III. MISTRESS MARGARET WAYNFLETE
VII. THE RESULTS OF LOSING MY VIRGIL
XII. THE GUEST-ROOM OF THE "RISING SUN"
XXI. MASTER FREAKE KNOWS AT LAST
XXIV. MY LORD BROCTON PILES UP HIS ACCOUNT
XXV. I SETTLE MY ACCOUNT WITH MY LORD BROCTON
Our Kate, Joe Braggs, and I all had a hand in the beginning, and as greatresults grew in the end out of the small events of that December morning,I will set them down in order.
It began by my refusing point-blank to take Kate to the vicar's to watchthe soldiers march by. I loved the vicar, the grave, sweet, childless oldman who had been a second father to me since the sad day which made mymother a widow, and but for the soldiers nothing would have been moreagreeable than to spend the afternoon with the old man and his books. Butmy heart would surely have broken had I gone. A caged linnet is a sorryenough sight in a withdrawing-room, but hang the cage on a tree in asunlit garden, with free birds twittering and flitting about it, and youturn dull pain into shattering agony. The vicar's little study, with therows of books he had made me know and love with some small measure of hisown learning and passion, was the perch and seed-bowl of my cage, thethings in it, after my sweet mother and saucy Kate, that made lifepossible, but still part of the cage, and it would have maddened me to hopand twitter there in sight of free men with arms in their hands andcareers in front o