"Thou poor little dear!" cried Dorothy, fairly melted, and sobbing over Cissy as she gave her half-a-dozen kisses at least. "The Lord bless thee, and be good to thee! I'm sure He'll take proper vengeance on every body as isn't. I wouldn't like to be them as ill-used thee. They'll have a proper bill to pay in the next world, if they don't get it in this. Poor little pretty dear!"

"You will drink a cup of ale and eat a manchet?" asked Sister Joan of Dorothy.

A manchet was a cake of the best bread.

"No, I thank you, Sister, I am not a-hungered," was the answer.

"But, Dolly, you did not come all the way from Colchester?" said Cissy.

"Ay, I did so, my dear, in the miller's cart, and I'm journeying back in the same. I covenanted to meet him down at the end of yonder lane at three o'clock, and methinks I had best be on my way."

"Ay, you have no time to lose," responded Sister Joan.

Dorothy found Mr Ewring waiting for her at the end of the lane.

"Have you had to eat, Dorothy?" was his first question when she had climbed up beside him.

"Never a bite or sup in that house, Master, I thank you," was Dorothy's rejoinder. "If I'd been starving o' hunger, I wouldn't have touched a thing."

"Have you seen the children?"

"I've seen Cissy. That was enough and to spare."

"What do they with her?"

"They are working hard with both hands to make an angel of her at the soonest—that's what they are doing. It's not what they mean to do. They want to make her a devil, or one of the devil's children, which comes to the same thing: but the Lord 'll not suffer that, or I'm a mistaken woman. They are trying to bend her, and they never will. She'll break first. So they'll break her, and then there'll be no more they can do. That's about where it is, Master Ewring."

"Why, Dorothy, I never saw you thus stirred aforetime."

"Maybe not. It takes a bit to stir me, but I've got it this even, I can tell you."

"I could well-nigh mistake you for Mistress Wade," said Mr Ewring with a smile.

"Eh, poor Mistress! but if she could see that poor little dear, it would grieve her to her heart. Master Ewring, how long will the Lord bear with these sons of Satan!"

"Ah, Dorothy, that's more than you or I can tell. 'Many shall be purified, and made white, and tried': that is all we know."

"How much is many?" asked Dorothy almost bitterly.

"Not one too many," said the miller gravely: "and not one too few. We are called to wait until our brethren be accomplished that shall suffer. It may be shorter than we think. But, Dorothy, who set you among the prophets? I rather thought you had not over much care for such things."

"Master Ewring, I've heard say that when a soldier's killed in battle, another steppeth up behind without delay to fill his place. There's some places wants filling at Colchester, where the firing's been fierce of late: and when most of the old warriors be killed, they'll be like to fill the ranks up with new recruits. And if they be a bit awkward, and don't step just up to pace, maybe they'll learn by and by, and meantime the others must have patience."

"The Lord perfect that which concerneth thee!" said the miller, with much feeling. "Dorothy, was your mistress not desirous to have brought up these little ones herself?"

"She was so, Master Ewring, and I would with all my heart she could. Poor little dears!"

"I would have taken the lad, if it might have been compassed, when he was a bit older, and have bred him up to my own trade. The maids should have done better with good Mistress Wade."

"Eh, Master, little Cicely's like to dwell in other keeping than either, and that's with her good father and mother above."

"The Lord's will be done!" responded Mr Ewring. "If so be, she at least will have little sorrow."



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

INTO THE LION'S MOUTH.

"Give you good den, Master Hiltoft! May a man have speech of your prisoner, Mistress Bongeor?"

"You're a bold man, Master Ewring."

"Wherefore?"

"Wherefore! Sotting your head in the lion's mouth! I should have thought you'd keep as far from Moot Hall as you could compass. Yourself not unsuspected, and had one burned already from your house—I marvel at you that you hide not yourself behind your corn-measures and flour-sacks, and have a care not to show your face in the street. And here up you march as bold as Hector, and desire to have speech of a prisoner! Well—it's your business, not mine."

"Friend, mine hearth is desolate, and I have only God to my friend. Do you marvel that I haste to do His work whilst it is day, or that I desire to be approved of Him?"

"You go a queer way about it. I reckon you think with the old saw, [Proverb.] 'The nearer the church the further from Heaven'!"

"That is true but in some sense. Verily, the nearer some churches, and some priests, so it is. May I see Mistress Bongeor?"

"Ay, you would fain not commit yourself, I see, more than may be. Come, you have a bit of prudence left. So much the better for you. Come in, and I'll see if Wastborowe's in a reasonable temper, and that hangs somewhat on the one that Audrey's in."

The porter shut the gate behind Mr Ewring, and went to seek Wastborowe. Just then Jane Hiltoft, coming to her door, saw him waiting, and invited him to take a seat.

"Fine morning, Master."

"Ay, it is, Jane. Have you yet here poor Johnson's little maid?"

"I haven't, Master, and I feel fair lost without the dear babe. A rare good child she was—never see a better. The Black Ladies of Hedingham has got her, and I'm all to pieces afeard they'll not tend her right way. How should nuns (saving their holy presences) know aught about babes and such like? Eh dear! they'd better have left her with me. I'd have taken to her altogether, if Simon'd have let me—and I think he would after a bit. And she'd have done well with me, too."

"Ay, Jane, you'd have cared her well for the body, I cast no doubt."

"Dear heart, but it's sore pity, Master Ewring, such a good man as you cannot be a good Catholic like every body else! You'd save yourself ever so much trouble and sorrow. I cannot think why you don't."

"We should save ourselves a little sorrow, Jane; but we should have a deal more than we lost."

"But how so, Master? It's only giving up an opinion."

"Maybe so, with some: but not with us. They that have been taught this way by others, and never knew Christ for themselves—with them, as you say, it were but the yielding of opinion: but to us that know Him, and have heard His voice, it would be the betraying of the best Friend in earth or Heaven. And we cannot do that, Jane Hiltoft—not even for life."

"Nay, that stands to reason if it were so, Master Ewring; but, trust me, I know not what you mean, no more than if you spake Latin."

"Read God's Book, and pray for His Spirit, and you shall find out, Jane.—Well, Hiltoft?"

"Wastborowe says you may see Mistress Bongeor if you'll give him a royal farthing, but he won't let you for a penny less. He's had words with their Audrey, and he's as savage as Denis of Siccarus."

