burned on longer with careful tending, blazed up in one bright flash, and only one, before it sank into darkness; and now he had but to die. Gentle Mary Chester, in yonder quiet house in Surrey, knew all this. What then? he had his labor, she had hers. It was no question of what either wished or hoped; for who, born of those godly households, and nurtured in that simple constancy of faith, could put mortal design, or joy, or purpose, before the work of the Lord? But Edith Field turned away with a heavy heart; so sad alway, be the spirit strung ever so strongly, is that eclipse of human expectation, of youthful joy and hope. The inner man in strong life, counting with stern composure the last grains of his mortal existence, as they passed one by one away-the falling of those numbered days which, but for that blight, would have been the brightest. It was a sad sight to look upon. "Please you, Mistress Edith," said Mercy, when they had gone on some little way in silence," does the young cavalier dwell always at Westminster ?" "Who is that, Mercy?" asked Edith. Sir Philip, madam; the gentleman that hath done so graciously, as people say, to the sick and to the poor." "Nay," was the answer; "he dwells in Cumberland, Mercy." "Because, an' please you," continued Mercy, "Dame Saffron do tell sad tales of the great lady, the cavalier's mother; and how she did speak of you in her raving, Mistress Edith, and called you Edith Dacre, and angel, and blessed one, and did not cease until she died." "Not I," said Edith hastily; "it was not I the lady meant, but my mother, who was her kinswoman." "Then Sir Philip is of kin to you, Mistress Edith?" said the curious Mercy; "and truly that was what Dame Saffron said." “What did Dame Saffron say?" asked Edith. "Nay, madam, nothing worth talking of-only that the young cavalier did not come always to have counsel with Master Field; but she knew not he was of kin to you, Mistress Edith; and forsooth she is but a gossip, and a great talker, as my mother says.” Edith went on in silence: the pure blood flushing to her face. Before that great Death visibly present among them, who could think of the brighter things that cluster about the brow of youth; but now the weight was lifted off, and the young heart, strong in its humanity, began to send its first timid glances forward into a new future—a future rich with peradventures, and beautiful to look upon -fairer, perhaps more real, in its joy of anticipation, than if its dreams were all fulfilled. CHAPTER X. "Good brother rest-the toil is overpast The weariness, the travail, and the tears- Farewell!" It was a blustering, boisterous day in March; stronghanded winds, errant and violent, were roaming waywardly through London. The city had resumed its former look; the grass-grown streets were again filled with busy crowds. The terror of the great enemy had passed into other places, before himself was gone. In the Hampstead cottage Edith Field, arrayed for a journey, sat waiting for her father. She looked very sad and downcast, and there were tears in her eyes. Dame Rogers went about her household business with loud lamentations over the departure of her guests. Mercy sat in a corner, silently weeping. At that time the bells of Aldgate Church tolled mournfully for one dead. By a new grave there, Master Chester and Master Field stood together. The funeral procession had departed-the grave was closed; they were looking down solemnly upon the resting-place of a brave captain in their brotherhood; a manful and loyal servant of God. By-and-by Master Chester put his arm through his friend's, and silently they turned away; they had emerged from the din and bustle of the city before either spoke. "We have left him to his rest, good brother," said Master Chester then; "and we who leave him, what remaineth for us? God knoweth-the Lord help us I pray, for there seemeth nothing left for us but to become wanderers and vagabonds on the face of the earth." 66 Yea, truly, God help us!" said Master Field, "for He knoweth that this oppression is even too like to make wise. men mad. To think of this-that he, whom we have laid in quiet rest to-day, would have been hunted through the country, had he lived one short month longer, after spending life and strength for this people in their extremity. Who is sufficient for these things?" "It is well," said the other, his voice faltering with the sorrow which he restrained; "it is well that the Master hath carried him home, where evil act or statute can harm him nevermore. Thou wert a good soldier, Titus Vincent, brother and son of mine, and a faithful as ever served King; and thou art gotten to thine inheritance; the Lord keep us till we join thee. But, brother, pity me for my Mary-my poor girl." The pity was not spoken in words; but the two fathers, old and long friends, understood each other not the less. "I can but spend a night with my little ones," said Master Chester, after a long pause; "and God knoweth how many nights shall be spent ere I look on them again. Is it to-morrow, brother, that this dark oppression becomes law?" "Lady-day-yes, to-morrow," was the answer; "and then, brother Chester, you join us in the North ?" "My sister Magdalene dwells in mine old parish," said Master Chester, "and so I may not take refuge with her, though she hath wherewith to give my children bread; but, brother, thou sayest well-it is bitter and hard that I should not dare venture to tarry with them a day, lest pains of imprisonment and evil report come upon me. God strengthen us to bear all. For Cumberland? Yes; thy kinsman, Philip Dacre, offers me shelter in his house, for thy sake, and for mine own. God wot, a painful shelter, brother Field; eating of that for which I have not labored; yet to the Lord, who hath ordained this poverty, be all thanks, because He hath ordained also succor for His poor. And thou, brother, goest thou not also to Thornleigh?" "Nay," said Master Field, "my Edith goeth with me wherever I go; and, albeit, Philip Dacre is her kinsman; it can not be to Thornleigh." "Our Father bless the little one; she hath a stout heart, and a valiant," said Master Chester; "and truly I admire and marvel how the Lord bringeth the sweet out of the bitter, as truly, brother, it is oft His good pleasure to bring the bitter out of the sweet. A dark dawn, and a bright noonday, for thy twain, and as fair a morrow as ever broke, and as sad an early even as ever fell for mine. So are our meetings and our sunderings here; and, truly, for the brief joy of them, what better are we |