Miss Butterworth ran down the steps, the whole family standing in the open door, with Mr. Snow, in his glasses, behind his good-natured, cackling flock, thoroughly glad that his protective services were deemed of so small value by the brave little tailoress.

Then Miss Butterworth could see the moon and the stars.  Then she could see how beautiful the night was.  Then she became conscious of the everlasting roar of the cataracts, and of the wreaths of mist that they sent up into the crisp evening air.  To the fear of anything in Sevenoaks, in the day or in the night, she was a stranger; so, with a light heart, talking and humming to herself, she went by the silent mill, the noisy dram-shops, and, with her benevolent spirit full of hope and purpose, reached the house where, in a humble hired room she had garnered all her treasures, including the bed and the linen which she had prepared years before for an event that never took place.

“The Lord add His blessing, and to His name be all the praise,” she said, as she extinguished the candle, laughing in spite of herself, to think how she had blurted out the prayer and the ascription in the face of Solomon Snow.

“Well, he’s a broken reed—­a broken reed—­but I hope Mrs. Snow will tie something to him—­or starch him—­or—­something—­to make him stand straight for once,” and then she went to sleep, and dreamed of fighting with Robert Belcher all night.

CHAPTER II.

MR. BELCHER CARRIES HIS POINT AT THE TOWN-MEETING, AND THE POOR ARE KNOCKED DOWN TO THOMAS BUFFUM.

The abrupt departure of Miss Butterworth left Mr. Belcher piqued and surprised.  Although he regarded himself as still “master of the situation”—­to use his own pet phrase,—­the visit of that spirited woman had in various ways humiliated him.  To sit in his own library, with an intruding woman who not only was not afraid of him but despised him, to sit before her patiently and be called “Bob Belcher,” and a brute, and not to have the privilege of kicking her out of doors, was the severest possible trial of his equanimity.  She left him so suddenly that he had not had the opportunity to insult her, for he had fully intended to do this before she retired.  He had determined, also, as a matter of course, that in regard to the public poor of Sevenoaks he would give all his influence toward maintaining the existing state of things.  The idea of being influenced by a woman, particularly by a woman over whom he had no influence, to change his policy with regard to anything, public or private, was one against which all the brute within him rebelled.

In this state of mind, angry with himself for having tolerated one who had so boldly and ruthlessly wounded his self-love, he had but one resort.  He could not confess his humiliation to his wife; and there was no one in the world with whom he could hold conversation on the subject, except his old confidant who came into the mirror when wanted, and conveniently retired when the interview closed.