"Gilbert, it was not the crowd, it was not the fear about the poor people who stopped the carriage, it was that amongst those dreadful faces I saw Bob Priday's, the man who stopped us on Mendip years ago, and who, as we think, killed dear father. Oh, it was the sight of his face which was too much for me! And poor Susan saw him also. It brought it all back. Father! father!" Gilbert stroked his wife's head tenderly as it lay upon his shoulder, and said: "Are you sure it was Bob Priday? So many years have passed." "Quite, quite sure. And, though I have not spoken to Susan yet, I _know_ she is sure also." "You did not tell your mother, then, or Piers?" "No, no; I would not have given mother the pain I felt, for anything. Dear mother! I let her drive off with scarcely a good-bye, and she has been so kind at Fair Acres, and has enjoyed the children in the old house. But, oh! Gilbert," she said, rallying, "it is so delightful to be at home with you again. While we have each other nothing can be _very_ bad, can it?" "Nothing," he said, fervently. "And now, while you are resting, I must go down to the office, for my partner is at the meeting at the "White Lion," helping to bolster up poor Hart-Davies to fight the Tories' battle. He is a good fellow, and everybody respects him; but the truth is, the tide is too strong in Bristol now for any but some very exceptional man to battle against it." "You think the Whigs will carry the election?" "Without a doubt." "Are you going to the meeting in Queen's Square?" "I think not. We cannot both leave the office at once, and I do not greatly care about it. I do increasingly feel that these men who clamour for their cause injure it. They are exciting the mob in Bristol--always inflammable material--and this fury of rage against old Wetherall is most dangerous. Everyone expects that if he attempts to open the next assize there will be a riot it will be difficult to quell. Happy little Joy," he said, kissing the baby's cheek; "to sleep on in peace while your fellow-citizens of Bristol are shouting themselves hoarse." Susan now came in from the next room, and took the baby from Joyce, while Gilbert left the nursery, saying: "We must dine at a fashionable hour to-day. I shall not be back till five;"--and Susan and her mistress were left alone. "Did he see us, Susan? Your father; do you think he saw us?" "I think he did, ma'am--at least, I think he saw me." "You feel no doubt at all that it was your father, Susan?" "No, oh no!" said poor Susan, struggling to restrain her convulsive sobs; "and I don't know what is to be done. Oh, dear, dear, madam!" "We must leave it in God's hands, Susan." "If he finds me out it will be so dreadful; but I don't think he will dare to do so." "No," Joyce said; "he will hide away from us knowing that suspicion, at least, must have fastened on him." "Dear madam, I wonder you have ever been able to bear to have me near you. His daughter!--_his_ daughter!"