The King's Daughters, How Two Girls Kept the Faith, by Emily Sarah Holt. 

________________________________________________________________________You will enjoy this book about the time when Mary was Queen of England, following the rise of Protestantism during Henry the Eighth's and Edwardthe Sixth's reigns. Mary was a Catholic, and during her reign there wasa time when people with the Protestant faith were apt to be tortured andburnt at the stake. 

So the King of the title is the King of Heaven, and his daughters arethose women who retain their faith even up to the moment when they diein the flames. The subtitle is "How Two Girls Kept The Faith". 

The problem with killing saintly mothers is that they may leave youngchildren behind them, and a great deal of this book deals with the threeyoung children of one such woman. 

The edition used was not registered in the Copyright Library, but itappears to have been a rather badly printed pirated version. It was notan easy job to create this e-book, but I believe the author wouldapprove of what we have done for you. 

________________________________________________________________________THE KING'S DAUGHTERS, HOW TWO GIRLS KEPT THE FAITH, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT. 

CHAPTER ONE. 

CHOOSING A NEW GOWN. 

"Give you good den, Master Clere!" said a rosy-faced countrywoman with abasket on her arm, as she came into one of the largest clothier's shopsin Colchester. It was an odd way of saying "Good Evening, " but this wasthe way in which they said it in 1556. The rosy-faced woman set downher basket on the counter, and looked round the shop in the leisurelyway of somebody who was in no particular hurry. They did not dash andrush and scurry through their lives in those days, as we do in these. She was looking to see if any acquaintance of hers was there. As shefound nobody she went to business. "Could you let a body see a piece ofkersey, think you? I'd fain have a brown or a good dark murrey 'd serveme--somewhat that should not show dirt, and may be trusted to wearwell. --Good den, Mistress Clere!--Have you e'er a piece o' kersey likethat?"

Master Nicholas Clere, who stood behind the counter, did not move afinger. He was a tall, big man, and he rested both hands on hiscounter, and looked his customer in the face. He was not a man whompeople liked much, for he was rather queer-tempered, and as MistressClere was wont to remark, "a bit easier put out than in. " A man of fewwords, but those were often pungent, was Nicholas Clere. 

"What price?" said he. 

"Well! you mustn't ask me five shillings a yard, " said the rosy-facedwoman, with a little laugh. That was the price of the very best andfinest kersey. 

"Shouldn't think o' doing, " answered the clothier. 

"Come, you know the sort as 'ill serve me. Shilling a yard at best. Ifyou've any at eightpence--"

"Haven't. "

"Well, then I reckon I must go a bit higher. "

"We've as good a kersey at elevenpence, " broke in Mrs Clere, "as you'dwish to see, Alice Mount, of a summer day. A good brown, belike, andnot one as 'll fade--and a fine thread--for the price, you know. Youdon't look for kersey at elevenpence to be even with that athalf-a-crown, now, do you? but you'll never repent buying this, Ipromise you. "

Mrs Clere was not by any means a woman of few words. While she wastalking her husband had taken down the kersey, and opened it out uponthe counter. 

"There!" said he gruffly: "take it or leave it. "

There were two other women in the shop, to whom Mrs Clere was showingsome coarse black stockings: they looked like mother and daughter. While Alice Mount was looking at the kersey, the younger of these twosaid to the other--

"Isn't that Alice Mount of Bentley?--she that was had to London lastAugust by the Sheriffs for heresy, with a main lot more?"

"Ay, 'tis she, " answered the mother in an undertone. 

"Twenty-three of them, weren't there?"

"Thereabouts. They stood to it awhile, if you mind, and then they madesome fashion of submission, and got let off. "

"So they did, but I mind Master Maynard said it was but a sorry sort. He wouldn't have taken it, quoth he. "

The other woman laughed slightly. "Truly, I believe that, if he had achance to lay hold on 'em else. He loves bringing folk to book, andprison too. "

"There's Margaret Thurston coming across, " said the younger woman, aftera moment's pause. "I rather guess she means to turn in here. "

When people say "I guess" now, we set them down at once as Americans;but in 1556 everybody in England said it. Our American cousins havekept many an old word and expression which we have lost. See Note Two. 

In another minute a woman came in who was a strong contrast to AliceMount. Instead of being small, round, and rosy, she was tall and spare, and very pale, as if she might have been ill not long before. She toocarried a basket, but though it was only about half as large as Alice's, it seemed to try her strength much more. 

"Good den, neighbour!" said Alice, with a pleasant smile. 

"Good den, Alice. I looked not to find you here. What come you after?"

"A piece of kersey for my bettermost gown this summer. What seek you?"

"Well, I want some linsey for mine. Go you on, and when you've made anend I'll ask good Master Clere to show me some, without Mistress Clere'sat liberty sooner. "

Alice Mount was soon satisfied. She bought ten yards of the brownkersey, with some black buckram to line it, and then, as those will whohave time to spare, and not much to occupy their thoughts, she turnedher attention to helping Margaret Thurston to choose her gown. But itwas soon seen that Margaret was not an easy woman to satisfy. She wouldhave striped linsey; no, she wouldn't, she would have a self colour; no, she wouldn't, she would have a little pattern; lastly, she did not knowwhich to have! What did Master Clere think? or what would Alicerecommend her?

Master Clere calmly declined to think anything about it. 

"Take it or leave it, " said he. "You'll have to do one or t'other. Might as well do it first as last. "

Margaret turned from one piece to another with a hopelessly perplexedface. There were three lying before her; a plain brown, a very darkgreen with a pretty little pattern, and a delicate grey, striped with adarker shade of the same colour. 

"Brown's usefullest, maybe, " said she in an uncertain tone. "Green'snone so bad, though. And that grey's proper pretty--it is agentlewoman's gown. I'd like that grey. "

The grey was undoubtedly ladylike, but it was only fit for a lady, notfor a working man's wife who had cooking and cleaning to do. A week ofsuch work would ruin it past repair. 

"You have the brown, neighbour, " said Alice. "It's not the prettiest, maybe, but it 'll look the best when it's been used a while. That grey'll never stand nought; and the green, though it's better, 'll not weareven to the brown. You have the brown now. "

Still Margaret was undecided. She appealed to Mrs Clere. 

"Why, look you, " responded that talkative lady, "if you have yondergreen gown, you can don it of an even when your master comes home fromwork, and he'll be main pleased to see you a-sitting in the cottage doorwith your bit o' needlework, in a pretty green gown. "

"Ay, so he will!" said Margaret, suddenly making up as much mind as shehad. "I thank you Mistress Clere. I'll have the green, Master Clere, an' it please you. "

Now, Alice Mount had offered a reason for choosing the brown dress, andMrs Clere had only drawn a picture; but Margaret was the sort of womanto be influenced by a picture much more than by a solid reason. So thegreen linsey was cut off and rolled up--not in paper: that was much tooprecious to be wasted on parcels of common things. It was only tiedwith string, and each woman taking her own package, the two friends wereabout to leave the shop, when it occurred to Mrs Mount to ask aquestion. 

"So you've got Bessy Foulkes at last, Mistress Clere?"

"Ay, we have, Alice, " was the answer. "And you might have said, `atlong last, ' trow. Never saw a maid so hard to come by. I could havegot twenty as good maids as she to hire themselves, while Bess wasthinking on it. "

"She should be worth somewhat, now you have her, if she took such workto come by, " observed Margaret Thurston. 

"Oh, well, she'll do middling. She's a stirring maid over her work: butshe's mortal quiet, she is. Not a word can you get out of her without'tis needed. And for a young maid of nineteen, you know, that's strangefashions. "

"Humph!" said Master Nicholas, rolling up some woollen handkerchiefs. "The world 'd do with another or twain of that fashion. "

"Now, Nicholas, you can't say you get too much talk!" exclaimed his wifeturning round. "Why Amy and me, we're as quiet as a couple of mice frommorning till night. Aren't we now?"

"Can't I?" said Nicholas, depositing the handkerchiefs on a shelf. 

"Well, any way, you've got no call to it. Nobody can say I talk toomuch, that I know: nor yet Amy. "

"You know, do you?" said her husband coolly. "Well, then, I need not tosay it. "

"Now, neighbours, isn't that too bad?" demanded Mrs Clere, as Nicholasmoved away to attend to another customer. "I never was a rattle, not I. But 'tis right like men: they take in their heads that all women betalkers, and be as still as you will, they shall write you down achatterbox. Well, now, can't I tempt you with nought more? Stockings, or kerchiefs, or a knitted cap? Well, then, good den. I don't so welllike the look of them clouds yonder; we shall have rain afore night, take my word for it. Farewell!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mulberry-colour, much like that we call plum-colour or prune. 

Note 2. They say, "I want to _have you go_, " when we should say, "Iwant _you, to go_. " Queen Elizabeth would have used the formerexpression. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

WHO TOOK CARE OF CISSY?

The clothier's shop which we entered in the last chapter was in Balconor Balkerne Lane, not far from its northern end. The house was built, as most houses then were, with the upper storey projecting beyond thelower, and with a good deal of window in proportion to the wall. Thepanes of glass were very small, set in lead, and of a greenish hue; andthe top of the house presented two rather steeply sloped gables. Housesin that day were more picturesque than they have been for the last twohundred years, though they have shown a tendency in recent times to turnagain in that direction. Over Master Clere's door--and over every doorin the street--hung a signboard, on which some sign was painted, eachdifferent from the rest, for signs then served the purpose of numbers, so that two alike in the same street would have caused confusion. Asfar as eye could see ran the gaily-painted boards--Blue Lion, varied byred, black, white, and golden lions; White Hart, King's Head, GoldenHand, Vine, Wheelbarrow, Star, Cardinal's Hat, Crosskeys, Rose, Magpie, Saracen's Head, and Katherine Wheel. Master Nicholas Clere hung out amagpie: why, he best knew, and never told. His neighbours sarcasticallysaid that it was because a magpie lived there, meaning Mistress Clere, who was considered a chatterbox by everybody except herself. 

