THEVillageBlacksmith

ave you ever peeped into a forge and seen a blacksmith at work? It is quite exciting, I assure you, to see the flames being fanned by the bellows, and myriads of sparks flying upwards and outwards on all sides, while the blacksmith hammers the red-hot metal on the anvil and shapes it into horseshoes and other useful things made of iron.

But there is one particular blacksmith whose acquaintance I want you to make. He lives in a little village and his forge stands beneath the shade of an immense chestnut tree with wide out-spreading branches. The smith is a mighty man, and well he needs to be, for his work requires great strength. His hands are large and sinewy and his muscles like iron; his face is bronzed by the sun and his black hair is long and curls crisply. He does not make a great deal of money in spite of all his hard work, but he earnsquite sufficient for his own modest wants and to provide his only daughter with all the necessaries of life, and even a pretty gown to wear in church on Sundays. His one modest boast is that he is able to look every one honestly in the face, for he is not in debt for a single farthing.

The village blacksmith works hard from morning till night; at any time in the day you pass by the forge you can hear the bellows being blown by one of hisboys, while he himself swings his heavy sledge-hammer, keeping such regular time with his strokes that it calls to mind the tolling of the village bell—a custom which the old sexton never omits as the day draws to its close. On their way home from school, all the village children love to peep in at the open door of the smithy to see the flaming forge and hear the roar of the bellows. They have a fine game at pretending to catch the sparks, which fly about as the chaff does when the corn is being threshed in the barns at harvest time.

But on Sunday the blacksmith puts aside all his labor and goes with the other villagers to church, where he takes his usual seat among his boys. He listens attentively to the praying and preaching, and above all to the singing, for his daughter is in the village choir and the sound of her sweet voice brings joy into his heart. His thoughts go back to the time when his young wife sang in tones as clear and pure as these, but God thought fit to call her from him years ago to sing in the heavenly choir. As he thinks of her lonely grave in the churchyard close by tears rise in the blacksmith's eyes, but he wipes them away with his hard rough hand and resolves to be grateful for the many blessings still left to him.

When the service is over and the congregation leaves the church, after greeting his friends, the blacksmithturns aside and, standing by his wife's grave, reads once more the simple inscription on the stone which he has put up to her memory. But you may be sure that the blacksmith's pretty daughter knows where he is to be found, and, taking him gently by the arm, leads him homeward, beguiling the way with cheerful words.

This is how the busy blacksmith spends his life—toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing. Every morning he begins some fresh task and he works so hard that by evening he has finished it. He has attempted something and he has completed something—surely he has well earned his night's rest.

We may all learn a useful lesson from the life of the village blacksmith. Let us try to live as honestly, asuprightly, and as laboriously as he, so that one day we may deserve to hear the words, "Well done, My good and faithful servants!" Let us try so to live that each action of our lives shall be a good and shapely thing, a help and a benefit to others, like the horseshoes made by the honest blacksmith are to our four-footed friends.

he land of Germany has always been famous for its store of wonderful songs and legends. Its poets of olden days, who were known as the Minnesinger, used to wander round the country singing or reciting these tales and everywhere they went they were sure of a warm welcome. The "Golden Legend" is one of these old stories, and runs as follows:

Lucifer, who was once one of the good angels, had been cast out of Heaven for the sin of pride. He gathered all the spirits of evil around him and made himself their leader. His one desire now was to do harm to all mankind and, by putting wicked thoughts into men's minds, make them themselves do evil so that he might grieve the good angels and thus take revenge for the punishment which had been inflicted on him.

Among other wicked deeds he sought to tear downthe spire of Strasburg Cathedral, but was defeated by the good spirits, who kept unceasing watch and ward over the holy place. Baffled in this attempt, Lucifer betook himself to a castle on the Rhine, the dwelling of young Prince Henry of Hoheneck. Prince though he was, his lot was a most unhappy one, for he was suffering from a deadly disease which the most famous physicians had been unable to cure. Ill and restless, Prince Henry was sitting alone at midnight in a tower of his castle, when suddenly there came a flash of lightning, and Lucifer, disguised as a doctor, stood before him.

