The cranks being condemned, rational industry restored, and the law reseated on the throne a manslaughtering dunce had usurped, the champion of human nature went home to drink his tea and write the plot of his sermon.

He had won a great battle and felt his victory.  He showed it, too, in his own way.  On the evening of this great day his voice was remarkably gentle and winning, and a celestial light seemed to dwell in his eyes; no word of exultation, nor even of self-congratulation; and he made no direct mention of the prison all the evening.  His talk was about Susan’s affairs, and he paid his warm thanks to her and her aunt for all they had done for him.  “You have been true friends, true allies,” said he; “what do I not owe you! you have supported me in a bitter struggle, and now that the day is won I can find no words to thank you as I ought.”

Both these honest women colored and glistened with pleasure, but they were too modest to be ready with praise or to bandy compliments.

“As for you, Susan, it was a masterstroke your venturing into my den.”

“Oh! we turn bold when a body is ill, don’t we, aunt?”

“I am not shy for one at the best of times,” remarked the latter.

“Under Heaven you saved my life, at least I think so, Susan, for the medicinal power of soothing influences is immense, I am sure it is apt to be underrated; and then it was you who flew to Malvern and dragged Gulson to me at the crisis of my fate; dear little true-hearted friend, I am sorry to think I can never repay you.”

“You forget, Mr. Eden,” said Susan, almost in a whisper, “I was paid beforehand.”

I wish I could convey the native grace and gentle dignity of gratitude with which the farmer’s daughter murmured these four words, like a duchess acknowledging a kindness.

“Eh?” inquired Mr. Eden, “oh! ah!  I forgot,” said he naively.  “No! that is nonsense, Susan.  You have still an immense Cr. against my name; but I know a way—­Mrs. Davies, for as simple as I sit here you see in me the ecclesiastic that shall unite this young lady to an honest man, who, report says, loves her very dearly; so I mean to square our little account.”

“That is fair, Susan; what do you say?”

“La, aunt! why I shouldn’t look upon it as a marriage at all if any clergyman but Mr. Eden said the words.”

“That is right,” laughed Mr. Eden, “always set some little man above some great thing, and then you will always be—­a woman.  I must write the plot of my sermon, ladies, but you can talk to me all the same.”

He wrote and purred every now and then to the women, who purred to each other and now and then to him.  Neither Hawes nor any other irritation rankled in his heart, or even stuck fast in his memory.  He had two sermons to prepare for Sunday next, and he threw his mind into them as he had into the battle he had just won.  “Hoc agebat.”

CHAPTER XXVII.