"Who was he, Hiltoft?" answered Mr Ewring with a smile, as he felt in his purse for the half-crown which was to be the price of his visit to Agnes Bongeor.

"Eh, I don't know: I heard Master Doctor say the other day that his dog was as fierce as him."

"Art sure he said not 'Syracuse'?"

"Dare say he might. Syracuse or Siccarus, all's one to me."

At the door of the dungeon stood the redoubtable Wastborowe, his keys hanging from his girdle, and looking, to put it mildly, not particularly amiable.

"Want letting out again by and by?" he inquired with grim satire, as Mr Ewring put the coin in his hand.

"If you please, Wastborowe. You've no writ to keep me, have you?"

"Haven't—worse luck! Only wish I had. I'll set a match to the lot of you with as much pleasure as I'd drink a pot of ale. It'll never be good world till we're rid of heretics!"

"There'll be Satan left then, methinks, and maybe a few rogues and murderers to boot."

"Never a one as bad as you Lutherans and Gospellers! Get you in. You'll have to wait my time to come out."

"Very well," said Mr Ewring quietly, and went in.

He found Agnes Bongeor seated in a corner of the window recess, with her Bible on her knee; but it was closed, and she looked very miserable.

"Well, my sister, and how is it with you?"

"As 'tis like to be, Master Ewring, with her whom the Lord hath cast forth, and reckons unworthy to do Him a service."

"Did he so reckon Abraham, then, at the time of the offering up of Isaac? Isaac was not sacrificed: he was turned back from the same. Yet what saith the Lord unto him? 'Because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thou shalt be blessed, because thou hast obeyed My voice.' See you, his good will thereto is reckoned as though he had done the thing. 'The Lord looketh on the heart.' Doubt thou not, my good sister, but firmly believe, that to thee also faith is counted for righteousness, and the will passeth for the deed, with Him who saith that 'if thou be Christ's then art thou Abraham's seed.'"

"That's comforting, in truth," said poor Agnes. "But, Master Ewring, think you there is any hope that I may yet be allowed to witness for my Lord before men in very deed? To have come so near, and be thrust back! Is there no hope?"

Agnes Bongeor was not the only one of the sufferers in this persecution who actually coveted and longed for martyrdom. If the imperial crown of all the world had been laid at their feet, they would have reckoned it beneath contempt in comparison with that crown of life promised to such as are faithful unto death. Not faithful till death, but unto it.

"I know not what the Lord holds in reserve for thee, my sister. I only know that whatsoever it be, it is that whereby thou mayest best glorify Him. Is that not enough? If more glory should come to Him by thy dying in this dungeon after fifty years' imprisonment, than by thy burning, which wouldst thou choose? Speak truly."

Agnes dropped her face upon her hands for a moment.

"You have the right, Master Ewring," said she, when she looked up again. "I fear I was over full of myself. Let the Lord's will be done, and His glory ensured, by His doing with me whatsoever He will. I will strive to be patient, and not grieve more than I should."

"Therein wilt thou do well, my sister. And now I go—when as it shall please Wastborowe," added Mr Ewring with a slight smile of amusement, and then growing grave,—"to visit one in far sorer trouble than thyself."

"Eh, Master, who is that?"

"It is Margaret Thurston, who hath not been, nor counted herself, rejected of the Lord, but hath of her own will rejected Him. She bought life by recanting."

"Eh, poor soul, how miserable must she be! Tell her, if it like you, that I will pray for her. Maybe the Lord will grant to both of us the grace yet to be His witnesses."

Mr Ewring had to pass four weary hours in the dungeon before it pleased Wastborowe to let him out. He spent it in conversing with the other prisoners,—all of whom, save Agnes Bongeor, were arrested for some crime,—and trying to do them good. At last the heavy door rolled back, and Wastborowe's voice was heard inquiring, in accents which did not sound particularly sober,—

"Where's yon companion that wants baking by Lexden Road?"

"I am here, Wastborowe," said Mr Ewring, rising. "Good den, friends. The Lord bless and comfort thee, my sister!"

And out he went into the summer evening air, to meet the half-tipsy gaoler's farewell of,—

"There! Take to thy heels, old shortbread, afore thou'rt done a bit too brown. Thou'lt get it some of these days!"



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

"REMEMBER!"

Mr Ewring only returned Wastborowe's uncivil farewell by a nod, as he walked up High Street towards East Gate. At the corner of Tenant's Lane he turned to the left, and went up to the Castle. A request to see the prisoner there brought about a little discussion between the porter and the gaoler, and an appeal was apparently made to some higher authority. At length the visitor was informed that permission was granted, on condition that he would not mention the subject of religion.

The condition was rejected at once. Mr Ewring had come to talk about that and nothing else.

"Then you'd best go home," said Bartle. "Can't do to have matters set a-crooked again when they are but now coming straight. Margaret Thurston's reconciled, and we've hopes for John, though he's been harder of the two to bring round. Never do to have folks coming and setting 'em all wrong side up. Do you want to see 'em burned, my master?"

"I want to see them true," was Mr Ewring's answer, "The burning doesn't much matter."

"Oh, doesn't it?" sneered Bartle. "You'll sing another tune, Master Ewring, the day you're set alight."

"Methinks, friend, those you have burned sang none other. But how about a thousand years hence? Bartholomew Crane, what manner of tune wilt thou be singing then?"

"Time enough to say when I've got it pricked, Master," said Bartle: but Mr Ewring saw from his uneasiness that the shot had told.

People were much more musical in England three hundred years ago than now. Nearly everybody could sing, or read music at sight: and a lady was thought very poorly educated if she could not "set"—that is, write down a tune properly on hearing it played. Writing music they called "pricking" it.

Mr Ewring did not stay to talk with Bartle; he bade him good-bye, and walked up Tenant's Lane on his way home. But before he had gone many yards, an idea struck him, and he turned round and went back to the Castle.

Bartle was still in the court, and he peeped through the wicket to see who was there.

"Good lack! you're come again!"

"I'm come again," said Mr Ewring, smiling. "Bartle, wilt take a message to the Thurstons for me?"

"Depends," said Bartle with a knowing nod. "What's it about? If you want to tell 'em price of flour, I don't mind."

"I only want you to say one word to either of them."

"Come, that's jolly! What's the word?"

"Remember!"

Bartle scratched his head. "Remember what? There's the rub!"

"Leave that to them," said Mr Ewring.

"Well,—I—don't—know," said Bartle very slowly. "Mayhap I sha'n't remember."