Our two friends, Margaret Thurston and Alice Mount, left the shoptogether, with their baskets on their arms, and turning down a narrowlane to the left, came out into High Street, down which they went, thenalong Wye Street, and out at Bothal's Gate. They did not live inColchester, but at Much Bentley, about eight miles from the town, in asouth-easterly direction. 

"I marvel, " said Margaret, as the two pursued their way across theheath, "how Bessy Foulkes shall make way with them twain. "

"Do you so?" answered Alice. "Truly, I marvel more how she shall makeway with the third. "

"What, Mistress Amy?"

Alice nodded. 

"But why? There's no harm in her, trow?"

"She means no harm, " said Alice. "But there's many an one, Meg, asdoesn't mean a bit of harm, and does a deal for all that. I'm fearedfor Bessy. "

"But I can't see what you're feared for. "

"These be times for fear, " said Alice Mount. "Neighbour, have youforgot last August?"

"Eh! no, trust me!" cried Margaret. "Didn't I quake for fear, when mymaster came in, and told me you were taken afore the justices! Truly, Ireckoned he and I should come the next. I thank the good Lord thatstayed their hands!"

"'Tis well we be on the Heath, " said Alice, glancing round, as if to seewhether they could be overheard. "If we spake thus in the streets ofColchester, neighbour, it should cost us dear. "

"Well, I do hate to be so careful!"

"Folks cannot have alway what they would, " said Alice, "But you know, neighbour, Bessy Foulkes is one of us. "

"Well, what then? So's Master Clere. "

Alice made no answer. 

"What mean you, Alice Mount? Master Clere's a Gospeller, and has beenthis eight years or more. "

"I did not gainsay it, Meg. "

"Nay, you might not gainsay it, but you looked as if you would if youopened your mouth. "

"Well, neighbour, my brother at Stoke Nayland sells a horse by nows andthens: and the last time I was yonder, a gentleman came to buy one. There was a right pretty black one, and a bay not quite so well-looking. Says the gentleman to Gregory, `I'd fainer have the black, so far aslooks go; but which is the better horse?' Quoth Gregory, `Well, Master, that hangs on what you mean to do with him. If you look for him to makea pretty picture in your park, and now and then to carry you four orfive mile, why, he'll do it as well as e'er a one; but if you want himfor good, stiff work, you'd best have the bay. The black's got no stayin him, ' saith he. So, Meg, that's what I think of Master Clere--he'sgot no stay in him. I doubt he's but one of your fair-weathered folks, that'll side with Truth when she steps bravely forth in her satin gownand her velvet slippers; but when she comes in a threadbare gown and oldclouted shoes, then she's not for their company. There's a many of thatsort. "

"And you think Master Clere's one?" said Margaret, in a tone whichsounded as if she did not think so. 

"I'm feared he is. I'd not say it if there wasn't need. But if you seeBess afore I do--and you are more like, for you go into town oftener--dodrop a word to her to be prudent. "

"Tell Elizabeth Foulkes to be prudent!" exclaimed Margaret, laughing. "Nay, that were carrying coals to Newcastle!"

"Well, and the day may come for that, if the pits there be used up. Meg, have you ne'er noted that folks oftener come to trouble for want oftheir chief virtue than from overdoing it?"

"Nay, Alice, nor I don't think it, neither. "

"Well, let be!" said Alice, shifting the basket to her other arm. "Themthat lives 'll see it. "

"But what mean you touching Mistress Amy! You said you were fearedshe'd make trouble for Bess. "

"Ay, I am: but that's another matter. We've fault-found enough for oneeven. Who be them two afore us?"

"What, those bits of children? Why, they're two of Jack Johnson's, ofThorpe. "

"They look as if they'd got too much to carry, " said Alice, as they cameup to the children. They were now about half way to Bentley. 

The younger, a boy of about six, held one ear of a large jar full ofmeal, and the other was carried by his sister, whose apparent age waseight. They were plodding slowly along, as if afraid of spilling theirmeal, for the jar was pretty full. 

"Well, Cis, thou hast there a load!" was Margaret's greeting. 

The little girl turned her head to see who spoke, but she only saidgravely, "Ay. " A very grave, demure little maiden she seemed to be. 

"Whither go you?" asked Alice Mount. 

"We're going home, " said the small boy. 

"What, a matter of five miles, with that jar? Why, you'll drop in theroad! Couldn't nobody have fetched it but you?"

"There wasn't nobody, " said the little boy; and his sister looked up tosay, in her grave way, --

"You know Mother's gone to Heaven. "

"And who looks after you?"

"Will looks after Baby, " answered Cissy demurely, "and I look afterWill. "

"And who looks after thee?" asked Alice much amused. 

"I'm older than I look, " replied Cissy, drawing herself up; but she wasnot big enough to go far. 

"I'm nine--going in ten. I can make porridge, and clean the room andwash Baby. And Will's learning to wash himself, and then he'll be offmy hands. "

It was irresistibly funny to hear this small mite talk like a woman, forshe was very small of her age; and Alice and Margaret could not helplaughing. 

"Well, but thou knowest thou canst not do a many things that must bedone. Who takes care of you all? I dare be bound thou does thy best:but somebody there must be older than thee. Who is it now?"

"Have you e'er an aunt or a grandmother?" added Margaret. 

Cissy looked up quietly into Alice's face. 

"God takes care of us, " she said. "Father helps when his work's done;but when he's at work, God has to do it all. There's nobody but God. "

Alice and Margaret looked at each other in astonishment. 

"Poor little souls!" cried Margaret. 

"Oh, but we aren't!" said Cissy, rather more eagerly. "God looks afterus, you know. He's sure to do it right, Father says so. "

Alice Mount laid her hand softly on Cissy's head. 

"Ay, little maid, God will do it right, " she said. "But maybe He'd letme help too, by nows and thens. Thou knowest the Black Bear at MuchBentley--corner of lane going down to Thorpe?"

Yes, Cissy knew the Black Bear, as her face showed. 

"Well, when thou gets to the Black Bear, count three doors down thelane, and thou'lt see a sign with a bell. That's where I live. Theerap at the door, and my daughter shall go along with you to Thorpe, andhelp to carry the meal too. Maybe we can find you a sup of broth ormilk while you rest you a bit. "

"Oh, thank you!" said Cissy in her grown-up way. "That will be good. We'll come. "

CHAPTER THREE. 

ROSE. 

"Poor little souls!" repeated Margaret Thurston, when the children wereout of hearing. 

Alice Mount looked back, and saw the small pair still toiling slowly on, the big jar between them. It would not have been a large jar for her tocarry, but it was large and heavy too for such little things as these. 

"However will they get home!" said she. "Nobody to look after them but`God and Father'!"

The moment she had said it, her heart smote her. Was that not enough?If the Lord cared for these little ones, did it matter who was againstthem? How many unseen angels might there be on that road, watching overthe safety of the children, and of that homely jar of meal for theirsakes? It was not the first time that angels had attended to springs ofwater and cakes baken on the coals. No angel would dream of stopping tothink whether such work degraded him. It is only men who stoop lowenough for that. The highest work possible to men or angels is justdoing the will of God: and God was the Father of these little ones. 

"What is their Father?" asked Alice Mount. 

"Johnson? Oh, he is a labouring man--a youngish man, onlyfour-and-thirty: his mistress died a matter of six months back, andtruly I know not how those bits of children have done since. "

"They have had `God and Father, '" said Alice "Well, I've no doubt he's agood father, " answered Margaret. "John Johnson is as good a man as everstepped, I'll say that for him: and so was Helen a rare good woman. Iknew her well when we were maids together. Those children have beenwell fetched up, take my word for it. "

"It must have been a sad matter to lose such a wife, " said Alice. 

"Well, what think you?" answered Margaret, dropping her voice. "AgnesLove told me--Jack Love's wife, that dwells on the Heath--you'll maybeknow her?"

"Ay, I know her, though not well. "

"I've known her ever since she was a yard long. Well, she told me, theeven it happed came Jack Johnson to their house, and when she oped thedoor, she was fair feared of him, he looked so strange--his face allwhite, and such a glitter of his eyes--she marvelled what had taken him. And says he, `Agnes, my Helen's gone. ' `Gone? oh dear!' says she. `Ay, she's gone, thank God!' says he. Well, Agnes thought this rightstrange talk, and says she, `Jack Johnson, what can you mean? Never wasa better woman than your Helen, and you thanking God you've lost her!'`Nay, Agnes, could you think that?' says he. `I'm thanking God becausenow I shall never see her stand up on the waste by Lexden Road, ' sayshe. `She's safe from that anguish for evermore!' And you know whatthat meant. "

Yes, Alice Mount knew what that meant--that allusion to the waste groundby Colchester town wall on the road to Lexden, where the citizens shottheir rubbish, and buried their dead animals, or threw them unburied, and burned their martyrs. It was another way of saying what the Voicefrom Heaven had cried to the Apostle--"Blessed are the dead that die inthe Lord from henceforth!"

