“And now, mates, one last word from Roger Acton; a short word, and a simple, that you may not forget it.  My sin was love of money:  my punishment, its possession.  Mates, remember Him who sent you to be labourers, and love the lot He gives you.  Be thankful if His blessing on your industry keeps you in regular work and fair wages:  ask no more from God of this world’s good.  Believe things kindly of the gentle-folks, for many sins are heaped upon their heads, whereof their hearts are innocent.  Never listen to the counsels of a servant, who takes away his master’s character:  for of such are the poor man’s worst oppressors.  Be satisfied with all your lowliness on earth, and keep your just ambitions for another world.  Flee strong liquors and ill company.  Nurse no heated hopes, no will-o’-the-wisp bright wishes:  rather let your warmest hopes be temperately these—­health, work, wages:  and as for wishing, mates, wish any thing you will—­sooner than to find a crock of gold.”

CHAPTER LIII.

ROGER’S TRIUMPH.

THE steeples rang out merrily, full chime; High street was gay with streamers; the town-band busily assembling; a host of happy urchins from emancipated schools, were shouting in all manner of keys all manner of gleeful noises:  every body seemed a-stir.

A proud man that day was Roger Acton; not of his deserts—­they were worse than none, he knew it; not of the procession—­no silly child was he, to be caught with toy and tinsel; God wot, he was meek enough in self—­and as for other pride, he knew from old electioneerings, what a humbling thing is triumph.

But when he saw from the windows of the Swan, those crowds of new-made friends trooping up in holiday suits with flags, and wands, and corporation badges—­when the band for a commencement struck up the heart-stirring hymn ’God save the Queen,’—­when the horsemen, and carriages, and gigs, and carts assembled—­when the baronet’s own barouche and four, dashing up to the door, had come from Hurstley Hall for him—­when Sir John, the happiest of the happy, alighting with his two friends, had displaced them for Roger and Grace, while the kind gentlemen took horse, and headed the procession—­when Ben Burke (as clean as soap could get him, and bedecked in new attire) was ordered to sit beside Jonathan in the rumble-tumble—­when the cheering, and the merry-going bells, and the quick-march ‘British Grenadiers,’ rapidly succeeding the national anthem—­when all these tokens of a generous sympathy smote upon his ears, his eyes, his heart, Roger Acton wept aloud—­he wept for very pride and joy:  proud and glad was he that day of his country, of his countrymen, of his generous landlord, of his gentle Grace, of his vindicated innocence, and of God, “who had done so great things for him.”

So, the happy cavalcade moved on, horse and foot, and carts and carriages, through the noisy town, along the thronged high road, down the quiet lanes that lead to Hurstley; welcomed at every cottage-door with boisterous huzzas, and adding to its ranks at every corner.  And so they reached the village, where the band struck up,