Later, the rector came to them to mention that he would not sleep at home that night, and Shirley had better stay with Caroline—­arrangements which they could not but connect with a glimpse of martial scarlet they had observed on a distant moor earlier in the day, and the passage, by a quiet route, of six cavalry soldiers.

So the girls sat up that night and watched, until, close upon midnight, they heard the tramp of hundreds of marching feet.  The mob halted by the rectory for a muttered consultation, and then moved cautiously along towards the Hollow’s Mill.

In vain did the two watchers try to cross to the mill by fenced fields and give the alarm.  When they reached a point from which they could overlook the mill, the attack had already begun, and the yard-gates were being forced.  A volley of stones smashed every window, but the mill remained mute as a mausoleum.

“He cannot be alone,” whispered Caroline.

“I would stake all I have that he is as little alone as he is alarmed,” responded Shirley.

Shots were discharged by the rioters.  Had the defenders waited for this signal?  It seemed so.  The inert mill woke, and a volley of musketry pealed sharp through the Hollow.  It was difficult in the darkness to distinguish what was going on now.  The mill yard was full of battle-movement; there was struggling, rushing, trampling, and shouting, and then the rioters, who had never dreamed of encountering an organised defence, fell back defeated, but leaving the premises a blot of desolation on the fresh front of the summer dawn.

Caroline Helstone now fell into a state of depression and physical weakness which she tried in vain to combat.

“It is scarcely living to measure time as I do at the rectory,” she confessed one day to Mrs. Pryor, who had become her instructress and friend.  “The hours pass, and I get over them somehow, but I do not live I endure existence, but I barely enjoy it.  I want to go away from this place and forget it.”

“You know I am at present residing with Miss Keeldar in the capacity of companion,” Mrs. Pryor replied.  “Should she marry, and that she will marry ere long many circumstances induce me to conclude, I shall cease to be necessary to her.  I possess a small independency, arising partly from my own savings and partly from a legacy.  Whenever I leave Fieldhead I shall take a house of my own.  I have no relations to invite to close intimacy.  To you, my dear, I need not say I am attached.  With you I am happier than I have been with any living thing.  You will come to me then, Caroline?”

“Indeed, I love you,” was the reply, “and I should like to live with you.”

“All I have I would leave to you.”

“But, my dear madam, I have no claim on this generosity—­”

Mrs. Pryor now displayed such agitation that it was Caroline who had to become comforter.

The sequel to this scene appeared when Caroline sank into so weak a state that constant nursing was needed, and Mrs. Pryor established herself at the rectory.