"It's a marvel they haven't done somewhat to them Loves afore now, " saidMargaret, after a minute's silence. 

"I thought they had?" replied Alice. "Wasn't John Love up afore theSheriff once at any rate?"

"Oh, ay, they've had him twice o'er; don't you mind they gat them awayin the night the last time, and all his goods was taken to the Queen'suse? But now, see, he's come back, and they let him alone. They'vedone all they mean to do, I reckon. "

"God grant it!" said Alice, with a sigh. "Meg, I cannot forget lastAugust. Twenty-two of us had up afore the Bishop, and we only escapedby the very skin of our teeth, as saith Job. Ay me! I sometimes marvelif we did well or no, when we writ our names to that submission. "

"Truly, neighbour, so have I, " replied Margaret rather bluntly. "Iwould not have set mine thereto, I warrant you. "

Alice sighed heavily. "God knoweth we meant not to deny His truth, "said she; "and He looketh on the heart. "

After that they were silent till they came to Much Bentley. Turningdown the lane which led to Thorpe, they came in sight of a girl oftwenty years, sitting on a low stool at the door of the third cottage inthe lane, weaving worsted lace on a pillow with bobbins. Over the doorhung a signboard bearing a bell painted blue. The lace-maker was asmall-built girl, not in any way remarkable to look at, with smooth darkhair, nicely kept, and a rosy face with no beauty about it, but with abright, kind-hearted expression which was better than outside beauty. If a person accustomed to read faces had been there, he might perhapshave said that the small prominent chin, and the firm setting of thelips, suggested that Rose Allen occasionally had a will of her own. Themoment that Rose saw who was coming, she left her stool with a brightsmile which lighted up all her face, and carrying the stool in one hand, and her lace pillow in the other, disappeared within the house. 

"She's quick at her work, yonder maid, " said Margaret. 

"Ay, she's a good lass, my Rose!" was her mother's answer. "You'll comein and sit a bit, neighbour?"

"Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do--at any rate till them childrencomes up, " responded Margaret, with a little laugh. "Will you have mewhile then?"

"Ay, and as long after as you've a mind, " said Alice heartily, leadingthe way into her cottage. 

As Margaret had a mile yet to walk, for she lived midway between MuchBentley and Thorpe, she was glad of a rest. In the kitchen they foundRose, very busy with a skillet over the fire. There was no tea in thosedays, so there was no putting on of the kettle: and Rose was preparingfor supper a dish of boiled cabbage, to which the only additions wouldbe bread and cheese. In reply to her mother's questions, she said thather step-father had been in, but finding his wife not yet come frommarket, he had said that he would step into the next neighbour's untilshe came, and Rose was to call him when supper was ready. 

William Mount, the second husband of Alice, was twenty years older thanhis wife, their ages being sixty-one and forty-one. He was a tall, grey, grave-looking man, --a field labourer, like most of the dwellers inMuch Bentley. This was but a small place, nestling at one corner of thelarge park of the Earl of Oxford, the owner of all the property for somedistance round. Of course he was _the_ great man in the esteem of theMuch Bentley people. During the reign of Edward the Sixth, whenProtestantism was in favour at Court, Lord Oxford had been a Protestantlike other people; but, also like many other people, he was one of thoseof whom it has been well said that:

 "He's a slave who dare not be In the right with two or three. "

Lord Oxford was a slave in this sense--a slave to what other people saidand thought about him--and very sad slavery it is. I would rather sweepa crossing than feel that I did not dare to say what I believed ordisbelieved, what I liked or did not like, because other people wouldthink it strange. It is as bad as being in Egyptian bondage. Yet thereare a great many people quite contented to be slaves of this kind, whohave not half so much excuse as Lord Oxford. If he went against thepriests, who then were masters of everything, he was likely to lose hisliberty and property, if not his life; while we may say any thing welike without need to be afraid. It is not always an advantage to have agreat deal to lose. The poor labourers of Much Bentley, who had next tono property at all, and could only lose liberty and life, were farbraver than the Earl whom they thought such a grand man, and who carrieda golden wand before the Queen. 

Supper was over at the Blue Bell, and Margaret Thurston was thinkingabout going home, when a little faint rap came on the door of thecottage. Rose opened it, and saw a big jar standing on the door-sill, alittle boy sitting beside it, and an older girl leaning against thewall. 

"Please, we're come, " said Cissy. 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

ON THE WAY TO THORPE. 

"Please, we're come, " said Cissy. "We've been a good while gettinghere, but we--Oh, it isn't you!"

"What isn't me?" said Rose, laughing--for people said _me_ where itshould have been I, then, as they do still. "I rather think it is me;don't you?"

"Yes, but you are not she that spake to us on the road, " said Cissy. "Somebody told us to call here as we went down the lane, and herdaughter should go home with us, and help us to carry the big jar. Perhaps you're the daughter?"

"Well, I guess I am, " answered Rose. "Where's home?"

"It's at the further end of Thorpe. "

"All right. Come in and rest you, and I'll fetch a sup of something todo you good, poor little white faces. "

Rose took a hand of each and led them forward. 

"Mother, here be two bits of Maypoles, " said she, "for they be scarcefatter; and two handfuls of snow, for they be scarce rosier--that sayyou promised them that I should go home with them and bear their jar ofmeal. "

"So I did, Rose. Bring them in, and let them warm themselves, " answeredMrs Mount. "Give them a sup of broth or what we have, to put a bit oflife in them; and at after thou shalt bear them company to Thorpe. Poorlittle souls! they have no mother, and they say God looks after themonly. "

"Then I shall be in His company too, " said Rose softly. Then, droppingher voice that the children might not hear, she added, "Mother, there'sonly that drop of broth you set aside for breakfast; and it's scarceenough for you and father both. Must I give them that?"

Alice Mount thought a moment. She had spoken before almost withoutthinking. 

"Daughter, " she said, "if their Father, which is also ours, had comewith them visible to our eyes, we should bring forth our best for Him;and He will look for us to do it for the little ones whose angels seeHis Face. Ay, fetch the broth, Rose. "

Perhaps Cissy had overheard a few words, for wheel the bowl of broth wasput into her hands, she said, "Can you spare it? Didn't you want it forsomething else than us?"

"We can spare it, little maid, " said Alice, with a smile. 

"Sup it up, " added Rose, laying her hand on the child's shoulder; "andmuch good may it do thee! Then, when you are both warmed and rested, I'll set forth with you. "

Cissy did not allow that to be long. She drank her broth, admonishedWill by a look to finish his--for he was disposed to loiter, --and aftersitting still for a few minutes, rose and put down the bowl. 

"We return you many thanks, " she said in her prim little way, "and Ithink, if you please, we ought to go home. Father 'll be back by thetime we get there; and I don't like to be away when he comes. Motherbade me not. She said he'd miss her worse if he didn't find me. Yousee, I've got to do for Mother now, both for Father and the children. "

Alice Mount thought it very funny to hear this little mite talking about"the children, " as if she were not a child at all. 

"Well, tarry a minute till I tie on my hood, " said Rose. "I'll be readybefore you can say, `This is the house that Jack built. '"

"What do you with the babe, little maid, when you go forth?" askedAlice. 

"Baby?" said Cissy, looking up. "Oh, we leave her with Ursula Felstede, next door. She's quite safe till we come back. "

Rose now came in from the inner room, where she had been putting on herhood and mantle. There were no bonnets then. What women called bonnetsin those days were close thick hoods, made of silk, velvet, fur, orwoollen stuff of some sort. Nor had they either shawls or jackets--onlyloose mantles, for out-door wear. Rose took up the jar of meal. 

"Please, I can carry it on one side, " said Cissy rather eagerly. 

"Thou mayest carry thyself, " said Rose. "That's plenty. I haven'twalked five miles to-day. I'm a bit stronger than thou, too. "

Little Will had not needed telling that he was no longer wanted to carrythe jar; he was already off after wild flowers, as if the past fivemiles had been as many yards, though he had assured Cissy at least adozen times as they came along that he did not know how he was ever toget home, and as they were entering Bentley had declared himself unableto take another step. Cissy shook her small head with the air of aprophetess. 

"Will shouldn't say such things!" said she. "He said he couldn't walk abit further--that I should have to carry him as well as the jar--and Idon't know how I could, unless I'd poured the meal out and put him in, and he'd never have gone, I'm sure; and now, do but look at him afterthose buttercups!"

"He didn't mean to tell falsehoods, " said Rose. "He was tired, I daresay. Lads will be lads, thou knowest. "

"Oh dear, I don't know how I'm to bring up these children to be goodpeople!" said Cissy, as gravely as if she had been their grandmother. "Ursula says children are great troubles, and I'm sure it's true. Ifthere's any place where Will should be, that's just where he alwaysisn't; and if there's one spot where he shouldn't be, that's the placewhere you commonly find him. Baby can't walk yet, so she's safe; butwhatever I shall do when she can, I'm sure I don't know! I can't be inall the places at once where two of them shouldn't be. "

Rose could not help laughing. 

"Little maid, " she said kindly, "thy small shoulders will never hold theworld, nor even thy father's cottage. Hast thou forgot what thou saidstnot an half-hour gone, that God takes care of you all?"

"Oh yes, He takes big care of us, " was Cissy's answer. "He'll see thatwe have meat and clothes and so forth, and that Father gets work. ButHe'll hardly keep Will and Baby out of mischief, will He? Isn't thattoo little for Him?"