"All hail, Prince Henry!" said the stranger.

"Who are you," asked the Prince, "and what may be your purpose in coming hither?"

"I am a traveling physician," replied the cunning spirit, "and I can cure all diseases."

"But not mine," said Prince Henry, mournfully. "I have consulted almost every famous doctor, but the case is quite beyond their science. Even the learned doctors of Salerno have sent me back word that they know of no cure for a malady like this save one, which from its very nature is impossible."

"What is this mysterious remedy?"

"Read, and you shall see," answered the Prince, handing Lucifer a scroll on which were these words:

"Not to be cured, yet not incurable!The only remedy that remainsIs the blood that flows from a maiden's veins,Who of her own free will shall die,And give her life as the price of yours!"

"A strange remedy, indeed," said the false physician, "and one which you will never be able to try. However, I have with me here a wonderful draught which cures all pain—will you not taste it?"

Prince Henry hesitated, but finally drank from the crystal flask which Lucifer gave him. The evil spirit disappeared with mocking laughter and Prince Henry fell to the ground in a swoon. The magic draught which the false doctor had given him was nothing but an enchantment destined to work still more harm on the victim. The next morning the unfortunate Prince was found by his attendants stretched on the floor of the tower chamber and seemingly lifeless. When he began to recover, further troubles were in store for him. He was summoned to appear in church before a council of priests, who pronounced him to be a leper and an outcast, and decreed that henceforth he was to be looked upon as one dead. The burial service was read over him and then Prince Henry, clothed in a cloak of hodden gray, and carrying a beggar's wallet, was thrust from the door of the church into perpetual banishment.

A lonely exile, Prince Henry wandered through theland till he came to a farm in the Odenwald, where dwelt the worthy peasant Gottlieb, with his wife, Dame Ursula, and his daughter, Elsie, a beautiful maiden of fifteen summers. These good people took compassion on their Prince and begged him to dwell with them and share all they had. Glad to find a resting-place among kindly folk, the Prince stayed for some months at the farm, but each day he seemed to become a little weaker. The disease from which he was suffering had made such rapid progress that he felt his death rapidly drawing near. In these days of weakness and despair the Prince tried to console himself by reading the old legends, and watching Elsie as she flitted about the garden, gathering flowers to lay at the shrine of her favorite saint. He would read aloud to her, and she would give him some of her flowers and try in her gentle way to make her dear Prince forget his heavy troubles.

Gradually Elsie grew to love the Prince with such devotion that it seemed to her that no task could be too difficult, no sacrifice too great for her to make, if only she could save his life. And then the thought suddenly came to her that she would make the greatest sacrifice of all and give her life, so that the cure of which the learned doctors of Salerno had written might be carried out.

Filled with this resolve, she told her father andmother, who wept bitterly and sought by every means in their power to dissuade her, but all in vain. Then Elsie sought the Prince and begged him to allow her to do this for him. His life, she said, was valuable to his country and his people, for he would be restored to health and rule over them again, whereas she was but a poor peasant girl and her place could easily be filled.

Prince Henry struggled for some time against the temptation to accept the sacrifice of this young life, and finally determined to go to the village church and ask the advice of the priest in the matter. But the Prince delayed his coming, and the priest had to leave the church at sunset and go forth to visit the sick and needy. Lucifer, who was watching his opportunity, slipped into the church, disguised this time as a priest, and took his seat in the confessional. When the Prince at length appeared and besought the priest to tell him whether he might justly allow the maiden to give her life for his, instead of showing him how wicked such an action would be and that it would be far better in God's eyes that he should bear his sufferings uncomplainingly, the evil spirit persuaded the wavering youth that the deed was right and necessary and had the Church's full approval.

