you would not be cruel to my little children. Will you all remember that I ask you to be peaceable, and to pray to God to help you and give you bread for your children. He is a kind and loving Father; don't forget that." As Joyce stood before that seething crowd of strange, wan faces, for many of them bore too plainly the marks of fasting and hunger, the baby in her arms raised a pitiful cry, and she pressed it closer and soothed it, while the baby lifted its little hand and stroked its mother's face. "Aye, she is of the right sort," they cried; "she is a mother who loves her child. She ain't too grand to cosset her babby. Let her go on!" The post-boy cracked his whip, and the carriage was just starting, when Joyce suddenly turned ashen white, and sinking back in the carriage, the baby would have fallen had not Piers caught it by its cloak. "What is it?--what is it, Joyce, my dear?" Mrs. Falconer asked. "You put too much strain on yourself; you are feeling the effects. Joyce!" But Joyce did not speak. Her mother opened the basket, and taking out a bottle, held it to Joyce's lips. "Take some wine; do try to sip it, Joyce."