"The whole world is but a speck, little Cicely, compared with Him. IfHe will humble Himself to see thee and me at all, I reckon He is as liketo keep Will out of mischief as to keep him alive. It is the verygreatness of God that _He_ can attend to all the little things in theworld at once. They are all little things to Him. Hast thou not heardthat the Lord Jesus said the very hairs of our heads be numbered?"

"Yea, Sir Thomas read that one eve at Ursula's. "

Sir Thomas Tye was the Vicar of Much Bentley. 

"Well, " said Rose, "and isn't it of more importance to make Will a goodlad than to know how many hairs he's got on his head? Wouldn't thyfather think so?"

"For sure he would, " said Cissy earnestly. 

"And isn't God thy Father?"

Just as Rose asked that, a tall, dark figure turned out of a lane theywere passing, and joined them. It was growing dusk, but Rose recognisedthe Vicar of whom they had just been speaking. Most priests were called"Sir" in those days. 

"Christ bless you, my children!" said the Vicar. 

Both Rose and Cissy made low courtesies, for great respect was then paidto a clergyman. They called them priests, for very few could read theBible, which tells us that the only priest is our Lord Jesus Christ. Apriest does not mean the same thing as a clergyman, though too manypeople thoughtlessly speak as if it did. A priest is a man who offers asacrifice of some living thing to God. So, as Jesus Christ, who offeredHimself, is our sacrifice, and there can never be any other, therecannot be any priests now. There are a great many texts which tell usthis, but I will only mention one, which you can look out in your Biblesand learn by heart: the tenth verse of the tenth chapter of the Epistleto the Hebrews. It is easy to remember two tens. 

Cissy was a little frightened when she saw that Sir Thomas walked onwith them; but Rose marched on as if she did not care whether he came ornot. For about a year after Queen Mary's accession Sir Thomas had comepretty regularly to the prayer-meetings which were held sometimes at theBlue Bell, and sometimes at Ursula Felstede's at Thorpe, and alsosometimes at John Love's on the Heath. He often read the Bible to them, and gave them little sermons, and seemed as kind and pleasant aspossible. But when Queen Mary had been about a year on the throne, andit could be plainly seen which way things were going--that is, that shewould try to bring back the Popish religion which her brother had castoff--Sir Thomas began to come less often. He found it too far to JohnLove's and to Thorpe; and whenever the meeting was at the Blue Bell, which was only a few hundred yards from the Vicarage, --well, itcertainly was odd that Sir Thomas was always poorly on that night. Still, nobody liked to think that he was making believe; but Alice Mountsaid so openly, and Rose had heard her. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

IN DIFFICULTIES. 

Cissy Johnson was not old enough to understand all the reasons why herfather distrusted the priest; but she knew well that "Father didn't likehim, " and like the dutiful little girl she was, she was resolved not tomake a friend of any one whom her father disliked, for she knew that hemight have good reasons which she could not understand. But Cissy hadbeen taught to be civil to everybody, and respectful to her betters--lessons of which a little more would not hurt some folks in the presentday. People make a great mistake who think that you cannot both berespectful to others and independent for yourself. The Bible teaches usto do both. Being in this state of mind, Cissy was decidedly pleased tosee her father coming up from the other end of the lane. 

"Oh, here's Father!" she said to Rose; and little Will ran on joyfullyto meet him. 

"Well, my lad!" was Johnson's greeting to his boy. "So thou and Cissyhave got back? It's a right long way for such as thou. "

Little Will suddenly remembered that he was exceedingly tired, and saidso. 

"Thou'd better go to bed, " said her father, as they came up with thegirls. "Well, Cis, who hast thou picked up?--I'm right thankful toyou, " he added, looking at Rose, "for giving my little maid a helpinghand. It's a long way for such little ones, all the way from the Heath, and a heavy load for little arms, and I'm main thankful. Will you comein a bit and rest you?" he said to Rose. 

But Rose declined, for she knew her mother would expect her to come backat once. She kissed Cissy, and told her, whenever she had a load tocarry either way, to be sure she looked in at the Blue Bell, when Rosewould help her if she possibly could: and giving the jar to Johnson, shebade him good-night, and turned back up the lane. Sir Thomas had walkedon, as Rose supposed: at any rate, he was not to be seen. She wentnearly a mile without seeing any one, until Margaret Thurston's cottagecame in sight. As Rose began to go a little more slowly, she heardfootsteps behind her, and the next minute she was joined--to hersurprise--by the priest. 

"My daughter, " he said, in a soft, kind voice, "I think thou art RoseAllen?"

Rose dropped a courtesy, and said she was. 

"I have been wishful to speak with some of thy father's household, " saidSir Thomas, in the same gentle way: "so that I am fain to meet theeforth this even. Tell me, my child, is there illness in the house orno?"

Rose breathed quickly: she guessed pretty well what was coming. 

"No, Father, " she answered; "we are all in good health, God be thankedfor that same. "

"Truly. I am glad to hear thee so speak, my daughter, and in especialthat thou rememberest to thank God. But wherefore, then, being in goodhealth, have ye not come to give thanks to God in His own house, theseeight Sundays past? Ye have been regular aforetime, since ye were backfrom the Bishop's Court. Surely it is not true--I do hope and trust itis not true, that ye be slipping yet again into your past evil ways ofill opinions and presumptuous sin?"

The reason why the Mounts had not been to church was because theservices were such as they could no longer join in. Queen Mary hadbrought back the Popish mass, and all the images which King Edward haddone away with; so that to go to church was not to worship God but toworship idols. And so terrible was the persecution Mary had allowed tobe set up, that the penalty for refusing to do this was to be burnt todeath for what she called heresy. 

It was a terrible position for a young girl in which Rose Allen stoodthat night. This man not only held her life in his hands, but alsothose of her mother and her step-father. If he chose to inform againstthem, the end of it might be death by fire. For one moment Rose wassilent, during which she cried silently but most earnestly to God forwisdom and courage--wisdom to keep her from saying what might bring theminto needless danger, and courage to stand true and firm to God and Histruth. 

"Might I be so bold as to pray you, Father, " she said at last, "to askat my mother the cause of such absence from mass? You wot I am but ayoung maid, and under direction of mine elders. "

Sir Thomas Tye smiled to himself. He thought Rose a very cautious, prudent girl, who did not want to bring herself into trouble. 

"So be it, my daughter, " said he in the same gentle way. "Doubtless itwas by direction of thine elders that then wert absent aforetime, ere yewere had up to the Bishop. "

He meant it as a question, by which he hoped to entangle poor Rose. Shewas wise enough not to answer, but to let it pass as if he were merelygiving his own opinion, about which she did not wish to say anything. 

"Crafty girl!" thought Sir Thomas. Then he said aloud, --"The festivalof our Lady cometh on apace: ye will surely have some little present forour blessed Lady?"

The Virgin Mary was then called "Our Lady. "

"We be but poor folks, " said Rose. "Truly, I know ye be poor folks, "was the priest's reply. "Yet even poor folks do oft contrive topleasure their friends by some little present. And if ye might bring nomore than an handful of daisies from the field, yet is our Lady sogracious that she will deign to accept even so small an offering. Yeneed not be empty-handed. "

"I trust we shall do our duty, " said poor Rose, in great perplexity. "Father, I cry you mercy if I stay me here, for I would fain speak withthe woman of this cot. "

"So do, my daughter, " was the soft reply, "and I will call here belike, for I do desire to speak with Thurston. " Poor Rose was at her wit'send. Her little manoeuvre had not succeeded as she hoped. She wantedto be rid of the unwelcome company of the priest; and now it seemed asif, by calling on Margaret Thurston instead of going straight home, shewould only get more of it. However, she must do it now. She hadnothing particular to say to Margaret, whom she had already seen thatday, though her mother had said after Margaret was gone, that she wishedshe had told her something, and Rose meant to use this remark asfurnishing an excuse. 

She tapped, lifted the latch, and went in, the priest following. 

John Thurston sat by the fire cutting clothes-pegs; Margaret was ironingclothes. Thurston rose when he saw the priest, and both received himreverently. 

Feeling that her best chance of escaping the priest was to proceedimmediately, Rose drew Margaret aside, and told her what her mother hadsaid; but Margaret, who was rather fond of talking, had something to saytoo, and the precious minutes slid by. Meanwhile the priest andThurston went on with their conversation: and at last Rose, saying shereally could not stay any longer, bade them good-bye, and went out. Butjust as Margaret was opening the door to let her out, Sir Thomas said afew words in reply to Thurston, which Rose could not but overhear. 

"Oh, Master Clere is a worthy man enough. If he hath gone somewhatastray in times past, that shall now be amended. Mistress Cicely, too, is an honest woman that wist how to do her duty. All shall be wellthere. I trust, John Thurston, that thou shalt show thyself as wise andwell ruled as he. "

Rose heard no more. She passed out into the night, and ran nearly allthe way home. 

"Why, Rose, how breathless art thou, maid!" said the other when she camein. 

"Well I may, Mother!" cried Rose. "There is evil ahead for us, and thatnot a little. Father Tye overtook me as I came back, and would know ofme why we had not been to mass these eight Sundays; and I staved himoff, and prayed him to ask of you. And, Mother, he saith Master Clerethe draper, though he have gone somewhat astray, is now returned to hisduty, and you wot what that meaneth. And I am feared for us, and Bessytoo. "

"The good Lord have mercy on us!" said Alice Mount. 

"Amen!" responded William Mount gravely. "But it had best be such mercyas He will, Alice, not such as we would. On one matter I am resolved--Iwill sign no more submissions. I fear we have done it once too often. "

"O Father, I'm so fain to hear you say it!" cried Rose. 