Heedless of the voice of his good angel, which whispered to his conscience that he was doing wrong,the Prince returned to the farm and announced that he was prepared to accept the divine gift of life from Elsie's hands. One request only did the maiden make, that, on their pilgrimage to Salerno, neither by word nor deed should Prince Henry attempt to dissuade her from her purpose. Elsie had no fear of death and, when she had taken a last farewell of her grief-stricken parents, the Prince set out with her on their long journey.

Easter Sunday found them in Strasburg, where the Prince tarried with Elsie in order that they might witness the Miracle Play, which was acted within the cathedral. After that, the next stage of their journey brought them to Hirschau, where Prince Henry sought a night's shelter at the monastery, after having placed Elsie under the charge of the Abbess Irmingard in the nunnery a short distance away.

Lucifer, ever watchful lest the Prince should escape from his evil influence, was here too. Disguised as a monk, he mingled with the brethren at the convent and stirred up strife among them, so that the Abbot grew very wrathful and inflicted severe penances on all the offenders.

After vespers had been sung, the monks retired, but one lingered, for he was blind and walked slowly, led by a little chorister. As he drew near, Prince Henry started back in amazement.

"Do my eyes deceive me in this dim light," he exclaimed, "or can this be Count Hugo of the Rhine, my most deadly foe?"

The old monk, who had come so close that he could hear Prince Henry's words, replied sadly: "Count Hugo of the Rhine was once my name, but now you behold the wreck of my former self. My pride and headstrong will have brought me to this plight. Deserted by my friends, defeated by my enemies, alone and blind, I heard a voice call me by name and say: 'Kneel down and pray.' So now you behold me a member of the holy brotherhood, ever striving by prayer and repentance to blot out the remembrance of my evil deeds. You, who by your voice I know to be Prince Henry of Hoheneck, are one of those who have most cause to hate me. Curse and revile me if you will; I will bear it patiently."

"We both have erred," sadly answered the Prince, "but the hand of God has chastened us both. Let us therefore pray for forgiveness together."

Hand in hand the two former enemies humbly knelt in prayer, and Lucifer, himself the spirit of arrogance and pride, slunk away, powerless to do evil to those who truly repent of their sins.

Meanwhile, Elsie sat with the Abbess Irmingard in the moonlight, while the latter told the sad story of her life to her young companion.

"Years ago, when I was a maiden freshly returned from the convent school, wandering Minnesinger used to come to my father's castle where they were always made welcome. The noblest and most gallant of all these bards was Walter of the Vogelweid; his voice was the sweetest and his songs the most beautiful. We looked on each other and loved, but a foreign prince sought my hand and my stern father bade me wed him and forget the wandering minstrel. I refused to be the bride of any other than Walter. 'Either you obey me,' said my father, 'or you shall become a nun and die unwed.' That very night I secretly left the castle and stole away with my lover. We went swiftly on horseback through the forest, but our flight was soon discovered—we were pursued and overtaken. I remember nothing more till I awoke in my own room, ill with a raging fever. When I recovered, I was sent to this nunnery and the convent gates, clanging behind me, seemed to be those of a prison. But all this was many years ago and now I am content and have found peace.

"I have told thee this tale," said the Abbess to Elsie, "for I feel strangely drawn to thee. In thy young life there is too a tale of mystery and pain, and, as my way has been made clear, so shall be thine."

The next day Elsie and the Prince bade farewell to their kindly hosts and traveled, as swiftly as horsescould carry them, through Germany and Switzerland. After leaving Lucerne they hired a trusty guide to lead them through the mountain passes, which were steep and dangerous. On one part of the journey they had to cross a single arch bridge, which spanned a terrible abyss, and their guide told them the story of how it came to be built.

