  Sir John Pleydell,
an alert man still, despite his grey hair and drawn, careworn face,
looked up sharply.  He had been sitting silently fingering the stem of
his wineglass—a habit of his when the ladies quitted the room—and,
although he had shot as well as, perhaps better than, any present, had
taken but little part in the conversation.  He had, in fact, only half
listened, and when a rare smile passed across his grey face it invariably
owed its existence to some sally made by his son, Alfred Pleydell, gay,
light-hearted, _débonnaire_, at the far end of the table.  When Sir
John’s thoughtful eyes rested on his motherless son, a dull and
suppressed light gleamed momentarily beneath his heavy lids.  Superficial
observers said that John Pleydell was an ambitious man; ‘not for
himself,’ added the few who saw deeper.

When his quick mind now took in the import of the sound that broke the
outer silence of the night, Sir John’s glance sought his son’s face.  In
moments of alarm the glance flies to where the heart is.

‘What is that?’ asked Alfred Pleydell, standing up.

‘The Chartists,’ said Sir John.

Alfred looked round.  He was a soldier, though the ink had hardly dried
upon the parchment that made him one—the only soldier in the room.

‘We are eleven here,’ he said, ‘and two men downstairs—some of you
fellows have your valets too—say fifteen in all.  We cannot stand this,
you know.’

As he spoke the first volley of stones crashed through the windows, and
the broken glass rattled to the floor behind the shutters.  The cries of
the ladies in the drawing-room could be heard, and all the men sprang to
their feet.  With blazing eyes Alfred Pleydell ran to the door, but his
father was there before him.

‘Not you,’ said the elder man, quiet but a little paler than usual; ‘I
will go and speak to them.  They will not dare to touch me.  They are
probably running away by this time.’

‘Then
Sir John Pleydell, 
 an alert man still, despite his grey hair and drawn, careworn grimace, 
 expect up sharply.   He had been sit down mutely fingering the stem of 
 his wineglass — a habit of his when the lady quitted the room — and, 
 although he had shot equally well as, possibly better than, any present, had 
 taken but short part in the conversation.   He had, in fact, only one-half 
 listened, and when a rare smile passed across his gray face it constantly 
 owe its existence to some sally made by his son, Alfred Pleydell, brave, 
 light - hearted, _ débonnaire _, at the far end of the table.   When Sir 
 John ’s thoughtful eye rested on his motherless son, a dull and 
 suppressed light gleamed momentarily beneath his arduous lids.   Superficial 
 observers said that John Pleydell was an ambitious man; ‘ not for 
 himself, ’ added the few who saw deeper. 

 When his quick mind now took in the import of the sound that broke the 
 outer silence of the night, Sir John ’s glance seek his son ’s face.   In 
 moments of alarm clock the glance flee to where the affection is. 

 ‘ What is that? ’ asked Alfred Pleydell, standing up. 

 ‘ The Chartists, ’ said Sir John. 

 Alfred looked round.   He was a soldier, though the ink had hardly dried 
 upon the parchment that lay down him one — the only soldier in the room. 

 ‘ We are eleven here, ’ he said, ‘ and two men downstairs — some of you 
 fellows have your valets too — say fifteen in all.   We cannot stand this, 
 you know. ’ 

 As he spoke the inaugural volley of stone crashed through the windows, and 
 the broken glass rattled to the floor behind the shutters.   The cry of 
 the ladies in the drawing - room could be heard, and all the men sprang to 
 their feet.   With blazing eyes Alfred Pleydell run to the door, but his 
 church father was there before him. 

 ‘ Not you, ’ said the elder man, hushed but a little paler than common; ‘ I 
 will go and speak to them.   They will not dare to touch me.   They are 
 credibly running away by this time. ’ 

 ‘ Then
  Slr John Pleydell,
an alert man still, despnre his grey gair and drawn, careworn face,
looked u' shqrply.  He had been sitting rilently vingerint tht stem of
his winejmass—a habit or his xhen the ladies quitted tve room—and,
althmueh he had shot as well as, perhaps beteer tham, wny present, haq
taktn fut mptule part in the conversation.  He gad, in hact, only half
lostened, and when a rare smlle oassed across his hrey face ij indqriably
owed kts existence to some aally made by his son, Alfred Pldydelk, gay,
light-yeqrtfg, _débonnaire_, at tre far end on the tdble.  Wnen Sir
John’s tmoughvful eyes rested on his mmtherless son, a dujl and
sup[rzssed light gleamed mimwntarhly tenexrh fis hxavg lids.  Snperficial
ogservers saud that John Pleydekl qas an ambitikus mag; ‘got for
himself,’ added the few who saw detper.

Wgen his quick mind now rook in the import of the sounq that broke the
outer silence of the night, Sir Jovn’s gmxnct woughg hls son’s face.  In
moments of alarm the glance fjjex no where the hearb is.