"Art thou so, daughter?" he answered a little sadly. "Have a care thyquick tongue bring thee not into more trouble than need be. Child, torefuse that submission may mean a fiery death. And we may not--we mustnot--shrink from facing death for Him who passed through death for us. Lord, grant us Thy grace to stand true!"

And William Mount stood up with uncovered head, and looked up, as we alldo instinctively when we speak to Him who dwelleth in the heavens. 

"Who hath abolished death!" was the soft response of Alice. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

ROSE ASKS A FAVOUR. 

"You'll not find no better, search all Colchester through!" said MrsClere, to a fat woman who did not look particularly amiable, holding upsome worsted florence, drab with a red stripe. 

"Well, I'm not so sure, " replied the cross-looking customer. "Tomkins, now, in Wye Street, they showed me some Kendal frieze thicker nor that, and a halfpenny less by the yard. "

"Tomkins!" said Mrs Clere, in a tone not at all flattering to thedespised Tomkins. "Why, if that man knows a Kendal frieze from a pieceof black satin, it's all you can look for. Never bred up to thebusiness, _he_ wasn't. And his wife's a poor good-for-nought thatwouldn't know which end of the broom to sweep with, and his daughtersidle, gossiping hussies that'll drive their husbands wild one o' thesedays. Don't talk to me about Tomkins!"

And Mrs Clere turned over the piece of florence as roughly as if it hadbeen Tomkins instead of itself. 

"It was right good frieze, " said the customer doubtfully. 

"Then you'd better go and buy it, " snapped Mrs Clere, whom somethingseemed to have put out that morning, for she was generallybetter-tempered than that. 

"Well, but I'm not so sure, " repeated the customer. "It's a good stepto Wye Street, and I've lost a bit o' time already. If you'll taketenpence the ell, you may cut me off twelve. "

"Tenpence the fiddlesticks!" said Mrs Clere, pushing the piece ofworsted to one side. "I'll not take a farthing under the shilling, ifyou ask me while next week. You can just go to Tomkins, and if youdon't find you've got to darn his worthless frieze afore you've donemaking it up, why, my name isn't Bridget Clere, that's all. Now, RoseAllen, what's wanting?"

"An't please you, Mistress Clere, black serge for a girdle. "

"Suit yourself, " answered Mistress Clere, giving three pieces of serge, which were lying on the counter, a push towards Rose. "Well, AudreyWastborowe, what are you standing there for? Ben't you a-going to thatTomkins?"

"Well, nay, I don't think I be, if you'll let me have that stuff atelevenpence the ell. Come now, do 'ee, Mistress Clere!"

"I'm not to be coaxed, I tell you. Shilling an ell, and not a bitunder. "

"Well! then I guess I shall be forced to pay it. But you'll give megood measure?"

"I'll give you as many ells as you give me shillings, and neither morenor less. Twelve? Very good. "

Mrs Clere measured off the florence, tied it up, received the twelveshillings, which Audrey drew from her pocket as slowly as possible, perhaps fancying that Mrs Clere might relent, and threw it into thetill as if the coins were severely to blame for something. Audrey tookup her purchase, and went out. 

"Whatever's come to Mistress Clere?" asked a young woman who stood nextto Rose, waiting to be served. "She and Audrey Wastborowe's changedtempers this morrow. "

"Something's vexed her, " said Rose. "I'm sorry, for I want to ask her afavour, when I've done my business. "

"She's not in a mood for favour-granting, " said the young woman. "That's plain. You'd better let be while she's come round. "

"Nay, I can't let be, " whispered Rose in answer. 

"Now or never, is it? Well, I wish you well through it. "

Mistress Clere, who had been serving another customer with an ounce ofthread--there were no reels of thread in those days; it was only sold inskeins or large hanks--now came to Rose and the other girl. 

"Good-morrow, Gillian Mildmay! What's wanting?"

"Good-morrow, Mistress Clere! My mother bade me ask if you had a finemarble cloth, about five shillings the ell, for a bettermost gown forher. "

Mrs Clere spoke a little less crossly, but with a weary air. 

"Marbled cloth's not so much worn as it was, " she said; "but I have afair piece that may serve your turn. It's more nor that, though. Icouldn't let it go under five and eightpence. "

"Mother'll want it better cheap than that, " said Gillian. "_I_ thinkthat'll not serve her, Mistress Clere. But I want a pair of tawnysleeves, an't like you, wrought with needlework. "

Sleeves, at this time, were not a part of the dress, but were buttonedin as the wearer chose to have them. Gillian found these to suit her, paid for them, and went away. Mrs Clere turned to Rose. 

"Now, then, do be hasteful, Rose Allen; I'm that weary!"

"You seem so in truth, Mistress Clere. I'm feared you've beenoverwrought, " said Rose, in a sympathising tone. 

"Overwrought? Ay, body and soul too, " answered Mrs Clere, softening alittle in response to Rose's tone. "Well! folks know their own troublesbest, I reckon, and it's no good harrying other folks with them. Whatpriced serge would you have?"

"About eighteenpence, have you some?"

"One and eightpence; and one and fourpence. The one-and-fourpenny'sright good, you'll find. "

"Thank you, I'll take the one-and-fourpenny: it'll be quite good enoughfor me. Well, I was going to ask you a favour, Mistress Clere; butseeing you look so o'erwrought, I have no mind to it. "

"Oh, it's all in the day's work. What would you?" asked Mrs Clere, rather more graciously. 

"Well, I scarce like to tell you; but I _was_ meaning to ask you thekindness, if you'd give leave for Bessy Foulkes to pass next saint's dayafternoon with us. If you could spare her, at least. "

"I can spare Bessy Foulkes uncommon well!" said Mrs Clere irascibly. 

"Why, Mistress Clere! Has Bessy--" Rose began in an astonished tone. Mrs Clere's servant, Elizabeth Foulkes, was her dearest friend. 

"You'd best give Mistress Elizabeth Foulkes the go by, Rose Allen. She's a cantankerous, ill-beseen hussy, and no good company for you. She'll learn you to do as ill as herself, if you look not out. "

"But what has Bessy done?"

"Gone into school-keeping, " said Mrs Clere sarcastically. "Expects herbetters to go and learn their hornbook of her. Set herself up to tellall the world their duty, and knows it a sight better than they do. That's what Mistress Elizabeth's done and doing. Ungrateful hussy!"

"I couldn't have thought it!" said Rose, in a tone of great surprise, mixed with disappointment. "Bessy's always been so good a maid--"

"Good! don't I tell you she's better than every body else? Tell youwhat, Rose Allen, being good's all very well, but for a young maid tostick herself up to be better than her neighbours 'll never pay. Idon't hold with such doings. If Bess'd be content to be the best cook, or the best cleaner, in Colchester, I'd never say nought to her; butshe's not content; she'd fain be the best priest and the bestschool-master too. And that isn't her work, preaching isn't; dressingmeat and scouring pans and making beds is what she's called to, and notlecturing folks at Market Cross. "

"Has Bessy been preaching at the Market Cross?" asked Rose in genuinehorror, for she took Mrs Clere's statements literally. 

"That's not while to-morrow, " said Mrs Clere in the same sarcastictone. "She's giving the lecture at home first, to get perfect. Ipromise you I'm just harried out of my life, what with one thing andanother!"

"Well, I'd like to speak with Bessy, if I might, " said Rose in someperplexity. "We've always been friends, Bessy and me; and maybe she'dlisten to me--or, any ways, to Mother. Could you kindly give leave forher to come, Mistress Clere?"

"You may have her, and keep her, for all the good she is to me, "answered the clothier's wife, moving away. "Mind she doesn't give youthe malady, Rose Allen: that's all I say! It's a fair infection goingabout, and the great doctors up to London 'll have to come down and lookto it--see if they don't! Oh, my lady can go if it like her--she's sogrand now o' days I'm very nigh afeared of her. Good-morrow!"

And Rose went out with her parcel, lost in wonder as to what could bethe matter--first with Mistress Clere, and then with her friendElizabeth. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

THE CLOUDS BEGIN TO GATHER. 

"Methinks that becomes me better. What sayest thou, Bess?"

Two girls were standing in an upper room of Nicholas Clere's house, andthe younger asked this question of the elder. The elder girl was tall, of stately carriage and graceful mien, with a very beautiful face: buther whole aspect showed that she thought nothing about herself, andnever troubled her head to think whether she was pretty or ugly. Theyounger, who was about seventeen, was not nearly so handsome; but shewould have been pleasant enough to look at if it had not been for asilly simper and a look of intensely satisfied vanity, which quitespoiled any prettiness that she might have had. She had just fastened apair of ear-rings into her ears, and she was turning her head from oneside to the other before the mirror, as she asked her companion'sopinion of the ornaments. 

There are some savages--in Polynesia, I think--who decorate themselvesby thrusting a wooden stick through their lips. To our European tastethey look hideous, honestly, I cannot see that they who make holes intheir lips in order to ornament themselves are any worse at all thanthey who make holes in their ears for the same purpose. The one is justas thorough barbarism as the other. 

When Amy Clere thus appealed to her to express an opinion, ElizabethFoulkes looked up from her sewing and gave it. 

"No, Mistress Amy; I do scarce think it. "

"Why, wouldst thou better love these yellow ones?"

"To speak truth, Mistress Amy, I think you look best without either. "

"Dear heart, to hear the maid! Wouldst not thou fain have a pair, Bess?"