"For years and years people had tried in vain to make a bridge at this point, but all their efforts had been fruitless, for whatever was built by day the devil swept away at night. At last a holy abbot built this one with a single arch and made a compact with the evil one that it should be allowed to stand, on the condition that the first living thing which crossed it should be surrendered into his clutches. When the bridge was completed, the abbot, standing at one end, threw a loaf of bread across, which a hungry dog sprang after, and the rocks re-echoed with laughter to see the devil thus defeated."

"Defeated," sneered Lucifer, who was standing beneath the bridge. "It was for journeys and crimes like this that I allowed the bridge to stand!"

Unconscious that Lucifer was dogging their steps, the princely train finished its journey through Italy in safety, took ship at Genoa, and reached the town of Salerno, renowned for its learned doctors and its schools.

Entering the town, Prince Henry inquired for Friar Angelo, and Lucifer, appearing before him in fresh disguise, said: "He stands before you."

"You know, then, on what errand I have come," said the Prince. "I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck and this is the maiden I spoke of in my letters."

"This is a grave business, and we must not be over-hasty," answered the crafty Lucifer. "Does the maiden consent to this of her own free will?"

"No prayers or entreaties can dissuade her."

"Strange, indeed. Have you thought well over it?" asked Lucifer, turning to Elsie.

"I do not come here to argue, but to die," repliedElsie. "Your business is not to question but to kill me, and I am ready."

With a last farewell to Prince Henry and her weeping attendants, Elsie followed Lucifer into a gloomy building. The Prince tried to follow them, but Lucifer thrust him back and barred the door. Suddenly the Prince's better angel prevailed and he realized what a vile thing it was that he should purchase health and strength at such a cost. Sooner would he himself die a lingering death than that harm should come to Elsie, who had grown so dear to him during their long journey together. Shouting to his men to aid him, he burst open the door and rushed in to save her.

A few weeks later, Dame Ursula was sitting in her cottage spinning and thinking sadly of her child's untimely death, when a forester stopped at the farm and inquired for Gottlieb.

"I am his wife," said the dame.

"Then I have news for you. The Prince is strong and well again."

"Then Elsie, my poor child, is dead," she rejoined, mournfully.

"It is true that your daughter is no longer the humble peasant she once was."

"Nay, do not mock a mother's agony, and tell me truly what has befallen my child," she implored.

Then the forester told Ursula his wonderful news; how at Salerno the Prince's nobler self had prevailed, and the maiden's life had been spared, whereupon a miracle had been worked on the Prince and he had straightway been healed.

"They call your daughter the Lady Alicia now," continued the messenger, "for the Prince made a vow in Salerno that he would wed no one but Elsie. At this very moment the Prince and his bride are sailing homeward down the Rhine in a splendid barge decked with banners, and all the people are gathered on the banks, shouting with joy."

Dame Ursula's raptures can be better imagined than described, and she rushed away to tell her husband the glad tidings, while the forester calmly sat down and helped himself to Gottlieb's supper.

And so we may leave the Prince and his young bride with the feeling that their wedded life proved to be a very happy one, for their love had been tried by pain and suffering, and a love which can conquer these is one which will endure.

n olden days, a ship called theMayflowerleft the shores of England and set sail for a distant and unknown land, carrying a number of Puritan pilgrims on board. Among their number were two men who were close friends, though they were utterly different both in character and looks. Miles Standish was a short, strongly built man with muscles and sinews like iron; his reddish beard was already flaked with patches of white and his face browned from his out-of-door life. Hasty and passionate, Miles Standish was, nevertheless, a born leader of men, and was greatly respected by all who knew him. His friend, John Alden, was a much younger man, with fair hair and blue eyes. He was no soldier, but skilled in all manual labor, and, moreover, a scholar and a scribe.

The two friends settled in the village of Plymouth, and Miles Standish soon distinguished himself by his warlike qualities and was made captain of the town,while John Alden, who lived with him, acted as his secretary and household companion.

