A word here and a word there; a gentle touch of the same white hand which had been stretched out to poor Bob Priday, and had brought home to his soul the power of God's love, and Joyce, in all the first flush of her young beauty, in all the bright gladness of the summer morning at Fair Acres, had never looked so lovely as when she drew Susan gently away, and, putting her arm in hers, left the ward, followed by the wondering and wistful glances of the patients and the nurses. There was no time to lose, for the sound of distant tumult grew louder. The old surgeon urged the coachman to take as wide a sweep as possible, to avoid the Bristol streets, and just as they were starting a man rushed in with more news. The mob were on their way to Bridewell to set the prisoners free who had been committed on Saturday, and Colonel Brereton had declared his intention of withdrawing the 14th Light Dragoons from the city. This last act in the drama of irresolution and incompetence was followed, before sun-down, with the flames of a burning city, and the ever increasing fury of a mob, whose blood was inflamed with the wine from the Mansion House cellars, which had been drunk with eager recklessness, and had excited the brains of the poor, ignorant people till they were literally madmen, ah! and mad women too, as well as rioters. When Joyce reached her own door, little Falcon met her. "Mother," he said, "when the church bells were ringing, the soldiers were coming down Park Street, and grandmother said we must not go to church." "It is better not to go, dear boy," his mother said. "It's not a bit like Sunday," Falcon exclaimed, "for the people are beginning to shout again, and roar louder than ever down below." Mrs. Arundel was sitting with Gilbert, who was drowsy and heavy, and asked but few questions as to where Joyce had been. "It was a great risk," Mrs. Arundel said; "and did it effect any good?" "I think so," said Joyce, simply. "I took hope to the death-bed of a poor man, the hope which was not denied to the thief on the cross; and I took a daughter to bear witness to her father that love could triumph even over the memory of wrong-doing like his." Mrs. Arundel shook her head. "We must leave the result with God," she said; "a God of love; but He will by no means spare the guilty. Where are Piers and Susan?" "They are gone back to Down Cottage. I got out of the coach at the turn to Brandon Hill. The children looked so well and happy, and my mother has made them so cosy and comfortable." Then Joyce took up her post by her husband's bed. The doctor, who came in later, said that he was to be kept very quiet and free from excitement; and, he added, "I wish, indeed, he were further from the town, for I greatly fear worse things are at hand." The story of that fearful Sunday is too well known to need any minute description here.