"Nay, Mistress Amy, that would I not. "

"Wherefore?"

"Because, as methinks, such tawdry gewgaws be unworthy a Christianprofession. If you desire my thought thereon, Mistress Amy, you have itnow. "

"Forsooth, and thou mightest have kept it, for all I want of it. `Tawdry gewgaws, ' indeed! I tell thee, Bess; these be three shillingsthe pair. "

"They may be. I would not pay three half-pence for them. "

"Bess, 'tis ten thousand pities thou art not a nun. "

"I would rather be what I am, Mistress. "

"I rather not be neither, " said Amy flippantly. In those days, theyalways put two nots together when they meant to speak strongly. Theydid not see, as we do now, that the one contradicts the other. 

"Well, Mistress Amy, you have no need, " said Elizabeth quietly. 

"And as to Christian profession--why, Bess, every lady in the land wearsear-rings, yea, up to the Queen's Grace herself. Prithee who art thou, to set thee up for better than all the ladies in England, talking ofChristian profession as though thou wert a priest?"

"I am Mistress Clere's servant-maid; but I set not myself up to bebetter than any, so far as I know. "

"Thee hold thy peace! Whether goeth this lace or the wide one best withmy blue kirtle?"

"The narrower, I would say. Mistress Amy, shall you have need of methis next Wednesday afternoon?"

"Why? What's like to happen Wednesday afternoon?"

"Saint Chrysostom's like to happen, an't please you; and Mistressgranted me free leave to visit a friend, if so be you lacked me not. "

"What fashion of a friend, trow? A jolly one?" Elizabeth looked alittle amused. 

"Scarce after your fashion, Mistress Amy. "

"What, as sad and sober as thyself?"

"Well-nigh. "

"Then I'll not go with thee. I mean to spend Saint Chrysostom with MaryBoswell and Lucy Cheyne, and their friends: and I promise thee we shallnot have no sadness nor sedateness in the company. "

"That's very like, " answered Elizabeth. 

"As merry as crickets, _we_ shall be. Dost not long to come withal?"

"I were liefer to visit Rose, if it liked you. "

"What a shame to call a sad maid by so fair a name! Oh, thou canst gofor all me. Thy company's never so jolly I need shed tears to lose it. "

And with this rather uncomplimentary remark, Amy left the room, with theblue ear-rings in her ears and the yellow ones in her hand. Elizabethwaited till her piece of work was finished. Then folding it up andputting it away in a drawer, she ran down to prepare supper, --a taskwherein Amy did not offer to help her, though it was usual then for themistress of the house and her daughters to assist in the cooking. 

About two o'clock on the afternoon of the following Wednesday, a tap onthe door of the Blue Bell called Rose to open it, and she greeted herfriend Elizabeth with much pleasure. Rose had finished her share of thehousehold work (until supper), and she took her lace pillow and sat downin the window. Elizabeth drew from her pocket a couple of nightcaps, and both girls set to work. Mrs Mount was sewing also in thechimney-corner. 

"And how be matters in Colchester, Bess, at this present?"

"The clouds be gathering for rain, or I mistake, " said Elizabethgravely. "You know the thing I mean?"

Alice Mount had put down her work, and she looked grave too. 

"Bess! you never mean we shall have last August's doings o'er again?"

"That do I, Alice, and more. I was last night at the King's Head, whereyou know they of our doctrine be wont to meet, and Master Pulleyne wasthere, that good man that was sometime chaplain to my Lady's Grace ofSuffolk: he mostly puts up at the King's Head when he cometh to town. And quoth he, `There shall shortly be another search made for Gospelbooks, --ay, and Gospellers belike: and they be not like to 'scape sowell as they did last year. ' And John Love saith--he was there, JohnLove of the Heath; you know him?--well, he saith he heard Master Simnelthe bailiff to swear that the great Doctors of Colchester should find itwarm work ere long. There's an ill time coming, friends. Take youheed. "

"The good Lord be our aid, if so be!" said Alice. 

"But what shall Master Clere do, Bessy?" asked Rose. "He hath ever beena Gospeller. "

"He hath borne the name of one, Rose. God knoweth if he be true. I'm'feared--"

Elizabeth stopped suddenly. 

"That he'll not be staunch?" said Alice. 

"He is my master, and I will say no more, Alice. But this may I say--there's many in Colchester shall bear faggots ere they burn. Ay, andall over England belike. "

Those who recanted had to carry a faggot, as if owning themselves worthyto be burned. 

"Thou'rt right there, Bess. The Lord deliver us!"

"Some thinketh we have been too bold of late. You see, John Love cominghome again, and nothing done to him, made folks think the worst wasover. "

"Isn't it then?" said Rose. 

"Master Benold says he misdoubts if 'tis well begun. "

"Master Benold the chandler?"

"Of East Hill--ay. He was at the King's Head last night. So was oldMistress Silverside, and Mistress Ewring the miller's wife, andJohnson--they call him Alegar--down at Thorpe. "

"Call him Alegar! what on earth for?" asked Rose indignantly. 

Elizabeth laughed. "Well, they say he's so sour. He'll not dance, norsing idle songs, nor play quoits and bowls, but loveth better to sit athome and read; so they call him Alegar. "

Alegar is malt vinegar; the word vinegar was then used only of whitewine vinegar. 

"He's not a bit sour!" cried Rose. "I've seen him with his little ladand lass; and right good to them he was. It's a shame to call folksnames that don't fit them!"

"Nay, I don't call him no names, but other folks do. Did you know hiswife, that died six months gone?"

"No, but I've heard her well spoken of. "

"Then you've heard truth. Those children lost a deal when they losther, and so did poor Johnson. Well, he'll never see her burn: that'sone good thing!"

"Ay, " said Alice, "and that's what he said himself when she died. Well, God help us to stand firm! Have you been asked any questions, Bess?"

"Not yet, " said Elizabeth quietly, "but I look for it every day. Haveyou?"

"Not I; but our Rose here foregathered with the priest one even of late, and he was set to know why we came not to church these eight weeks past. She parried his darts right well; but I look to hear more thereabout. "

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

NOT A BIT AFEARD. 

Alice Mount had only just spoken when the latch was lifted by MargaretThurston. 

"Pray you, let me come in and get my breath!" said she; "I'm thatfrighted I can scarce stand. "

"Come in, neighbour, and welcome, " replied Alice; and Rose set a chairfor Margaret. "What ails you? is there a mad bull about, or what?"

"Mad bull, indeed! A mad bull's no great shakes. Not to him, any way. "

"Well, I'd as soon not meet one in our lane, " said Alice; "but who's_him_?"

"_Him's_ the priest, be sure! Met me up at top o' the lane, he did, andhe must needs turn him round and walk by me. I well-nigh cracked myskull trying to think of some excuse to be rid of him; but no such luckfor me! On he came till we reached hither, and then I could bear nomore, and I said I had to see you. He said he went about to see youafore long, but he wouldn't come in to-day; so on he marched, and rightthankful was I, be sure. Eh, the things he asked me! I've not been sohauled o'er the coals this year out. "

"But what about, marry?"

"Gramercy! wherefore I came not to mass, and why Master didn't: and whatI believed and didn't believe, and wherefore I did this and didn't dothat, till I warrant you, afore he left off, I was that moithered Icouldn't have told what I did believe. I got so muggy I only knew onething under the sun, and that was that I'd have given my best gown forto be rid of him. "

"Well, you got free without your best gown, Margaret, " said Rose. 

"May be I have, but I feel as if I'd left all my wits behind me in thelane, or mayhap in the priest's pocket. Whatever would the man be at?We pay our dues to the Church, and we're honest, peaceable folks: if itserve us better to read our Bible at home rather than go look at himhocus-pocussing in the church, can't he let us be? Truly, if he'd giveus something when we came, there'd be some reason for finding fault;nobody need beg me to go to church when there's sermon: but what earthlygood can it do any mortal man to stare at a yellow cross on Father Tye'sback? And what good do you ever get beyond it?"

Sermons have always been a Protestant institution, in this sense, thatthe more pure and Scriptural the Church has been, the more sermons therehave generally been, while whenever the clergy have taken up withfoolish ceremonies and have departed from the Bible, they have tried todo away with preaching. And of course, when very few people could readtheir Bibles, there was more need of preaching than there is now, whennearly everybody can read. Very, very few poor people could read a wordin 1556. It was put down as something remarkable, in the case ofCissy's father, that he could "read a little. " Saint Paul says that itpleased God by preaching to save them that believe (1 Corinthians one21), but he never says "by hearing music, " or "by looking at flowers, orcandles, or embroidered crosses. " Those things can only amuse our eyesand ears; they will never do our souls any good. How can they? Theonly thing that will do good to our souls is to get to know God better:and flowers, candles, music, and embroidery, cannot teach us anythingabout God. 

"What laugh you at, Rose?" asked Elizabeth. 

"Only Margaret's notion that it could do no man good to stare at thecross on Father Tye's back, " said Rose, trying to recover her gravity. 

"Well, the only animal made with a cross on his back is an ass, " saidMargaret; "and one would think a man should be better than an ass; butif his chief business be to make himself look like one, I don't see thathe is so much better. "

This amused Rose exceedingly. Elizabeth Foulkes, though the same age asRose, was naturally of a graver turn of mind, and she only smiled. 

