ants. He was a young man of moderately good looks, with a mien more scholar-like than courtly. Edith had heard his name mentioned only in the must cursory manner before this day; but it seemed from the conversation that ensued, that her father knew him.

"Master Field," said Sir Philip, eagerly, as he joined them, "you also must have heard of this scourge which has entered London. I pray you tell me if those who are flying from it do not aggravate its terrors. Is it indeed as fatal as men say ?""

"I fear me, Sir Philip," was the grave answer, “that men know not yet a tithe of those terrors they speak of; but it is true that a universal panic hath seized the city, and without doubt the servile passion of fear is one of its many allies, and doth prepare its way."

"I am hastening thither," said Dacre. "I fear overboldness more than panic-and I must endeavor to bring my mother away."

The Puritan made no answer; Edith felt a slight thrill through his strong frame, and he quickened his horse's,

pace.

"Master Field," said Sir Philip, with emotion, "long ago, when I met with you at Oxford, you returned good for evil; now, in the face of death, shall we not be at peace? Yonder hostess told me you were bound for London. I divine your errand; you go to face this Plague, Ah, sir! shall I bid you then forget what your magnanimous heart forgave so nobly, when the power to protect and help was on your side? Since that time, I have seen other laws than those of England. Evil deeds. of men to whose party I belong by inheritance and

hereditary right, I repudiate heartily and with sincerity. I have no share with this impure court, this arbitrary government. Your personal wrong, Master Field—”

"Mention it not-mention it not!" said the minister, waving his hand; "I am a man, Sir Philip, subject to like temptations of passion as other men. Heartily, and in all humbleness, I have endeavored to forgive; but try. me not again by bringing my first bitterness to my remembrance-my personal wrong is a dead wrong-disturb not the oblivion of its peace."

“And yet,” said the young man, gently, "and yet I have wept for it ere I well knew what sorrow meant Yonder old walls of Thornleigh could bear me witness how bitterly the boy lamented over that cruel deed; but, to speak of other matters less private than this-I have no sympathy, Master Field, with the injustice which has banished you from your place. My desires and hopes are more with you than against you. We are both on our way to face death-it may be we shall never see these hills again; let us go together, and in peace."

The Puritan extended his hand; the young man grasped it heartily. Greater difference of rank or faith, birth or years, could not have hindered the infallible brotherhood of those twain-alike stout, generous, and manful, loving their fellows and their God!

CHAPTER III.

"You look pale and gaze,

And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder,
To see the strange impatience of the heavens:
But if you would consider the true cause

Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,
Why all these things change, from their ordinance,
Their nature, and pre-formed faculties

To monstrous quality, why, you shall find

That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits
To make them instruments of fear, and warning
Unto some monstrous state."

JULIUS Cæsar.

THEY had at last entered London; it was a genial May day, warm and balmy, and the sun was beginning to descend the western sky. As they approached the city, numberless little companies, carefully avoiding contact with each other, met them on the road, leaving the vicinity of the pestilence; on foot, on horseback, and in carriages, with heavy wagons loaded with household stores. and furniture, citizens, nobles, clergymen, and laborers, were alike flying for their lives.

But in the quaint outskirts of the town there was still little difference perceptible. Men went about plying their ordinary business; shops were open; the stream of traffic had not yet received its final check. Only various features

of change, singular and ominous, presented themselves here and there. Apothecaries' booths abounded on every side, full of all manner of nostrums-remedies, and preventives for the fatal disease, before whose acknowledged presence London trembled. Almost as plentiful at streetcorners and ends of alleys, were the brazen symbols of the astrologer, the mysterious signs of fortune-tellers, and other spiritual quacks, vending their perilous stuff for the relief of that craving, coward appetite of fear, at once foolhardy and timorous, which seeks to investigate the hidden fate of its own selfish future. Sometimes the twin empiricisms united in one person, were signified in signboard, or notice, at some much-frequented door. The singular excitement of the time was evident every where.

Passengers warily walking in the middle of the streetsudden shrinking and confusion here and there, when some invalid, with bandaged throat and pale face, was descried limping among the common stream-struck Edith with an indefinite pang as they rode slowly onward. They had parted with their fellow-traveler a short time. before, having themselves made a considerable circuit, in order to visit the family of an ejected minister in Surrey. Sir Philip had gone on without delay to his mother's house, in Westminster, and Caleb Field and his daughter, with as much speed as their wearied horse would permit them, were pursuing their way to the residence of an old parishioner, on the Hampstead Road, who had offered to receive them.

The first church they passed was open; from its doors poured a stream of people, newly dismissed from one of the many solemn services of that fear-stricken time. The

preacher, a dark, grave man, wearing over his black dress the Geneva band, was last of all. He was passing on, without lifting his eyes, eagerly conversing with a youth who walked beside him.

"Master Vincent," said Field, as he passed by, "does the work prosper with you in this evil time?"

"Ah! is it thou, good brother Field?" cried the preacher, greeting him cordially; "thou art welcome to a troublous place. Doth the work prosper, say you? Alas! brother, where is it that we can do other than echo that lamentation of the prophet: Who hath believed my report?""

66

Nay, but let us hope for better things," said the stouter-hearted Puritan; "surely we may look that many brands shall be plucked from this burning. The people are earnest, as I hear, in seeking the Word and prayer, and I wot well these have been blessed symptoms, brother Vincent, since it was said of Saul, the persecutor in old times, Behold he prayeth.""

"Fear-fear, only fear," answered Vincent, despondingly, with a nervous twitching of his mouth; "fear—not of the Lord, brother, but of the Plague."

"And who shall say when the twain may join?” said Field. "Ah! brother, think'st thou it is the death they fear, and not the after judgment, and yonder wondrous life beyond? An it were not for these, trust me, the material grave would lose its terrors.”

"And thou hast ventured thy child in this doomed city?" said Vincent, hurriedly. "I will not bid thee welcome, gentle Mistress Edith, for this is no place for thee. Know'st thou the very air is heavy with the pestilence? C