Chapter Thirty Nine.

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.”

“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 toit; 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 wishyouwouldn’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 Ican’tstand 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!

“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 toit; 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 wishyouwouldn’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 Ican’tstand 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 meanthat!” 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 withyou?—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!”

“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 meanthat!” 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 withyou?—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 gotherto 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 betterthere,” responded Mr Ewring softly.Note 1. Coals.—all coal then came to London by sea.Note 2. Principally: handsomely.The End.

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 gotherto 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 betterthere,” responded Mr Ewring softly.

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

Note 2. Principally: handsomely.

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