"Well! if I haven't forgot all I was charged with, I'd better give mymessage, " said Margaret; "but Father Tye's well-nigh shook all my witsout of my head. Robin Purcas came by this morrow, and he lifted thelatch, and gave me a word from Master Benold, that I was to carry on--for he's got a job of work at Saint Osyth, and won't be back whileFriday--saith he, on Friday even, Master Pulleyne and the Scots priest, that were chaplains to my Lady of Suffolk, shall be at the King's Head, and all of our doctrine that will come to hear shall be welcome. Willyou go?"

"Verily, that will I, " replied Alice heartily. 

"You see, if Father Tye should stir up the embers and get all alightagain, maybe we shalln't have so many more sermons afterward; so we'dbest get our good things while we can. "

"Ay, there may be a famine of hearing the words of the Lord, " said Alicegravely. "God avert the same, if His will is!"

"Johnson, he says he's right sure Master Simnel means to start of hisinquirations. Alice, think you you could stand firm?"

Alice Mount sighed and half shook her head. "I didn't stand over firmlast August, Margaret, " said she: "and only the Lord knows how I'vesince repented it. If He'll keep me true--but I'm feared of myself. "

"Well, do you know I'm not a bit feared? It's true, I wasn't tried inAugust, when you were: but if I had been, be sure I'd never have signedthat submission that you did. I wouldn't, so!"

"Maybe not, neighbour, " answered Alice meekly. "I was weak. "

"Now, Mother, " said Rose, who could bear no longer, "you know you stoodforth best of anybody there! It was Father that won her to sign, Margaret; she never would have done it if she'd been left to herself. Iknow she wouldn't. "

"Then what didst thou sign for, Rose?" was the reply. 

Rose went the colour of her name. Her mother came at once to her help, as Rose had just done to hers. 

"Why, she signed because we did, like a dutiful maid as she is alway:and it was our faults, Margaret. May God forgive us!"

"Well, but after all, it wasn't so very ill, was it?" asked Margaret, rather inconsistently with what she had said before: but people are notalways consistent by any means. "Did you promise anything monstrouswrong? I thought it was only to live as became good Christians andfaithful subjects. "

"Nay, Meg, it was more than that. We promised right solemnly to submitus to the Church in all matters, and specially in this, that we didbelieve the Sacrament to be Christ's body, according to His words. "

"Why, so do we all believe, " said Margaret, "_according to His words_. Have you forgot the tale Father Tye did once tell us at the King's Head, of my Lady Elizabeth the Queen's sister, that when she was asked whatshe did believe touching the Sacrament, she made this answer?

 "`Christ was the Word that spake it, He took the bread, and brake it; And what that word did make it, That I believe, and take it. '"

"That was a bit crafty, methinks, " said Rose. "I love not such shifts. I would rather speak out my mind plainly. "

"Ay, but if you speak too plainly, you be like to find you in the wrongplace, " answered Margaret. 

"That would not be the wrong place wherein truth set me, " was Rose'searnest answer. "That were never the wrong place wherein God should bemy company. And if the fire were too warm for my weakness to bear, theholy angels should maybe fan me with their wings till I came to thecovert of His Tabernacle. "

"Well, that's all proper pretty, " said Margaret, "and like a book asever the parson could talk: but I tell thee what, Rose Allen, thou'ltsing another tune if ever thou come to Smithfield. See if thoudoesn't. "

And Rose answered, "`The word that God putteth in my mouth, that will Ispeak. '"

CHAPTER NINE. 

COME TO THE PREACHING. 

"Dorothy Denny, art thou never going to set that kettle on?"

"Oh, deary me! a body never has a bit of peace!"

"That's true enough of me, but it's right false of thee. Thou's noughtbut peace all day long, for thou never puts thyself out. I dare bebounden, if the Queen's Grace and all her noble company were to sup inthis kitchen at five o' the clock, I should come in and find never akettle nor a pan on at the three-quarter past. If thy uncle wasn't asloth, and thine aunt a snail, I'm not hostess of the King's Head atColchester, thou'rt no more worth thy salt--nay, salt, forsooth! thou'rtnot worth the water. Salt's one and fourpence the raser, and that's adeal too much to give for thee. Now set me the kettle on, and then teemout that rubbish in the yard, and run to the nests to see if the henshave laid: don't be all day and night about it! Run, Doll!--Eh dearyme! I might as well have said, Crawl. There she goes with the lead onher heels! If these maids ben't enough to drive an honest woman crazy, my name's not Philippa Wade. "

And Mistress Wade began to put things tidy in the kitchen with apromptitude and celerity which Dorothy Denny certainly did not seemlikely to imitate. She swept up the hearth, set a chair before thetable, fresh sanded the floor and arranged the forms in rows, beforeDorothy reappeared, carefully carrying something in her apron. 

"Why, thou doesn't mean to say thou'st done already?" inquired hermistress sarcastically. "Thou'st been all across the yard while I'vedone no more than sand the floor and side things for the gathering. What's that in thine apron? one of the Queen's Majesty's jewels?"

"It's an _egg_, Mistress. "

"An egg! an _egg_?" demanded Mrs Wade, with a burst of hearty laughter;for she laughed, as she did everything else, with all her might. "Isthat all thou'st got by thy journey? Marry, but I would have tarriedanother day, and fetched two! Poor Father Pulleyne! so he's but to haveone _egg_ to his supper? If them hens have laid no more, I'm aDutchwoman! See thou, take this duster, and dust the table and forms, and I'll go and search for eggs. If ever a mortal woman--"

Mistress Wade was in the yard before she got further, and Dorothy wasleft to imagine the end of the sentence. Before that leisurely youngwoman had finished dusting the first form, the landlady reappeared withan apronful of eggs. 

"I marvel whither thou wentest for thy _egg_, Doll. Here be eighteenthou leftest for me to gather. It's no good to bid thee be 'shamed, forthou dost not know how, I should in thy place, I'll warrant thee. Verily, I do marvel whatever the world's a-coming to!"

Before Mrs Wade had done more than empty her apron carefully of theeggs, a soft rap came on the door; and she called out, --

"Come within!"

"Please, I can't reach, " said a little voice. 

"Open the door, Doll, " said Mrs Wade; and in came three children--agirl of nine, a boy of six, and a baby in the arms of the former. 

"Well, what are you after? Come for skim milk! I've none this even. "

"No, please. Please, we're come to the preaching. "

"_You're_ come to the preaching? Why, you're only as big as mice, thelot of you. Whence come you?"

"Please, we've come from Thorpe. "

"You've come from Thorpe! you poor little bits of things! All thatway!" cried Mrs Wade, whose heart was as large as her tongue was ready. "Why, I do believe you're Cicely Johnson. You are so grown I didn'tknow you at first--and yet you're no bigger than a mouse, as I told you. Have you had any supper?"

"No, Mistress. Please, we don't have supper, only now and then. Weshall do very well, indeed, if we may stay for the preaching. "

"You'll sit down there, and eat some bread and milk, before you're anhour older. Poor little white-faced mortals as ever I did see! Butyou've never carried that child all the way from Thorpe?--Doll didstever see such children?"

"They're proper peaked, Mistress, " said Dorothy. [See note 1. ]

"Oh no!" answered the truth-loving Cissy. "I only carried her from theGate. Neighbour Ursula, she bare her all the way. "

"Thou'rt an honest lass, " said Mrs Wade, patting Cissy on the head. "There, eat that. "

And she put a large slice of bread into the hand of both Will and Cissy, setting a goodly bowl of milk on the table between them. 

"That's good!" commented Will, attacking the milk-bowl immediately. 

Cissy held him back, and looked up into Mrs Wade's kindly and capaciousface. 

"But please we haven't got any money, " she said anxiously. 

"Marry come up! to think I'd take money from such bits of things as you!I want no money, child. The good Lord, He pays such bills as yours. And what set you coming to the preaching? Did your father bid you?"[See Note 2. ]

"Father likes us to come, " said Cissy, when her thanks had been properlyexpressed; "but he didn't bid us--not to-night. Mother, she said wemust always come if we could. I'm feared Baby won't understand much:but Will and me, we'll try. "

"I should think not!" replied Mrs Wade, laughing. "Why, if you andWill can understand aught that'll be as much as need be looked for. Howmuch know you about it?"

"Please, we know about the Lord Jesus, " said Cissy, putting her handstogether, as if she were going to say her prayers. "We know that Hedied on the cross for us, so that we should not be punished for oursins, and He sends the Holy Ghost to make us good, and the Bible, whichis God's Word, and we mustn't let anybody take it away from us. "

"Well, if you know that much in your little hearts, you'll do, " said thelandlady. "There's many a poor heathen doesn't know half as much asthat. Ay, child, you shall 'bide for the preaching if you want, butyou're too soon yet. You've come afore the parson. Eat your bread andmilk up, and 'bide where you are; that's a snug little corner for you, where you'll be warm and safe. Is Father coming too, and NeighbourUrsula?"

"Yes, they're both coming presently, " said Cissy. 

The next arrival was that of two gentlemen, the preacher and a friend. After this people began to drop in, at first by twos and threes, and asthe time drew near, with more rapidity. The Mounts and Rose Allen cameearly; Elizabeth Foulkes was late, for she had hard work to get away atall. Last of anybody was Margaret Thurston and with her a tall, strong-looking man, who was John Thurston, her husband. John Johnsonfound out the corner where his children were, and made his way to them;but Rose Allen had been before him, and was seated next to Cissy, holding the little hand in hers. On the other side of little Will satan old lady with grey hair, and a very sweet, kind face. She was MrsSilverside, the widow of a priest. By her was Mrs Ewring the miller'swife, who was a little deaf, and wanted to get near the preacher. 

