"You called me a witch," she said, with a slight shudder, but trying to laugh it off.

"Well! an' if I did?" he said, laughing.

"It was foolish to mind," she said; "but Mother Goodhugh just now was angry with me, and called me witch, and uttered threats."

"Against thee?" cried the founder, angrily. "I say, then, let her curses return upon her own head, witch that she is herself. She shall go from Roehurst before this time to-morrow."

"Nay, nay, father," cried Mace, hastily; "don't visit her mad ravings upon her. Let her rest. Poor thing! she's crazed with grief. Let her be--for my sake, let her be."

"What, and let her some day bring evil upon us by her witcheries?"

"What, and is my stout, brave father going to have faith in what yon silly woman says!" cried Mace, laughing. "Come, father, promise me you will not have her touched."

"I'll promise thee anything, child," he said, smoothing her soft hair, and bending down to kiss her cheek.

"Anything, father?" she cried.

"Not quite, Mace," he said with a sigh; "but anything that is for thy good;" and they walked on through the wood together, the old man smiling and loitering as his companion kept stooping to pick some bright flower, for it put him in mind of her childhood, when sweet Mace and the wild flowers seemed each to belong to each. Now it was the bright yellow meadow vetchling, now the brilliant orange-tinted lotus, and then long sprays of the purple-blossomed tufted vetch.

Further on they came to a sunny opening where the trees had been felled, and here was quite a forest garden, where Mace paused, with the care that had shaded her face for days gone to leave it bright and childlike once more; while the founder smiled as he stood and watched her run from patch to patch, picking hastily and talking the while.

"I won't be long, dear. Oh, how beautiful the heath is; what lovely sprays!"

Then she ran to where the orange ragwort threw up its tufts of sun-like florets, picked golden-rod and Saint John's wort; ran a few steps to where the wood betony raised a clump of purple-waving heads. These, with delicate grasses, pink robins, lavender scabious, and soft-foliaged golden-disked flea-bane, and hawkweed, made up a goodly nosegay. But still, there was more and more to add, for as she walked on it was by a clump of golden genista, each plant a bouquet in itself; bright pink starred centaury; and then farther along by a hollow, where the water lay in a dark pool, the quaint stars of the branch bur-reed, with abundance of forget-me-not, seemed to ask the picking.

"Oh, father!" she cried merrily, as she stopped at last, with a bunch of flowers as large as her fingers could grasp, "what a shame that I should keep thee thus!"

"Nay, nay, my child," he said, smiling, as he stroked one of her soft flushed cheeks; "it seems to do me good to see thee young again. It is like a rest on life's journey, and a pleasant halt where one can forget one's hurry and toil. Mace, my pet," he said, seating himself among the heath upon a sandy bank, "I think I could give up everything, except my garden and my pipe and ale, if you and I could go on together always like this."

"Then let us go on like this, father," she cried, seating herself at his feet and resting her head against his knee. "Why should we let trouble come between?"

"Because we can't help it, girl," he replied, laughing. "He's let in by that little mischief imp who comes unasked and holds open the door for t'other, and then the sorrows come. You know the boy I mean, Tit; his name is Love, and I s'pose it has always been the same."

There came a curiously pained look in Mace's eyes as she turned them quickly up to her father, then the woodland nosegay she had picked fell at her feet, and her head drooped down upon his knee.

Volume 2, Chapter VII.

HOW THE BIG HOWITZER WAS FIRED.

Time glided on, and Gil's ship was fast getting ready for sea. It was to be a good trip this season; and, as she approached completion, her freight was gradually accumulated, for, as in a quiet matter-of-fact way, the captain let the relations between him and Mace stand in abeyance, the founder made some slight advances, and business arrangements were resumed.

It would have been a serious matter for both if they had stood out, for Gil formed almost the only channel through which Jeremiah Cobbe's productions were sold, and upon him depended the supply of two of the principal ingredients with which one of the founder's branches of industry was carried on.

So gunpowder was made and ground. Gil--though never asked to the house, nor making any attempt to see Mace, and at their casual encounters meeting her quite as a friend--spent much of his time at the founder's works, superintending a casting, watching the purification of some batch of nitre that he had brought home, and, above all, helping at the trial of a newly-finished howitzer or culverin.

The founder was pleased, for he told himself that the young people were growing sensible, and he became more friendly to Gil, who at last, after sundry night journeys had been noted by the people about, found himself ready for another voyage.

"When do you sail, then?" said the founder to him one morning.

"I have thought of going to-morrow," was the reply; "but the tide hardly suits."

"Then put it off till the next day, my lad, and we'll have out the new piece to-morrow, and try her across the Pool."

"With all my heart," said Gil, and the next morning he was busy and light-hearted at the foundry, with old Wat Kilby and half-a-dozen more, helping and superintending the mounting and dragging out of the great newly-finished piece of artillery, on which the founder for some time had been engaged.

"She'll startle some of them," he said, as he patted the great piece on the breech, just as Mace came up slowly, and saluted Gil. "You shall have the first shot with her, Tit," he said, as the idea occurred to him.

"Will it be safe to let her?" said Gil, rather anxiously, as he saw Mace shudder and shrink back.

"Safe? Just as if one of my pieces could burst!" cried the founder, disdainfully.

"The girt barrel be ready, Mas' Cobbe," said Tom Croftly, as he came up to announce that he had set up a great tub on a platform of planks on the other side of the Pool.

"We'll soon batter that down," cried the founder, as with a loud cheer the huge piece of artillery was dragged up to the end of the lake, facing the founder's house, the whole of the men turning out to see the first discharge.

"You'll help me to load and train her?" said the founder, who was as excited over the trial as a boy.

"Ay, I'll help," cried Gil, rolling up the sleeves of his doublet, and taking the lead at charging the monster; Mace smiling as she looked on, and saw the strength he brought to bear, ramming the powder, lifting the great shot as if it were a child's ball, and then driving it home.

"Don't aim at the target till we get the charged shell," said the founder. "This is only a christening shot."

"Then we'll call the piece 'Mace the First,'" said Gil, laughing.

"That's her name, then," said the founder; "and she shall be the first of many Maces. Why are you aiming so low?"

"I want to show you a shot of mine that I should use against a Spaniard if I wished to sink her," said Gil, smiling, as by means of wedges he depressed the muzzle of the piece.

"But stop, man, the ball will go to the bottom of the Pool, and I want you to hit yon ragged oak."

"So I shall," cried Gil, taking aim. "Give me leave, and you shall see."

"There," he said, when he had adjusted the piece to his satisfaction, "that will about do. Now, Wat, ready with that linstock. What are you looking at, man?"

Wat Kilby, whose eyes had been fixed on Janet staring out of the window, uttered a low growl, and lit the linstock.

"Now, Master Cobbe," cried Gil, "do you feel satisfied that the piece is safe?"

"My life upon it," cried the founder.

"Nay," said Gil, gently; "it is thy child's life."

The founder frowned, and was about to speak hastily, but he refrained.

"Thou art right, friend Gil," he said; "but have no fear, the piece is made of my toughest stuff. Come, my child, be ready with the linstock."

Gil's countenance betrayed his uneasiness; and, to give him confidence, Mace let her eyes meet his, with a calm, loving look, as she mastered her dread and horror, took the burning linstock, and stood ready near the breech.

There was a general rush to right and left as the lighted linstock was brought forward; only the founder, Gil, and Wat Kilby, who handed the light, remaining, the latter coolly squatting down near the mouth of the piece to watch the course of the shot.