One day they were sitting together, Miles reading about Caesar's great victories, and John occupied in writing letters to his people at home, filled mostly with accounts of the beautiful Puritan maiden, Priscilla. Presently Miles Standish looked up from his reading and said to John: "When you have finished writing I have something important to tell you."

"I am ready to listen," cheerfully replied the young man.

"Since Rose Standish died years ago," said the Captain, "my life has been a very dreary one. In my hours of loneliness I have often thought of the maiden, Priscilla, who is as friendless as I am. She is quite alone in the world, for her mother, father, and brother all died in the winter. I have never dared speak my thoughts to her, but I want you to do so for me. Go to Priscilla and tell her that a blunt old captain, readier at action than words, loves her dearly. You are a scholar and can speak to her in tender words such as are best suited to win the heart of a maiden."

Bewildered and dismayed at his friend's request, John replied: "Indeed I cannot give such a message as this. If you would have a thing well done you must do it yourself, not leave it to others—these are your own words."

The Captain gravely shook his head. "I cannot, indeed," said he. "I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, but I dare not face a woman with such a proposal. Surely you will not refuse to do what I ask in the name of our friendship."

John Alden felt he could no longer withstand the Captain's earnest request, so he reluctantly consented and went forth on his errand. His way led him through the woods, where he gathered some may-flowers as a gift for Priscilla. When he drew near Priscilla's home he found her spinning industriously and singing as she worked. As John entered, she rose and held out her hand to him, saying: "I knew it was you when I heard your step in the passage; I was thinking of you as I sat there spinning and singing."

John was so pleased that she should have been thinking of him that he could frame no reply, but held out the flowers to her in silent answer. Then they sat down and talked of their friends at home and of theMayflower, which was to return to England the next day. Priscilla confessed she felt so lonely and wretched that she wished she could return to England too, and John answered: "I cannot blame you for that wish. A woman requires someone stronger than herself to lean on, so I have come to you nowwith an offer of marriage from a good and true man, Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth."

Not even the Captain himself could have spoken more bluntly than did John, and Priscilla looked at him in amazement. At length she exclaimed: "If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?"

Poor John tried to smooth matters over. Quite forgetful of himself, he pleaded the Captain's cause, said how kindly, generous, and brave he was, what a splendid soldier and leader, and added that any woman might be proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish. But all his eloquence was wasted, for the maiden only looked at him and said smilingly: "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"

Here was a pretty pass for an honest man to be in! Joyful to think that Priscilla loved him and yet saddened for his friend's sake, John left the house and wandered down to the seashore, undecided what he ought to do in the matter. Suddenly he looked up and saw the shadowy form of theMayflowerriding at anchor, ready to set sail on the morrow, and he made up his mind that it was his duty to return to England on the ship.

Strong in his resolution, he returned home and related to the Captain all that had happened. But whenhe came to the words Priscilla had spoken, the Captain stamped on the floor and shouted, angrily: "John Alden, you have betrayed me! We are no longer friends, and there can be nothing between us henceforth but war and hatred!"

In the midst of his angry words a man came in bringing a message of urgent importance. There were rumors of danger, threats of war from hostile Indian tribes, and the Captain was summoned to a council meeting.

Still enraged, the Captain hastened away to the council and found it already assembled and impatiently waiting his coming. A ferocious-looking Indian was standing by a table on which lay a rattlesnake's skinfilled with arrows; this was the Indians' signal of warfare. The council was debating whether it would be better to reply to the challenge or try peaceful measures, but Miles Standish settled the matter without more ado. Advancing to the table, he picked up the rattlesnake's skin, and with a gesture of contempt jerked the Indian arrows from it. Then he filled the skin to the brim with powder and bullets and handed it back to the Indian, saying in a tone of thunder:

"Here, take it! This is your answer!" The savage took the challenge in silence, glided from the room, and soon disappeared into the recesses of the forest.

