"See!" Mrs. More said, "there is the little steam-packet puffing busily up the river. I am blessed in my old age, to see before my windows the two great discoveries of the age, steam-power made useful for locomotion, and coal-gas for light. I am very happy here, my dear, but remember an old woman's advice, and do not spoil Susan Priday, or any servant, by over indulgence. Very often, as in my own case, carelessness, and dislike of trouble is the real root of the evil. God bless you and keep you, my dear," she said, as Joyce bent to kiss her. "Is there much excitement abroad about the passing of the Reform Bill?" "Not that I have seen," Joyce answered; "but I daresay there may be in the city." "Well, the result is in God's hands; we must pray and labour for peace, that blessed gift of God's love--peace." It was a sweet parting word, and one to which Joyce often recurred in later years, almost as Hannah More's legacy to her--Peace. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIV. THE STORM BURSTS. It was the evening of the eighteenth of October when Joyce was seated in her nursery, awaiting her husband's return. The Bristol clocks had struck eleven; and from time to time the noise of the voices of many people reached her, borne upon the still night air. She had sent the servants to bed; and Mrs. Arundel and Charlotte were also gone to their rooms; but Joyce sat up watching for Gilbert's return. The baby Joy, was sleeping in her cradle, and Lettice and Lota in their cribs, while Falcon lay in profound repose, a fife, upon which he had been playing hard all day, as he marched round and round the garden, was clasped in his strong, round little fingers. Joyce bent over the children, shading the candle with her hand, to assure herself they slept, and then, leaving the nursery door open, that she might hear if they stirred or cried, she went gently down the wide staircase to the hall. The fire in the dining-room was burning low, and she put on some more coal, and saw that the kettle just simmered on the hob, ready to be put on to the fire when Gilbert came. She moved with that quiet, almost stealthy tread, which is common with those who feel themselves the only persons awake in a house. The stillness was broken by the ticking of the clock in the hall, and how loud that tick sounded! Joyce went to the window, and, unfastening the shutter, looked out into the night, a dark, murky night; and from below came the low murmur of the crowds, which had not yet dispersed. Public feeling throughout the country had reached almost to fever heat, but in Bristol the animosity against Bishops and Lords, for the rejection of the Reform Bill which the Commons had passed, was quickened by the personal hatred, which the recorder, Sir Charles Wetherall had excited amongst the people.