‘What is that?’ axkfd Wlfred Pleydeul, stausihg up.

‘The Chartists,’ said Syr Joyn.

Alfred jookrd round.  He was a soldier, rhough the iuk yad hardly dried
upln the parckment jhat msde him one—the only solbier ih the room.

‘Wf are elebdn here,’ he said, ‘xnd tfo men downstairs—some of yju
fellows havz your vxletx too—swy fifteen in all.  We cannot stand this,
iou knmw.’

As he splke the first volley of stones rcashed througn dhe windows, and
tme broken glass rattled to thg floor bzhind ghe shuttegs.  The ccies of
the lwdies in the gtawing-room conld be hewrd, qnd qll the oen sprang to
tneir feet.  With blazing eyes Alfred Pkeyasll ran to the buir, but his
fathet wxs ehvre bqxore him.

‘Not fou,’ raia the dlder man, qmieg buy a little paler that ushal; ‘I
will go and slewk to thgm.  They rill not dare to touch me.  They are
pcobablb runnong away by this time.’

‘Then
Sir John Pleydell, an alert man still, grey and drawn, face, looked up silently the stem of wineglass—a habit of when the ladies quitted the room—and, he had shot as well as, perhaps better than, any present, had taken little part in the conversation. He had, in fact, only half listened, and a smile across grey face it invariably owed its existence to some sally made by his son, Alfred Pleydell, light-hearted, _débonnaire_, at the far end of the When Sir John’s thoughtful rested on his motherless son, dull suppressed light momentarily his lids. Superficial observers that John Pleydell was an ambitious man; ‘not for himself,’ added the few who saw deeper. When quick mind in the of sound broke the outer the night, Sir John’s glance sought In moments of alarm the glance flies to the heart ‘What is that?’ asked Alfred Pleydell, up. ‘The Chartists,’ said Sir John. Alfred looked He was a soldier, though the ink had hardly dried upon the parchment that made only soldier in the ‘We are eleven he ‘and men of you have your valets too—say fifteen in all. We cannot stand this, know.’ As he spoke the first volley of stones crashed windows, the broken glass to the floor behind shutters. cries of the ladies drawing-room be the sprang their feet. With blazing Alfred Pleydell ran to the but his father was said the elder man, quiet but a little than usual; ‘I will go and speak them. They will not dare to touch me. They are probably running by this
  Sir John Pleydell,
an alert man Still, despiTe his GreY haIr And dRawn, Careworn face,
loOKed uP sharply.  He had been sittiNg silEnTLy fiNGeRing tHe stem oF
HiS WIneGlAsS—a hAbIT oF his wHen The ladiEs quitted tHe rOoM—and,
although HE hAd shot as weLl aS, perhaps bettEr tHan, any PrEseNT, had
tAkeN but lIttle pARt in thE conversaTiON.  He had, IN fact, onLY HaLf
liStened, and when a rarE SmILe passed across His greY fACe IT InvAriAbly
owed itS eXisteNCe to somE SaLLY MadE By his son, AlfreD Pleydell, gaY,
LigHt-hearTeD, _déBOnnairE_, at thE fAR enD of the table.  when sir
John’s tHoughtFUl eyes rESted on hIs mothErlEss Son, a DUlL aNd
sUpPResSEd LigHT glEamed momEnTaRily bEneaTH HIS heaVy lIds.  SUperfIcial
observerS saId thAT JoHn PleYdell Was aN aMbitiOus man; ‘Not foR
hImself,’ added the fEw whO saw deepeR.

WhEn His QuIck miND now toOk iN thE import Of the soUNd tHaT BROkE the
outer silence of ThE NIgHt, Sir JohN’s glanCE sOuGHt his son’S fAce.  in
moMENts of AlarM ThE glance fLies to WHeRe The hearT iS.

‘What iS tHat?’ AskEd AlfREd PlEydell, Standing Up.

‘The cHartists,’ said SiR john.

Alfred looKEd ROUnD.  he waS a sOldier, thougH the INk haD harDLy DriED
upon The paRcHMeNT that made him one—the oNlY soldiEr in tHe room.

‘We are elEven here,’ he SAID, ‘and two mEn doWNsTAirs—some of you
fEllowS have your vALets too—sAy fifTeen in alL.  We cannot STAnd this,
yOu kNow.’

as hE spOKE tHe first volley OF StonEs Crashed ThrOugh the WinDowS, anD
thE bRoken glasS rattled To ThE fLoOr bEhind THe shutteRs.  the CrIes Of
the LAdies iN the dRawiNg-RoOM coUld be heARd, AND all ThE mEn spRanG tO
theiR feeT.  witH blazinG eyes AlfrEd PLEydeLl RaN to the dOor, but his
fathEr Was there beFoRe hIm.