"Mayhap that shall help you," replied the miller, holding up an angelet, namely, a gold coin, value 3 shillings 4 pence—the smallest gold coin then made.

"Shouldn't wonder if that strengthened my wits," said Bartle with a grin, as the little piece of gold was slipped through the wicket. "That's over a penny a letter, bain't it?"

"Fivepence. It's good pay."

"It's none so bad. I'm in hopes you'll have a few more messages, Master Ewring. They're easy to carry when they come in a basket o' that metal."

"Ah, Bartle! wilt thou do that for a gold angelet which thou wouldst not for the love of God or thy neighbour? Beware that all thy good things come not to thee in this life—which can only be if they be things that pertain to this life alone."

"This life's enough for me, Master: it's all I've got."

"Truth, friend. Therefore cast it not away in folly."

"In a good sooth, Master Ewring, I love your angelets better than your preachment, and you paid me not to listen to a sermon, but to carry a message. Good den!"

"Good den, Bartle. May the Lord give thee good ending!"

Bartle stood looking from the wicket until the miller had turned the corner.

"Yon's a good man, I do believe," said he to himself. "I marvel what they burn such men for! They're never found lying or cheating or murdering. Why couldn't folks let 'em alone? We shouldn't want to hurt 'em, if the priests would let us alone. Marry, this would be a good land if there were no priests!"

Bartle shut the wicket, and prepared to carry in supper to his prisoners. John and Margaret Thurston were not together. The priests were afraid to let them be so, lest John, who stood more firmly of the two, should talk over Margaret. They occupied adjoining cells. Bartle opened a little wicket in the first, and called John to receive his rations of brown bread, onions, and weak ale.

"I promised to give you a message," said he, "but I don't know as it's like to do you much good. It's only one word."

"Should be a weighty one," said John. "What is it?"

"'Remember!'"

"Ah!" John Thurston's long-drawn exclamation, which ended with a heavy sigh, astonished Bartle.

"There's more in it than I reckoned, seemingly," said he as he turned to Margaret's cell, and opened her wicket to pass in the supper.

"Here's a message for you, Meg, from Master Ewring the miller. Let's see what you'll say to it—'Remember!'"

"'Remember!'" cried Margaret in a pained tone. "Don't I always remember? isn't it misery to me to remember? And can't I guess what he means—'Remember from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works'? Eh, then there's repentance yet for them that have fallen! 'I will fight against thee, except thou repent.' God bless you, Bartle: you've given me a buffet and yet a hope."

"That's a proper powerful word, is that!" said Bartle. "Never knew one word do so much afore."

There was more power in that one word from Holy Writ than Bartle guessed. The single word, sent home to their consciences by the Holy Ghost, brought quit different messages to the two to whom it was sent. To John Thurston it did not say, "Remember from whence thou hast fallen." That was the message with which it was charged for Margaret. But to John it said, "Call to remembrance the former days, in which, after that ye were illuminated, ye endured a great flight of afflictions ... knowing in yourselves that ye have in Heaven a better and an enduring substance. Cast not away therefore your confidence, which hath great recompense of reward." That was John's message, and it found him just on the brink of casting his confidence away, and stopped him.

Mr Ewring had never spent an angelet better than in securing the transmission of that one word, which was the instrument in God's hand to save two immortal souls.

As he reached the top of Tenant's Lane, he met Ursula Felstede, carrying a large bundle, with which she tried to hide her face, and to slink past. The miller stopped.

"Good den, Ursula. Wither away?"

"Truly, Master, to the whitster's with this bundle."

The whitster meant what we should now call a dyer and cleaner.

"Do you mind, Ursula, what the Prophet Daniel saith, that 'many shall be purified and made white'? Methinks it is going on now. White, as no fuller on earth can white them! May you and I be so cleansed, friend! Good den."

Ursula courtesied and escaped, and Mr Ewring passed through the gate, and went up to his desolated home. He stood a moment in the mill-door, looking back over the town which he had just left.

"'The night cometh, when no man can work,'" he said to himself. "Grant me, Lord, to be about Thy business until the Master cometh!"

And he knew, while he said it, that in all likelihood to him that coming would be in a chariot of fire, and that to be busied with that work would bring it nearer and sooner.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

FILLING THE RANKS.

As Mr Ewring stood looking out, he saw somebody coming up from the gate towards the mill—a girl, who walked slowly, as if she felt very hot or very tired. The day was warm, but not oppressively so; and he watched her coming languidly up the road, till he saw that it was Amy Clere. What could she want at the mill? Mr Ewring waited to see.

"Good den, Mistress Amy," said he, as she came nearer.

Amy looked up as if it startled her to be addressed.

"Good den, Master Ewring. Father's sending some corn to be ground, and he desired you to know the last was ground a bit too fine for his liking: would you take the pains to have it coarser ground, an' it please you?"

"I will see to it, Mistress Amy. A fine even, methinks?"

"Ay, right fair," replied Amy in that manner which shows that the speaker's thoughts are away elsewhere. But she did not offer to go; she lingered about the mill-door, in the style of one who has something to say which she is puzzled or unwilling to bring out.

"You seem weary," said Mr Ewring, kindly; "pray you, sit and rest you a space in the porch."

Amy took the seat suggested at once.

"Master Clere is well, I trust?—and Mistress Clere likewise?"

"They are well, I thank you."

Mr Ewring noticed suddenly that Amy's eyes were full of tears.

"Mistress Amy," said he, "I would not by my good-will be meddlesome in matters that concern me not, but it seemeth me all is scarce well with you. If so be that I can serve you any way, I trust you will say so much."

"Master Ewring, I am the unhappiest maid in all Colchester."

"Truly, I am right sorry to hear it."

"I lack one to help me, and I know not to whom to turn. You could, if—"

"Then in very deed I will. Pray give me to wit how?"

Amy looked up at him. "Master Ewring, I set out for Heaven, and I have lost the way."

"Why, Mistress Amy! surely you know well enough—"

"No, I don't," she said, cutting him short. "Lack-a-day! I never took no heed when I might have learned it: and now have I no chance to learn, and everything to hinder. I don't know a soul I could ask about it."

"The priest," suggested Mr Ewring a little constrainedly. This language astonished him from Nicholas Clere's daughter.

"I don't want the priest's way. He isn't going himself; or if he is, it's back foremost. Master Ewring, help me! I mean it. I never wist a soul going that way save Bessy Foulkes: and she's got there, and I want to go her way. What am I to do?"

