There were very many; enough, in these times, to make a large fortune by--a cursed fortune wrung out of human lives.
"Oh! how could my father--" "Hush!" whispered John, "it was for his son's sake, you know." But while we stood, and with a meaning but rather grim smile Abel Fletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gold--we heard a hammering at the door below.

The rioters were come.
Miserable "rioters!"-- A handful of weak, starved men--pelting us with stones and words.

One pistol-shot might have routed them all--but my father's doctrine of non-resistance forbade.

Small as their force seemed, there was something at once formidable and pitiful in the low howl that reached us at times.
"Bring out the bags!--Us mun have bread!" "Throw down thy corn, Abel Fletcher!" "Abel Fletcher WILL throw it down to ye, ye knaves," said my father, leaning out of the upper window; while a sound, half curses, half cheers of triumph, answered him from below.
"That is well," exclaimed John, eagerly.

"Thank you--thank you, Mr.
Fletcher--I knew you would yield at last." "Didst thee, lad ?" said my father, stopping short.
"Not because they forced you--not to save your life--but because it was right." "Help me with this bag," was all the reply.
It was a great weight, but not too great for John's young arm, nervous and strong.