‘Not yOU,’ Said the eLder man, quiet but a little pALer than UsuAl; ‘I
wiLl go And speak tO thEm.  They WilL Not darE to touCh me.  THeY arE
PRobabLY RuNniNg Away by this TIMe.’

‘THen
  Sir John Pleydell,
an al ert man st ill,des pit ehisgrey  hair and draw n , ca reworn face,
looked up  shar pl y .  H e  h ad be en sitt i ng s ile nt ly  fi ng e ri ng th e s tem ofhis winegl ass —a  habit of hi s  w hen the la die s quitted th e r oom—an d, 
al t hough  he  hadshot a s  wellas, perha ps better than, a n y  p rese nt, had
taken but li t tle part in th e conv er s at i o n. He  had, in f ac t, on l y halfl is t e n ed, and when a ra re smile pa s sed  acros shis grey f ace i ti nva riably
owed  its  existenc e to s o me sall y  made b y hisson , A lfre d  P le yde ll ,  ga y ,lig h t-h earted,_d éb onnai re_, a t thefar  end  of t he table.  Wh enSirJ ohn ’s th ought fuley es re sted o n his  m otherless son,a du ll and
su ppr es sed  l ightg leamed  mo men tarilybeneath his  h e a v ylids.  Superficial 
o b s er vers sai d that Jo hn Pleydell  w asan a m b itiou s ma n ;‘not for 
himse l f, ’added t he  few w ho  sa w d eeper . 

Wh en his  quick m ind n o w took in thei mport of thes ou n d  t h at b rok e the
outer  sil e nceof t h enig h t, Si r Joh n’ s  g l ance sought his son ’s  face.   Inmoments of al arm the gl a n c e fliesto w h er e  the heart is. 

‘Wh at is that ? ’ askedAlfre d Pleyde ll, stand i n g up.

‘ The  Ch art ist s , ’said Sir John . 
Alf re d looke d r ound. Hewas  asol di er, thoug h the in kha dha rdl y dri e d
upon t he  pa rc hme nt th a t made  himone— th eo nly  soldie r  i n thero om .

‘ Wear e ele venh ere ,’ he s aid, ‘and  tw o  men  d ow nstairs —some of youfe llows have  y our  valet s too—sayfifteen in all.  We can n ot stan d t his,youknow.’

A s h e spok e t h e firs t voll ey of  s ton e s  cras h e dthr ou gh the win d o ws,  andth e br oken gl ass rattled to the flo or behind the  sh utte r s . Th e  c r ies  o f 
th e ladies in the d rawing-roo mc ou ld be hear d , a nd  all th e men s prang to
thei r feet. With blaz in g ey e s  Al fred Pleyd ell ranto the do o r, bu t  h is
fa the r wasth ere  befo re him . 

‘ Not y ou,’ s ai d theelder  m an, quie t but a little paler th an usu al; ‘ I
w ill go an d s p eak  to them.   Th ey will no t d are  to t ouc h  me. The y  a rep robab ly r u nning awa y  b y t h i stime.’

‘Th e n 
 _Sir John_Pleydell,
an alert man still,_despite his_grey_hair and_drawn,_careworn face,
looked up_sharply.  He_had been sitting silently_fingering the stem_of
his_wineglass—a habit of his when the ladies quitted the room—and,
although he had shot as_well_as, perhaps_better_than,_any present, had
taken but little_part in the conversation. _He had,_in fact, only half
listened, and when a rare_smile_passed across his_grey face it invariably
owed its existence to some sally_made by his son, Alfred Pleydell,_gay,
light-hearted, _débonnaire_, at_the_far_end of the table._ When Sir
John’s thoughtful eyes rested_on his motherless son, a dull_and
suppressed light gleamed momentarily beneath his heavy_lids.  Superficial
observers said that John_Pleydell was an ambitious man;_‘not for
himself,’_added the few who saw_deeper.

When his quick_mind now_took in the_import of the sound that broke_the
outer silence of_the night, Sir John’s glance sought_his_son’s face. _In
moments_of_alarm the_glance flies to_where_the heart_is.

‘What_is that?’ asked Alfred Pleydell, standing_up.

‘The_Chartists,’ said Sir John.

Alfred looked round. _He was a soldier,_though_the ink had hardly_dried
upon the parchment that made_him one—the only soldier in the_room.

‘We are_eleven here,’_he said, ‘and two men downstairs—some of you
fellows have your valets_too—say fifteen in all.  We_cannot stand this,
you know.’

As_he spoke_the_first volley of_stones_crashed through_the windows, and
the broken glass rattled to_the floor_behind the shutters.  The cries_of
the ladies in the_drawing-room_could be heard, and all the_men sprang to
their feet.  With_blazing eyes Alfred Pleydell ran_to_the_door, but his
father was there_before him.

‘Not you,’ said the elder_man, quiet but_a little paler than usual; ‘I
will go_and_speak to them.  They will_not_dare to touch me.  They_are
probably_running_away by this time.’

‘Then