Mr Ewring did not speak for a moment. He was thinking, in the first place, how true it was that "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church"; and in the second, what very unlikely subjects God sometimes chooses as the recipients of His grace. One of the last people in Colchester whom he would have expected to fill Elizabeth Foulkes' vacant place in the ranks was the girl who sat in the porch, looking up at him with those anxious, earnest eyes.

"Mistress Amy," he said, "you surely know there is peril in this path? It were well you should count the cost afore you enter on it."

"Where is there not peril?" was the answer. "I may be slain of lightning to-morrow, or die of some sudden malady this next month. Can you say surely that there is more peril of burning than of that? If not, come to mine help. I must find the way somehow. Master Ewring, I want to be safe! I want to feel that it will not matter how or when I go, because I know whither it shall be. And I have lost the way. I thought I had but to do well and be as good as I could, and I should sure come out safe. And I have tried that way awhile, and it serves not. First, I can't be good when I would: and again, the better I am— as folks commonly reckon goodness—the worser I feel. There's somewhat inside me that won't do right; and there's somewhat else that isn't satisfied when I have done right; it wants something more, and I don't know what it is. Master Ewring, you do. Tell me!"

"Mistress Amy, what think you religion to be?"

"Nay, I always thought it were being good. If it's not that, I know not what it is."

"But being good must spring out of something. That is the flower. What is the seed—that which is to make you 'be good,' and find it easy and pleasant?"

"Tell me!" said Amy's eyes more than her words.

"My dear maid, religion is fellowship; living fellowship with the living Lord. It is neither being good nor doing good, though both will spring out of it. It is an exchange made between you and the Lord Christ: His righteousness for your iniquity; His strength for your weakness; His rich grace for your bankrupt poverty of all goodness. Mistress Amy, you want Christ our Lord, and the Holy Ghost, which He shall give you—the new heart and the right spirit which be His gift, and which He died to purchase for you."

"That's it!" said Amy, with a light in her eyes. "But how come you by them?"

"You may have them for the asking—if you do truly wish it. 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life.' Know you what Saint Austin saith? 'Thou would'st not now be setting forth to find God, if He had not first set forth to find thee.' 'For by grace ye are saved, through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.' Keep fast hold of that, Mistress Amy."

"That 'll do!" said Amy, under her breath. "I've got what I want now— if He'll hearken to me. But, O Master Ewring, I'm not fit to keep fellowship with Him!"

"Dear maid, you are that which the best and the worst man in the world are—a sinner that needeth pardon, a sinner that can be saved only through grace. Have you the chance to get hold of a Bible, or no?"

"No! Father gave up his to the priest, months agone. I never cared nought about it while I had it, and now I've lost the chance."

"Trust the Lord to care for you. He shall send you, be sure, either the quails or the manna. He'll not let you starve. He has bound Himself to bring all safe that trust in Him. And—it looks not like it, verily, yet it may be that times of liberty shall come again."

"Master Ewring, I've given you a deal of trouble," said Amy, rising suddenly, "and taken ever so much time. But I'm not unthankful, trust me."

"My dear maid, how can Christian men spend time better than in helping a fellow soul on his way towards Heaven? It's not time wasted, be sure."

"No, it's not time wasted!" said Amy, with more feeling than Mr Ewring had ever seen her show before.

"Farewell, dear maid," said he. "One thing I pray you to remember: what you lack is the Holy Ghost, for He only can show Christ unto you. I or others can talk of Him, but the Spirit alone can reveal Him to your own soul. And the Spirit is promised to them that ask Him."

"I'll not forget, Master. Good even, and God bless you!"

Mr Ewring stood a moment longer to watch Amy as she ran down the road, with a step tenfold more light and elastic than the weary, languid one with which she had come up.

"God bless the maid!" he said half aloud, "and may He 'stablish, strengthen, settle' her! 'He hath mercy on whom He will have mercy.' But we on whom He has had it aforetime, how unbelieving and hopeless we are apt to be! Verily, the last recruit that I looked to see join Christ's standard was Nicholas Clere's daughter."



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE LAST MARTYRDOM.

"Good-morrow, Mistress Clere! Any placards of black velvet have you?"

A placard with us means a large handbill for pasting on walls: in Queen Mary's time they meant by it a double stomacher,—namely an ornamentation for the front of a dress, put on separate from it, which might either be plain silk or velvet, or else worked with beautiful embroidery, gold twist, sometimes even pearls and precious stones.

Mrs Clere came in all haste and much obsequiousness, for it was no less a person than the Mayoress of Colchester who thus inquired for a black velvet placard.

"We have so, Madam, and right good ones belike. Amy, fetch down yonder box with the bettermost placards."

Amy ran up the little ladder needful to reach the higher shelves, and brought down the box. It was not often that Mrs Clere was asked for her superior goods, for she dealt chiefly with those whose purses would not stretch so far.

"Here, Madam, is a fine one of carnation velvet—and here a black wrought in gold twist; or what think you of this purple bordered in pearls?"

"That liketh me the best," said the Mayoress taking up the purple velvet. "What cost it, Mistress Clere?"

"Twenty-six and eightpence, Madam, at your pleasure."

"'Tis dear."

"Nay, Madam! Pray you look on the quality—velvet of the finest, and pearls of right good colour. You shall not find a better in any shop in the town." And Mrs Clere dexterously turned the purple placard to the light in such a manner that a little spot on one side of it should not show. "Or if this carnation please you the better—"

"No, I pass not upon that," said the Mayoress; which meant, that she did not fancy it. "Will you take four-and-twenty shillings, Mistress Clere?"

It was then considered almost a matter of course that a shopkeeper must be offered less than he asked; and going from shop to shop to "cheapen" the articles they wanted was a common amusement of ladies.

Mrs Clere looked doubtful. "Well, truly, Madam, I should gain not a penny thereby; yet rather than lose your good custom, seeing for whom it is—"

"Very good," said the Mayoress, "put it up."

Amy knew that the purple placard had cost her mother 16 shillings 8 pence, and had been slightly damaged since it came into her hands. She knew also that Mrs Clere would confess the fraud to the priest, would probably be told to repeat the Lord's Prayer three times over as a penance for it, would gabble through the words as fast as possible, and would then consider her sin quite done away with, and her profit of 7 shillings 4 pence cheaply secured. She knew also that the Mayoress, in all probability, was aware that Mrs Clere's protestation about not gaining a single penny was a mere flourish of words, not at all meant to be accepted as a fact.

