CHAPTER I.
THE LABOURER; AND HIS DAWNING DISCONTENT.
Roger Acton woke at five.

It was a raw March morning, still dark, and bitterly cold, while at gusty intervals the rain beat in against the crazy cottage-window.

Nevertheless, from his poor pallet he must up and rouse himself, for it will be open weather by sunrise, and his work lies two miles off; Master Jennings is not the man to show him favour if he be late, and Roger cannot afford to lose an hour: so he shook off the luxury of sleep, and rose again to toil with weary effort.
"Honest Roger," as the neighbours called him, was a fair specimen of a class which has been Britain's boast for ages, and may be still again, in measure, but at present that glory appears to be departing: a class much neglected, much enduring; thoroughly English--just, industrious, and patient; true to the altar, and loyal to the throne; though haply shaken somewhat now from both those noble faiths--warped in their principles, and blunted in their feelings, by lying doctrines and harsh economies; a class--I hate the cold cant term--a race of honourable men, full of cares, pains, privations--but of pleasures next to none; whose life at its most prosperous estate is labour, and in death we count him happy who did not die a pauper.

Through them, serfs of the soil, the earth yields indeed her increase, but it is for others; from the fields of plenty they glean a scanty pittance, and fill the barns to bursting, while their children cry for bread.

Not that Roger for his part often wanted work; he was the best hand in the parish, and had earned of his employers long ago the name of Steady Acton; but the fair wages for a fair day's labour were quite another thing, and the times went very hard for him and his.