Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. Rattles were sprung; lanterns lighted, and hoisted at the end of poles; windows thrown open; doors unbarred; and, as if by magic, the street was instantaneously filled with a crowd of persons of both sexes, armed with such weapons as came most readily to hand, and dressed in such garments as could be most easily slipped on. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker. “It’s a matter of feeling with me. "Off with it to the health of King James the Third, and confusion to his enemies!" "Hold!" interposed Wood; "that is treason. ‘Though he didn’t mean it. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St. She dare not risk it.
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