"Is there aught of news stirring, an' it like you, Madam?" asked Mrs Clere, as she rolled up the placard inside out, and secured it with tape.

"I know of none, truly," answered the Mayoress, "save to-morrow's burning, the which I would were over for such spectacles like me not— not that I would save evil folks from the due penalty of their sins, but that I would some less displeasant manner of execution might be found. Truly, what with the heat, and the dust, and the close crowds that gather, 'tis no dainty matter to behold."

"You say truth, Madam. Indeed, the last burning we had, my daughter here was so close pressed in the crowd, and so near the fire, she fair swooned, and had to be borne thence. But who shall suffer to-morrow, an' it like you? for I heard nought thereabout."

Mrs Clere presented the little parcel as she spoke.

"Only two women," said the Mayoress, taking her purchase: "not nigh so great a burning as the last—so very likely the crowd shall be less also."

The crowd was not much less on the waste place by the Lexden Road, when on the 17th of September, 1557, those two martyrs were brought forth to die: Agnes Bongeor, full of joy and triumph, praising God that at length she was counted worthy to suffer for His Name's sake; Margaret Thurston, the disciple who had denied Him, and for whom therefore there could be no triumph; yet, even now, a meek and fervent appeal from the heart's core, of "Lord, Thou knowest that I love Thee!"

As the chain was being fastened around them a voice came from the crowd—one of those mysterious voices never to be traced to a speaker, perpetually heard at martyrdoms.

"'He remembered that they were but flesh.' 'He hath remembered His covenant forever.' 'According to Thy mercy, remember Thou me!'"

Only Margaret Thurston knew who spoke three times that word never to be forgotten, once a terrible rebuke, now and evermore a benediction.

So went home the last of the Colchester martyrs.

As Mr Ewring turned back, he caught sight of Dorothy Denny, and made his way back to her.

"You come to behold, do you, Dorothy?" said he, when they had turned into a quiet side street, safe from hostile ears.

"Ay, Master, it strengthens me," she said.

"Thou'rt of the right stuff, then," he answered. "It weakens such as be not."

"Eh, I'm as weak as any one," replied Dorothy. "What comforts me is to see how the good Lord can put strength into the very feeblest lamb of all His flock. It seems like as if the Shepherd lifted the lamb into His arms, so that it had no labour to carry itself."

"Ay, 'tis easy to bear a burden, when you and it be borne together," said Mr Ewring. "Dorothy, have you strength for that burden?"

"Master Ewring, I've given up thinking that I've any strength for any thing, and then I just go and ask for it for everything, and methinks I get along best that way."

"Ay, so? You are coming on fast, Dorothy. Many Christian folks miss that lesson half their lives."

"Well, I don't know but they do the best that are weak," said Dorothy. "Look you, they know it, and know they must fetch better strength than their own; so they don't get thinking they can manage the little things themselves, and only need ask the Lord to see to the greet ones."

"It's true, Dorothy. I can't keep from thinking of poor Jack Thurston; he must be either very hard or very miserable. Let us pray for him, Dorothy. I'm afeared it's a bad sign that he isn't with them this morrow."

"You think he's given in, Master Ewring?"

"I'm doubtful of it, Dorothy."

They walked on for a few minutes without speaking.

"I'll try to see Jack again, or pass in a word to him," said Mr Ewring reflectively.

"Eh, Master Ewring don't you go into peril! The Lord's cause can't afford to lose you. Don't 'ee, now!"

"Dorothy," said Mr Ewring with a smile, "if the Lord's cause can't afford to lose me, you may be very sure it won't lose me. 'The Lord reigneth, be the people never so impatient.' He is on the throne, not the priests. But in truth, Dorothy, the Lord can afford anything: He is able of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham. 'He Himself knew what He would do,' touching the miracle of the loaves: Andrew didn't know, and Philip hadn't a notion. Let us trust Him, Dorothy, and just go forward and do our duty. We shall not die one moment before the Master calleth us."



CHAPTER FORTY.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!

"Come and sit a bit with me, Will. I scarce ever see you now."

Will Johnson, a year older and bigger, scrambled up on the garden seat, and Cissy put her arm round him.

From having been very small of her age, Cissy was suddenly shooting up into a tall, slim, lily-like girl, nearly as white as a lily, and as delicate-looking. "How are you getting on with the ladies, Will?"

"Oh, middling."

"You know you must learn as much as you can, Will, of aught they teach you that is good. We're being better learned than Father could have learned us, in book-learning and such; and we must mind and pay heed, the rather because maybe we sha'n't have it long."

"I wish you wouldn't talk so about—Father. You're for ever talking about him," said Will uneasily, trying to wriggle himself out of his sister's clasp.

"Not talk about Father!" exclaimed Cissy indignantly. "Will, whatever do you mean? I couldn't bear not to talk about Father! It would seem like as we'd forgotten him. And you must never forget him—never!"

"I don't like talking about dead folks. And—well it's no use biding it. Look here. Cissy—I'm going to give up."

"Give up what?" Cissy's voice was very low. There might be pain and disappointment in it, but there was no weakness.

"Oh, all this standing out against the nuns. You can go on, if you like being starved and beaten and made to kneel on the chapel floor, and so forth; but I've stood it as long as I can. And—wait a bit, Cis; let me have my say out—I can't see what it signifies, not one bit. What can it matter whether I say my prayers looking at yon image or not? If I said them looking at the moon, or at you, you wouldn't say I was praying to you or the moon. I'm not praying to it; only, if they think I am, I sha'n't get thrashed and sent to bed hungred. Don't you see? That can't be idolatry."

Cissy was silent till she had felt her way through the mist raised by Will's subterfuge into the clear daylight of truth.

"Shall I tell you what it would be, Will?"

"Well? Some of your queer notions, I reckon."

"Idolatry, with lying and cheating on the top of it. Do you think they make it better?"

"Cis, don't say such ugly words!"

"Isn't it best to call ugly things by their right names?"

"Well, any way, it won't be my fault: it'll be theirs who made me do it."

"Theirs and yours too, Will, if you let them make you."

"I tell you, Cissy, I can't stand it!"

"Father stood more than that," said Cissy in that low, firm voice.

"Oh, don't be always talking about Father! He was a man and could bear things. I've had enough of it. God Almighty won't be hard on me, if I do give in."