Miles Standish returned late from the council and threw himself, dressed as he was, on his pallet, so that he might be ready to set out at any moment. John Alden was lying awake, but he was resentful at the Captain's angry words to him and pretended to be asleep. At earliest dawn Standish awoke and, taking his musket, strode from the room. John Alden yearned to bid his friend farewell, but his pride would not let him, and he beheld the Captain depart in anger and spoke no word.

Then he arose, made his own preparations, and went down to the shore. A boat was waiting to convey him to the ship, but, as he was already standing with one foot on the gunwale, he caught sight of Priscilla looking at him with a sad and reproachful gaze.

At once his purpose changed. He determined that he would not go away, but would remain and protect her. The captain of the ship bade farewell to his friends and pushed off his boat. Not one of all who had set out in theMayflowerreturned with her. The pilgrims wished the captain and his men Godspeed and went back to their life of toil in the new world.

As John turned to depart, Priscilla stood beside himand they spoke together long and earnestly. She gently reproached John for pleading the cause of another. "I was hurt that you should urge me to marry Captain Miles Standish, even though he is your friend. I must tell you the truth; your friendship is more to me than all the love he could offer."

Said John: "Of all your friends, let me be the nearest and dearest, and I promise that I will be true and faithful to you always."

He would not say more than this, for, although he longed to tell Priscilla of his love for her, he had vowed not to do so. Loyalty to his absent friend forbade him and he thought to himself: "I will not speak to Priscilla of this until there is no longer any anger betwixt Miles Standish and myself."

Meanwhile, Miles Standish was marching steadily northward with a small troop of soldiers led by their brave Indian guide, Hobomok. After a three days' march they reached an Indian encampment and saw the women at work by the tents and the warriors sitting round the fire in full war-paint.

When the Indians saw the white men approaching, two of the mightiest warriors sprang up and came to parley with Standish, offering him a present of furs. Then they spoke through the Indian interpreter, begging the soldiers for muskets and powder, but when Standish refused and said he would give them aBible instead, they changed their tone and began to boast and bluster.

One of the chiefs cried: "Is this the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us? He is a little man, let him go and work with the women!" Standish looked keenly round him and became aware of shadowy forms of Indians creeping round the bushes in ambush, but he feigned not to see them and stood his ground undaunted, listening calmly to the interpreter's words. But when the Indian chief began to taunt him, his hot blood rose within him, and, snatching the boaster's knife from him, he stabbed him to the heart. A flight of arrows immediately poured on the little band from all sides, but they replied with deadly fire from their guns and after a fierce fight the first victory lay with the white men.

Month after month passed by and Miles Standish continued to scour the land with his forces till his name became a terror to all the hostile Indian tribes. In the little village of Plymouth the time passed peacefully on. John Alden built himself a new house, dug a well, and planted an orchard hard by. As he worked he thought ever of Priscilla and knew that his happiness would not be complete until he might venture to ask her to share the fruits of his toil.

One day he was sitting with the maiden, awkwardly holding a skein of yarn for her to wind, when a messenger arrived in frantic haste bringing terrible news from the village. Miles Standish was dead, shot down by a poisoned arrow as he was leading his men to battle. Remorseful and yet glad that nothing now stood between him and the fulfillment of his hopes, John Alden turned to Priscilla and won her ready consent to become his bride.

So one bright summer's day the simple wedding took place according to Puritan custom. Just as the service was ending, a somber figure clad in steel armor appeared on the threshold. The bridegroom turned pale at the sight and the bride hid her face on his shoulder. When the last prayer had been said, the figure strode into the room, and with amazement thepeople beheld the Captain of Plymouth whom they had mourned as dead. Grasping the bridegroom's hand Miles Standish begged his forgiveness, which was gladly granted; he then saluted the bride and a new bond of friendship was entered into by all three. Full of eager questions the guests then gathered round the Captain, all speaking at once, till the poor man declared he had far rather break into an Indian encampment than come to a wedding to which he had not been invited.

