SEQUELFifteen months have passed, and we are brought on to Midsummer
Night, 1867.
The picture presented is the interior of the old belfry of
Carriford Church, at ten o'clock in the evening.
Six Carriford men and one stranger are gathered there, beneath
the light of a flaring candle stuck on a piece of wood against the
wall. The six Carriford men are the well-known ringers of the
fine-toned old bells in the key of F, which have been music to the
ears of Carriford parish and the outlying districts for the last
four hundred years. The stranger is an assistant, who has appeared
from nobody knows where.
The six natives—in their shirt-sleeves, and without hats—pull
and catch frantically at the dancing bellropes, the locks of their
hair waving in the breeze created by their quick mot