"Hard, Will! Do you call it hard when people are grieved to the heart because you do something which they'd lay down their lives you shouldn't do? The Lord did lay down His life for you: and yet you say that you can't bear a little hunger and a few stripes for Him!"

"Cis, you don't know what it is. You're a maid, and I dare say they don't lay on so hard on you. It's more than a little, I can tell you."

Cissy knew what it was far better than Will, for he was a strong boy, on whom hardships fell lightly, while she had to bear the blows and the hunger with a delicate and enfeebled frame. But she only said,—

"Will, don't you care for me?"

"Of course I do, Cis."

"I think the only thing in the world that could break my heart would be to see you or Nell 'giving in', as you call it. I couldn't stand that, Will. I can stand anything else. I hoped you cared for God and Father: but if you won't heed them, I must see if you will listen to me. It would kill me, Will."

"Oh, come, Cis, don't talk so."

"Won't you go on trying a bit longer, Will? Any day the tide may turn. I don't know how, but God knows. He can bring us out of this prison all in a minute. You know He keeps count of the hairs on our heads. Now, Will, you know as well as I do what God said,—He did not say only, 'Thou shalt not worship them,' but 'Thou shalt not bow down to them.' Oh Will, Will! have you forgotten all the texts Father taught us?—are you forgetting Father himself?"

"Cis, I wish you wouldn't!"

"I wish you wouldn't, Will."

"You don't think Father can hear, do you?" asked Will uncomfortably glancing around.

"I hope he can't, indeed, or he'll be sore grieved, even in Heaven, to think what his little Will's coming to."

"Oh, well—come, I'll try a bit longer, Cis, if you—But I say, I do hope it won't be long, or I can't stand it."

————————————————————————————————————

That night, or rather in the early hours of the following morning, a horseman came spurring up to the Head Gate of Colchester. He alighted from his panting horse, and threw the reins on its neck.

"Gate, ho!"

Nothing but silence came in answer.

"Gate, ho!" cried the horseman in a louder voice.

"Somebody there?" asked the gatekeeper in a very sleepy voice. "Tarry a minute, will you? I'll be with you anon."

"Tarry!" repeated the horseman with a contemptuous laugh. "Thou'd not want me to tarry if thou knewest what news I bring."

"Good tidings, eh? let's have 'em!" said the gatekeeper in a brisker voice.

"Take them. 'God save the Queen!'"

"Call that tidings? We've sung that this five year."

"Nay you've never sung it yet—not as you will. How if it be 'God save Queen Elizabeth'?"

The gate was dashed open in the unsleepiest way that ever gate was moved.

"You never mean—is the Queen departed?"

"Queen Mary is gone to her reward," replied the horseman gravely. "God save Queen Elizabeth!"

"God be thanked, and praised!"

"Ay, England is free now. A man may speak his mind, and not die for it. No more burnings, friend! no more prison for reading of God's Word! no more hiding of men's heads in dens and caves of the earth! God save the Queen! long live the Queen! may the Queen live for ever!"

It is not often that the old British Lion is so moved by anything as to roar and dance in his inexpressible delight. But now and then he does it; and never did he dance and roar as he did on that eighteenth of November, 1558. All over England, men went wild with joy. The terrible weight of the chains in which she had been held, was never truly felt until they were thus suddenly knocked from the shackled limbs. Old, calm, sober-minded people—nay, grave and stern, precise and rigid— every manner of man and woman—all fairly lost their heads, and were like children in their frantic glee that day Men who were perfect strangers were seen in the streets shaking hands with each other as though they were the dearest friends. Women who ordinarily would not of thought of speaking to one another were kissing each other and calling on each other to rejoice. Nobody calmed down until he was so worn-out that wearied nature absolutely forced him to repose. It was seen that day that however she had been oppressed, compelled to silence, or tortured into apparent submission, England was Protestant. The prophets had prophesied falsely, and the priests borne rule, but the people had not loved to have it so, as they very plainly showed. Colchester had declared for Mary five years before, because she was the true heir who had the right to reign, and rebellion was not right because her religion was wrong: but now that God delivered them from her awful tyranny, Colchester was not behind the rest of England in giving thanks to Him.

We are worse off now. The prophets prophesy falsely, and the priests bear rule by their means. It has not reached to the point it did then; but how soon will it do so?—for, last and worst of all, the people love to have it so. May God awake the people of England! For His mercies' sake, let us not have to say, England flung off the chains of bondage and the sin of idolatry under Queen Elizabeth; but she bound them tight again, of her own will, under Queen Victoria!



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

A BLESSED DAY.

"Dorothy! Dorothy Denny! Wherever can the woman have got to?"

Mr Ewring had already tapped several times with his stick on the brick floor of the King's Head kitchen, and had not heard a sound in answer. The clock ticked to and fro, and the tabby cat purred softly as she sat before the fire, and the wood now and then gave a little crackle as it burned gently away, and those were all the signs of life to be seen on the premises.

Getting tired at last, Mr Ewring went out into the courtyard, and called in his loudest tones—"Do-ro-thy!"

He thought he heard a faint answer of "Coming!" which sounded high up and a long way off: so he went back to the kitchen, and took a seat on the hearth opposite the cat. In a few minutes the sound of running down stairs was audible, and at last Dorothy appeared—her gown pinned up behind, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and her entire aspect that of a woman who had just come off hard and dirty work.

"Eh, Master Ewring! but I'm sorry to have kept you a-waiting. Look you, I was mopping out the—Dear heart, but what is come to you? Has the resurrection happened? for your face looks nigh too glad for aught else."

The gladness died suddenly away, as those words brought to Mr Ewring the thought of something which could not happen—the memory of the beloved face which for thirty years had been the light of his home, and which he should behold in this world never any more.

"Nay, Dorothy—nay, not that! Yet it will be, one day, thank God! And we have much this morrow to thank God for, whereof I came to tell thee."

"Why, what has come, trow?"

The glad light rose again to Mr Ewring's eyes.

"Gideon has come, and hath subdued the Midianites!" he answered, with a ring of triumph in his voice. "King David is come, and the Philistines will take flight, and Israel shall sit in peace under his vine and fig-tree. May God save Elizabeth our Queen!"

"Good lack, but you never mean that!" cried Dorothy in a voice as delighted as his own. "Why then, Mistress 'll be back to her own, and them poor little dears 'll be delivered from them black snakes, and there 'll be Bible-reading and sermons again."