When the confusion had at length subsided, John led out his snow-white steer covered with crimson cloth and with a cushion for a saddle. His wife, he declared, should ride to her home like a queen, not plod like a peasant. And so the bridal procession set out, Priscilla riding and John leading her gentle steed. No sad thoughts marred their homecoming, for their friend had been saved from a cruel death and his kindly words added a crowning joy to their happiness.

ne bright summer morning, rather more than a hundred years ago, comely Mistress Stavers stood with folded arms at her tavern door and watched her husband drive his stage-coach, four-in-hand, down the long lane and out into the country. Above her head hung the tavern sign—a portrait of the Earl of Halifax, resplendent in his scarlet coat and flaxen wig. Looking down, he was struck afresh with the charms of the tavern-keeper's handsome wife, and, though he was in a somewhat battered condition owing to his advanced age and the extremes of weather to which he had been exposed, he almost made up his mind to fall at her feet and declare his love.

At that moment, however, his train of thought wasinterrupted by the vision of a barefooted, ragged little girl hurrying down the street. In spite of her shabby, mean attire, you could hardly help noticing how pretty she was, with her rough curly hair falling over her shoulders and her eyes dancing with laughter; in her hand she carried a brimming pail of water which dripped on to her little bare feet as she tripped along. Smiles played over the childish face and rippling sun-beams danced in her pail. The susceptible Earl of Halifax gazed at this picture with feelings of delight, but Dame Stavers evidently did not approve of it, for the Earl heard her say, "Fie for shame, Martha Hilton! How dare you go about the town half-dressed and looking such a sight!" The little gypsy maid laughed and replied saucily, "No matter how I look now. One day you will see me riding in my own chariot, ma'am."

Dame Stavers was too amazed at the audacity of these words to make any reply, but the Earl of Halifax smiled kindly at the little maid as she walked on with her heavy burden. When she reached the corner of the street, she looked back for a moment, then turned and passed out of sight.

The Earl of Halifax swung for a while on his sign and pondered. His attention was next arrested by a magnificent carriage rolling rapidly by. Outriders in scarlet liveries bestrode the spirited horses, whose silverharness glittered brightly in the sun. Within the chariot a dignified gentleman sat in solitary state. He was a stately personage with powdered hair, wearing a three-cornered hat and a crimson velvet coat; diamond buckles sparkled at his knees, and in his hand he carried a gold-headed cane. As the carriage passed the inn, Mistress Stavers dropped several low curtseys, for this was General Wentworth driving out to his great house, which stood just outside the town overlooking the sea.

A stately pile standing near the high road but hidden from it by trees, the Governor's house was indeed a pleasant abode. Within, it was magnificent to behold with its oak floors and carved chimney-pieces. All through the winter immense fires of logs blazed cheerily on the open hearths, while portraits of dead and gone Wentworths in heavy gilt frames looked placidly down from the tapestry-covered walls. Beneath the tapestry were doors which opened unawares and led into mysterious passages and up queer little flights of stairs.

Here dwelt the great man, Governor Wentworth, but no one shared its comfort with him, for he was a widower and childless, and though no one ever heard him complain, sometimes he felt his loneliness very keenly.

At this time Martha Hilton, the pretty little gypsymaid was thirteen years old, and soon after the day when we met her tripping down the main street of Portsmouth, she went to be a servant at the house of Governor Wentworth. For seven long years she worked hard and faithfully.

"A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine,A servant who made service seem divine."

Under her care the mirrors glistened and the brasses shone; the very knocker on the great front entrance looked brighter whenever she passed by. And all this time, as Martha grew from childhood into woman-hood, there was someone who watched, unknown to her, all her doings.

