royal children to every species of indignity, and were even now loudly demanding the blood of the whole Bourbon family and of every one of its adherents. 

 The execution of the Princesse de Lamballe, Marie Antoinette’s young and charming friend, had filled everyone in England with unspeakable horror, the daily execution of scores of royalists of good family, whose only sin was their aristocratic name, seemed to cry for vengeance to the whole of civilised Europe. 

 Yet, with all that, no one dared to interfere. Burke had exhausted all his eloquence in trying to induce the British Government to fight the revolutionary government of France, but Mr. Pitt, with characteristic prudence, did not feel that this country was fit yet to embark on another arduous and costly war. It was for Austria to take the initiative; Austria, whose fairest daughter was even now a dethroned queen, imprisoned and insulted by a howling mob; and surely ’twas not—so argued Mr. Fox—for the whole of England to take up arms, because one set of Frenchmen chose to murder another. 

 As for Mr. Jellyband and his fellow John Bulls, though they looked upon all foreigners with withering contempt, they were royalist and anti-revolutionists to a man, and at this present moment were furious with Pitt for his caution and moderation, although they naturally understood nothing of the diplomatic reasons which guided that great man’s policy. 

 But now Sally came running back, very excited and very eager. The joyous company in the coffee-room had heard nothing of the noise outside, but she had spied a dripping horse and rider who had stopped at the door of “The Fisherman’s Rest,” and while the stable boy ran forward to take charge of the horse, pretty Miss Sally went to the front door to greet the welcome visitor. 

 “I think I see’d my Lord Antony’s horse out in the yard, father,” she said, as she ran across the coffee-room. 

 But already the door had been thrown open from outside, and the next moment an arm, covered in drab cloth and dripping with the heavy rain, was round pretty Sally’s waist, while a hearty voice echoed along the polished rafters of the coffee-room. 

 “Aye, and bless your brown eyes for being so sharp, my pretty Sally,” said the man who had just entered, whilst worthy Mr. Jellyband came bustling forward, eager, alert and fussy, as became the advent of one of the most favoured guests of his hostel. 

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