"Ay, every one of them, I trust. And a man may say what he will that is right, without looking first round to see if a spy be within hearing. We are free, Dorothy, once more."

"Eh, but it do feel like a dream! I shall have to pinch myself to make sure I'm awake. But, Master, do you think it is sure? She haven't changed, think you?"

Mr Ewring shook his head. "The Lady Elizabeth suffered with us," he said, "and she will not forsake us now. No, Dorothy, she has not changed: she is not one to change. Let us not distrust either her or the Lord. Ah, He knew what He would do! It was to be a sharp, short hour of tribulation, through which His Church was to pass, to purify, and try, and make her white: and now the land shall have rest forty years, that she may sing to Him a new song on the sea of glass. Those five years have lit the candle of England's Church, and as our good old Bishop said in dying, by God's grace it shall never be put out."

"Well, sure, it's a blessed day!"

"Dorothy, can you compass to drive with me to Hedingham again? I think long till those poor children be rescued. And the nuns will be ready and glad to give them up; they'll not want to be found with Protestant children in their keeping—children, too, of a martyred man."

"Master Ewring, give me but time to get me tidied and my hood, and I'll go with you this minute, if you will. I was mopping out the loft. When Mistress do come back, she shall find her house as clean as she'd have had it if she'd been here, and that's clean enough, I can tell you."

"Right, friend, 'Faithful in a little, faithful also in much.' Dorothy, you'd have made a good martyr."

"Me, Master?"

Mr Ewring smiled. "Well, whether shall it be to-morrow, or leave over Sunday?"

"If it liked you, Master, I would say to-morrow. Poor little dears! they'll be so pleased to come back to their friends. I can be ready for them—I'll work early and late but I will. Did you think of taking the little lad yourself, or are they all to bide with me?"

"I'll take him the minute he's old enough, and no more needs a woman's hand about him. You know, Dorothy, there be no woman in mine house— now."

"Well, he'll scarce be that yet, I reckon. Howbeit, the first thing is to fetch 'em. Master, when think you Mistress shall be let go?"

"It is hard to say, Dorothy, for we've heard so little. But if she be in the Bishop of London's keeping, as she was, I cast no doubt she shall be delivered early. Doubtless all the bishops that refuse to conform shall be deprived: and he will not conform, without he be a greater rogue than I think."

There was something of the spirit of the earliest Christians when they had all things common, in the matter-of-course way in which it was understood on both sides that each was ready to take charge, at any sacrifice of time, money, or ease, of children who had been left fatherless by martyrdom.

Early the next morning, the miller's cart drew up before the door of the King's Head, and Dorothy, hooded and cloaked, with a round basket on her arm, was quite ready to get in. The drive to Hedingham was pleasant enough, cold as the weather was; and at last they reached the barred gate of the convent. Dorothy alighted from the cart.

"I'll see you let in, Dorothy, ere I leave you," said he, "if indeed I have to leave you at all. I should never marvel if they brought the children forth, and were earnest to be rid of them at once."

It did not seem like it, however, for several knocks were necessary before the wicket unclosed. The portress looked relieved when she saw who was there.

"What would you?" asked she.

Mr Ewring had given Dorothy advice how to proceed.

"An' it like you, might I see the children? Cicely Johnson and the little ones."

"Come within," said the portress, "and I will inquire."

This appeared more promising. Dorothy was led to the guest-chamber, and was not kept waiting. Only a few minutes had elapsed when the Prioress herself appeared.

"You wish to see the children?" she said.

"I wish to take them with me, if you please," answered Dorothy audaciously. "I look for my mistress back shortly, and she was aforetime desirous to bring them up. I will take the full charge of them, with your leave."

"Truly, and my leave you shall have. We shall be right glad to be rid of the charge, for a heavy one it has been, and a wearisome. A more obstinate, perverse, ungovernable maid than Cicely never came in my hands."

"Thank the Lord!" said Dorothy.

"Poor creatures!" said the Prioress. "I suppose you will do your best to undo our teaching, and their souls will be lost. Howbeit, we were little like to have saved them. And it will be well, now for the community that they should go. Wait, and I will send them to you."

Dorothy waited half-an-hour. At the end of that time a door opened in the wainscot, which she had not known was there, and a tall, pale, slender girl of eleven, looking older than she was, came forward.

"Dorothy Denny!" said Cissy's unchanged voice, in tones of unmistakable delight. "Oh, they didn't tell me who it was! Are we to go with you?—back to Colchester? Has something happened? Do tell me what is going to become of us."

"My dear heart, peace and happiness, if it please the Lord. Master Ewring and I have come to fetch you all. The Queen is departed to God, and the Lady Elizabeth is now Queen; and the nuns are ready enough to be rid of you. If my dear mistress come home safe—as please God, she shall—you shall be all her children, and Master Ewring hath offered to take Will when he be old enough, and learn him his trade. Your troubles be over, I trust the Lord, for some while."

"It's just in time!" said Cissy with a gasp of relief. "Oh, how wicked I have been, not to trust God better! and He was getting this ready for us all the while!"



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

WHAT THEY FOUND AT THE KING'S HEAD.

Mr Ewring had stayed at the gate, guessing that Dorothy would not be long in fulfilling her errand. He cast the reins on the neck of his old bay horse, and allowed it to crop the grass while he waited. Many a short prayer for the success of the journey went up as he sat there. At last the gate was opened, and a boy of seven years old bounded out of it and ran up to the cart.

"Master Ewring, is that you? I'm glad to see you. We're all coming. Is that old Tim?"

"That's old Tim, be sure," said the miller. "Pat him, Will, and then give me your hand and make a long jump."

Will obeyed, just as the gate opened again, and Dorothy came out of it with the two little girls. Little Nell—no longer Baby—could walk now, and chatter too, though few except Cissy understood what she said. She talked away in a very lively manner, until Dorothy lifted her into the cart, when the sight of Mr Ewring seemed to exert a paralysing effect upon her, nor was she reassured at once by his smile.

"Dear heart, but it 'll be a close fit!" said Dorothy. "How be we to pack ourselves?"

"Cissy must sit betwixt us," answered the miller; "she's not quite so fat as a sack of flour. Take the little one on your knees, Dorothy; and Will shall come in front of me, and take his first lesson in driving Tim."

They settled themselves accordingly, Will being highly delighted at his promotion.