Time passed on, bringing with it the Governor's sixtieth birthday, and at the great house it was determined to give a banquet in honor of the occasion. Invitations were sent out to all Governor Wentworth's friends in the neighborhood, and when the day arrived, a very noble assemblage sat down to the feast. At the commencement of the banquet the Reverend Arthur Brown, the rector, who was seated at the host's right hand, said grace, and then the feast went on merrily. After the guests had finished eating and the King's health had been drunk, the Governor gave a whispered message to a man-servant, who disappeared and presently returned with a beautiful girl, simply and neatly dressed. The guests scarcely noticed herpresence, but the Governor stood up in his place and, looking down at the rector, said: "This is my birthday; it shall also be my wedding-day, and you shall marry me."

The guests were greatly mystified, and the reverend gentleman not less so, but he answered politely: "It would indeed be a pleasant task, your Excellency, but may I ask to whom I am to marry you?" "To this lady," replied the Governor, and beckoned to Martha Hilton to stand by his side. Blushing and confused the maiden timidly obeyed, but the rector hesitated and said nothing. Then the Governor cried impatiently: "If you hesitate to do as I ask you, then, as chief magistrate, I command you."

Seeing that all objections would be useless the rector obeyed, and read the marriage-service in loud, clear tones. The Governor placed a ring on the fourth finger of the bride's fair left hand, and Martha Hilton became Lady Wentworth of the Hall.

Thus the saucy boast, which the little gypsy had uttered in jest seven years before, came true, and when Lady Wentworth drove in her chariot through the main street of Portsmouth none dropped a lower curtsey than the tavern-keeper's wife. The Earl of Halifax smiled serenely but said nothing.

lizabeth Haddon, the gentle Quaker maiden, sat one winter evening in her farm-house kitchen, which served both for kitchen and parlor, and talked to Hannah the housemaid. "How short the days are," she said, "and how quickly night overtakes us. In the old country there is a long twilight, but here in the forest is hardly a moment between daylight and lamplight. Yet how grand winter is with its spotless mantle of snow."

"Oh, yes, winter is beautiful enough," replied Hannah, "and if only we could walk with our feet on the ceiling like flies, I should not complain. But this great river, the Delaware, is not crowded with tall sailing vessels like the Thames. Here we see nothing but pine-trees already flecked with snow. There is snow in the air and to-morrow all the roads will be blocked. I pity Joseph, who will have to break through the snow-drifts with his sled and oxen, and how inall the world shall we get to Meeting on First Day (Sunday)?"

Elizabeth gently reproved her talkative servant for grumbling, then rose and put her sewing away. Meanwhile, Hannah fastened the shutters, spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp. Then she made the tea and placed on the table a brown loaf and butter fresh from the dairy. As they partook of their simple meal, Elizabeth said: "Joseph is a long time on his errand. I sent him to the village with a hamper of food and clothing for the poor. He is a good lad, always ready and willing."

Hannah smiled with pleasure at her mistress's praise of her fellow servant, and Elizabeth continued: "This house is a long way from the village, and we should be lonely if it were not for friends passing by who sometimes stay the night here."

Hannah, who resembled John Gilpin's famous wife in that she had "a frugal mind," did not altogether approve of what her generous mistress said.

"Many people do indeed pay us a visit," she remarked, "and they treat this house just as if it were an inn, coming and going exactly as they please."

"All I have is the Lord's, not mine," replied Elizabeth gently. "I am only left here in trust to distribute His gifts among the poor and those who devote their lives to His service. It was for this purpose that myfather built this house in the clearing, and, though he did not come here himself, I came in his stead. So we must not grudge to others the crumbs that fall from our table."

A little ashamed of herself, Hannah was silent for a while, and Elizabeth went on to say in her gentle voice: "Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May meeting in London when I was still a child? No sound was heard in all that great assembly till at length a young man, named John Estaugh, rose in his place and spoke so powerfully that all hearts were stirred. I cannot tell why, but to-day there is a strong feeling within me that I shall see him again."

As she finished speaking, a sound of sleigh-bells came nearer and nearer and a sleigh drew up at the farm-house gate. Joseph had evidently returned from his errand but not alone, for the voices of two men were heard talking together.

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