"Well, I reckon you are not sorry to be forth of that place?" suggested Mr Ewring.

"Oh, so glad!" said Cissy, under her breath.

"And how hath Will stood out?" was the next question, which produced profound silence for a few seconds. Then Will broke forth.

"I haven't, Master Ewring—at least, it's Cissy's doing, and she's had hard work to make me stick. I should have given up ever so many times if she'd have let me. I didn't think I could stand it much longer, and it was only last night I told her so, and she begged and prayed me to hold on."

"That's an honest lad," said Mr Ewring.

"And that's a dear maid," added Dorothy.

"Then Cissy stood out, did she?"

"Cissy! eh, they'd never have got her to kneel down to their ugly images, not if they'd cut her head off for it. She's just like a stone wall. Nell did, till Cissy got hold of her and told her not; but she didn't know what it meant, so I hope it wasn't wicked. You see, she's so little, and she forgets what is said to her."

"Ay, ay; poor little dear!" said Dorothy. "And what did they to you, my poor dears, when you wouldn't?"

"Oh, lots of things," said Will. "Beat us sometimes, and shut us in dark cupboards, and sent us to bed without supper. One night they made Cissy—"

"Never mind, Will," said Cissy blushing.

"But they'd better know," said Will stoutly. "They made Cissy kneel all night on the floor of the dormitory, tied to a bed-post. They said if she wouldn't kneel to the saint, she should kneel without it. And Sister Mary asked her how she liked saying her prayers to the moon."

"Cruel, hard-hearted wretches!" exclaimed Dorothy.

"Then they used to keep us several hours without anything to eat, and at the end of it they would hold out something uncommon good, and just when we were going to take it they'd snatch it away."

"I'll tell you what, if I had known that a bit sooner, they'd have had a piece of my mind," said Dorothy.

"With some thorns on it, I guess," commented the miller.

"Eh, dear, but I marvel if I could have kept my fingers off 'em! And they beat thee, Will?"

"Hard," said Will.

"And thee, Cissy?"

"Yes—sometimes," said Cissy quietly. "But I did not care for that, if they'd have left alone harassing Will. You see, he's younger than me, and he doesn't remember Father as well. If there hadn't been any right and wrong about it, I could not have done what would vex Father."

Tim trotted on for a while, and Will was deeply interested in his driving lesson. About a mile from Colchester, Mr Ewring rather suddenly pulled up.

"Love! is that you?" he said.

John Love, who was partly hidden by some bushes, came out and showed himself.

"Ay, and I well-nigh marvel it is either you or me," said he significantly.

"Truly, you may say so. I believe we were aforetime the best noted 'heretics' in all Colchester. And yet here we be, on the further side of these five bitter years, left to rejoice together."

"Love, I would your Agnes would look in on me a time or two," said Dorothy. "I have proper little wit touching babes, and she might help me to a thing or twain."

"You'll have as much as the nuns, shouldn't marvel," said Love, smiling. "But I'll bid Agnes look in. You're about to care for the little ones, then?"

"Ay, till they get better care," said Dorothy, simply.

"You'll win the Lord's blessing with them. Good den! By the way, have you heard that Jack Thurston's still Staunch?"

"Is he so? I'm right glad."

"Ay, they say—Bartle it was told a neighbour of mine—he's held firm till the priests were fair astonied at him; they thought they'd have brought him round, and that was why they never burned him. He'll come forth now, I guess."

"Not a doubt of it. There shall be some right happy deliverances all over the realm, and many an happy meeting," said Mr Ewring, with a faint sigh at the thought that no such blessedness was in store for him, until he should reach the gate of the Celestial City. "Good den, Jack."

They drove in at the North Gate, down Balcon Lane, with a passing greeting to Amy Clere, who was taking down mantles at the shop door, and whose whole face lighted up at the sight, and turned through the great archway into the courtyard of the King's Head. The cat came out to meet them, with arched back and erect tail, and began to mew and rub herself against Dorothy, having evidently some deeply interesting communication to make in cat language; but what it was they could not even guess until they reached the kitchen.

"Sure," said Dorothy, "there's somebody here beside Barbara. Run in, my dears," she added to the children. "Methinks there must be company in the kitchen, and if Bab be all alone to cook and serve for a dozen, she'll be fain to see me returned. Tell her I'm come, and will be there in a minute, only I'd fain not wake the babe, for she's weary with unwonted sights."

Little Helen had fallen asleep in Dorothy's arms. Cissy and Will went forward into the kitchen. Barbara was there, but instead of company, only one person was seated in the big carved chair before the fire, furnished with red cushions. That was the only sort of easy chair then known.

"Ah, here they are!" said an unexpected voice. "The Lord be praised! I've all my family safe at last."

Dorothy, coming in with little Helen, nearly dropped her in astonished delight.

"Mistress Wade!" cried Mr Ewring, following her. "Truly, you are a pleasant sight, and I am full fain to welcome you back. I trusted we should so do ere long, but I looked not to behold you thus soon."

"Well, and you are a pleasant sight, Master Ewring, to her eyes that for fourteen months hath seen little beside the sea-coals [Note 1] in the Bishop of London's coalhouse. That's where he sets his prisoners that be principally [note 2] lodged, and he was pleased to account of me as a great woman," said Mrs Wade, cheerily. "But we have right good cause to praise God, every one; and next after that to give some thanks to each other. I've heard much news from Bab, touching many folks and things, and thee not least, Doll. Trust me, I never guessed into how faithful hands all my goods should fall, nor how thou shouldst keep matters going as well as if I had been here mine own self. Thou shalt find in time to come that I know a true friend and an honest servant, and account of her as much worth. So you are to be my children now and henceforth?—only I hear, Master Ewring, you mean to share the little lad with me. That's right good. What hast thou to say, little Cicely?"

"Please, Mistress Wade, I think God has taken good care of us, and I only hope He's told Father."

"Dear child, thy father shall lack no telling," said Mr Ewring. "He is where no shade of mistrust can come betwixt him and God, and he knows with certainty, as the angels do, that all shall be well with you for ever."

Cissy looked up. "Please, may we sing the hymn Rose did, when she was taken down to the dungeon?"

"Sing, my child, and we will join thee."

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host, Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!"

"Dear heart! but that's sweet!" said Dorothy, wiping her eyes.

"Truth! but they sing it better there," responded Mr Ewring softly.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. Coals.—all coal then came to London by sea.

Note 2. Principally: handsomely.

THE END.