When the room was full, Mr Pulleyne, who was to preach that evening, rose and came forward to the table, and gave out the Forty-Second Psalm. 

They had no hymn-books, as we have. There were just a few hymns, generally bound up at the end of the Prayer-Book, which had been writtenduring the reign of good King Edward the Sixth; but hardly any Englishhymns existed at all then. They had one collection of metrical Psalms--that of Sternhold and Hopkins, of which we never sing any now except theHundredth--that version known to every one, beginning--

"All people that on earth do dwell. "

The Psalms they sang then sound strange to us now but we must rememberthey did not sound at all strange to those who sang them. Here are twoverses of the Forty-Second. 

 "Like as the hart doth pant and bray, The well-springs to obtain, So doth my soul desire alway With Thee, Lord, to remain. My soul doth thirst, and would draw near The living God of might; Oh, when shall I come and appear In presence of His sight!

 "The tears all times are my repast, Which from mine eyes do slide; Whilst wicked men cry out so fast, `Where now is God thy Guide?' Alas! what grief is it to think The freedom once I had! Therefore my soul, as at pit's brink, Most heavy is and sad. "

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Note 1. Peaked: Very thin and pinched-looking. 

Note 2. Come up. An exclamation of surprise, then often used. 

CHAPTER TEN. 

BROUGHT OUT, TO BE BROUGHT IN. 

Loud and full rang the volume of voices in the kitchen of the King'sHead at Colchester, that winter evening. They did not stand up insilence and let a choir do it for them, while they listened to it asthey might to a German band, and with as little personal concern. Whenmen's hearts are warm with patriotism, or overflowing with loyalty, theydon't want somebody else to sing _Rule, Britannia_, or _God Save theQueen_; the very enjoyment lies in doing it themselves. Nobody woulddream of paying another person to go to a party or to see a royalprocession for him. Well, then, when we prefer to keep silent, and hearsomebody sing God's praises instead of doing it ourselves, what can itmean except that our Hearts are not warm with love and overflowing withthankfulness, as they ought to be? And cold hearts are not the stuffthat makes martyrs. 

There was plenty of martyr material in the King's Head kitchen thatnight--from old Agnes Silverside to little Cissy Johnson; from thelearned priest, Mr Pulleyne, to many poor men and women who did notknow their letters. They were not afraid of what people would say, noreven of what people might do. And yet they knew well that it waspossible, and even likely, that very terrible things might be done tothem. Their feeling was, --Well, let them be done, if that be the bestway I can glorify God. Let them be done, if it be the way in which Ican show that I love Jesus Christ. Let them be done, if by sufferingwith Him I can win a place nearer to Him, and send a thrill of happinessto the Divine and human heart of the Saviour who paid His heart's bloodto ransom me. 

So the hymn was not at all too long for them, though it had fifteenverses; and the sermon was not too long, though it lasted an hour and ahalf. When people have to risk their lives to hear a sermon is not thetime when they cry out to have sermons cut shorter. They very well knewthat before another meeting took place at the King's Head, some, andperhaps all of them, might be summoned to give up liberty and life forthe love of the Lord Jesus. 

Mr Pulleyne took for his text a few words in the 23rd verse of thesixth chapter of Deuteronomy. "He brought us out from thence, that Hemight bring us in. " He said to the people:--

"`He brought us out'--who brought us? God, our Maker; God, that lovedthe world. `He brought us out'--who be we? Poor, vile, wicked sinners, worms of the earth, things that He could have crushed easier than I cancrush a moth. From whence? From Egypt, the house of bondage; from sin, self, Satan--the only three evil things there be: whereby I mean, necessarily inwardly, utterly evil. Thence He brought us out. Friends, we must come out of Egypt; out from bondage; out of these three illthings, sin, and self, and Satan: God will have us out. He will notsuffer us to tarry in that land. And if we slack [Hesitate, feelreluctant] to come out, He will drive us sharp thence. Let us come outquick, and willingly. There is nothing we need sorrow to leave behind;only the task-master, Satan; and the great monster, sin; and the slimeof the river wherein he lieth hid, self. He will have at us with hisugly jaws, and bite our souls in twain, if we have not a care. Let usrun fast from this land where we leave behind such evil things. 

"But see, there is more than this. God had an intent in thus driving usforth. He did not bring us out, and leave us there. Nay, `He broughtus out that He might bring us in. ' In where? Into the Holy Land, thatfloweth with milk and honey; the fair land where nothing shall enterthat defileth; the safe land where in all the holy mountain nothingshall hurt nor destroy; His own land, where He hath His Throne and HisTemple, and is King and Father of them that dwell therein. Look you, isnot this a good land? Are you not ready to go and dwell therein? Donot the clusters of its grapes--the hearing of its glories--make yourmouths water? See what you shall exchange: for a cruel task-master, aloving Father; for a dread monster, an holy City; for the base and uglyslime of the river, the fair paving of the golden streets, and the softwaving of the leaves of the tree of life, and the sweet melody of angelharps. Truly, I think this good barter. If a man were to exchange adead rat for a new-struck royal, [see Note 1] men would say he had welltraded, he had bettered himself, he was a successful merchant. Lo, hereis worse than a dead rat, and better than all the royals in the King'smint. Will ye not come and trade?

"Now, friends, ye must not misconceive me, as though I did mean that mencould buy Heaven by their own works. Nay, Heaven and salvation be freegifts--the glorious gifts of a glorious God, and worthy of the Giver. But when such gifts are set before you but for the asking, is it toomuch that ye should rise out of the mire and come?

"`He brought them out, that He might bring them in. ' He left them notin the desert, to find their own way to the Holy Land. Marry, shouldthey ever have come there? I trow not. Nay, no more than a babe of amonth old, if ye set him down at Bothal's Gate, could find his way tothe Moot Hall. But He dealt not with them thus. He left them not tofind their own way. He brought them, He led them, He showed them whereto plant their feet, first one step, then another, as mothers do to achild when he learneth first to walk. `As a nurse cherisheth herchildren, ' the Apostle saith he dealt with his converts: and the Lorduseth yet tenderer image, for `as a mother comforteth her babe, ' saithHe, `will I comfort you. ' Yea, He bids the Prophet Esaias to learnthem, `line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there alittle'--look you, how careful is God of His nurse-children. `Feed MyLambs, ' saith He: and lambs may not nibble so hard as sheep. They takenot so full a mouthful; they love the short grass, that is sweet andeasily cropped. We be all lambs afore we be sheep. Sheep lack muchshepherding, but lambs yet more. Both be silly things, apt to strayaway, and the wolf catcheth them with little trouble. Now, if a dog belost, he shall soon find his way back; but a lamb and a babe, if they belost, they are utterly lost; they can never find the way. Look you, theLord likeneth His people to lambs and babes, these silly things that becontinually lost, and have no wit to find the way. So, brethren, _He_finds the way. He goeth after that which is lost, until He find it. First He finds the poor silly lamb, and then He leadeth it in the waywherein it shall go. He `brings us in' to the fair green pastures andby the still waters--brings us in to the safe haven where the littleboats lie at rest--brings us in to the King's banquet-hall where thefeast is spread, and the King Himself holdeth forth hands of welcome. --He stretched not forth the cold sceptre; He giveth His own hand--thathand that was pierced for our sins. What say I? Nay, `He shall girdHimself, and shall come forth and serve them'--so great honour shallthey attain which serve God, as to have Him serve them. 

"Now, brethren, is this not a fair lot that God appointeth for Hispeople? A King to their guide, and a throne to their bed, and angels totheir serving-men--verily these be folks of much distinction that be soserved! But, look you, there is one little point we may not miss--`Ifwe suffer, we shall reign. ' There is the desert to be passed. There isthe Jordan to be forded. There is the cross to bear for the Master thatbare the cross for us. Yea, we shall best bear our cross by lookingwell and oft on His cross. Ah! brethren, He standeth close beside; Hehath borne it all; He knoweth where the nails run, and in what mannerthey hurt. Yet a little patience, poor suffering soul! yet a littlecourage; yet a little stumbling over the rough stones of the wilderness:and then the Golden City, and the royal banquet-hall, and the King thatbrought us out despite all the Egyptians, that brought us in despite allthe dangers of the desert, --the King, our Shield, and Guide, and Father, shall come forth and serve us. "

Old Agnes Silverside, the priest's widow, sat with her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed on the preacher. As he ended, she laid her hand uponRose Allen's. 

"My maid, " she said, "never mind the wilderness. The stones be sharp, and the sun scorching, and the thirst sore: but one sight of the King inthe Golden City shall make up for all!"

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Note 1. Ten shillings; this was then the largest coin made. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

UNEXPECTED LODGINGS. 

"Now then, who goes home?" cried the cheerful voice of Mrs Wade, whenthe sermon was over. "You, Mistress Benold?--you, Alice Mount?--you, Meg Thurston? You'd best hap your mantle well about your head. Mistress Silverside, this sharp even: yon hood of yours is not so thick, and you are not so young as you were once. Now, Adrian Purcas, thee beoff with Johnson and Mount; thou'rt not for my money. Agnes Love, woman, I wonder at you! coming out of a November night with no thicker amantle than that old purple thing, that I'm fair tired of seeing on you. What's that? `Can't afford a new one?' Go to Southampton! There'sone in my coffer that I never use now. Here, Doll! wherever is thatlazy bones? Gather up thy heels, wilt thou, and run to my great oakcoffer, and bring yon brown hood I set aside. Now don't go and fetchthe red one! that's my best Sunday gear, and thou'rt as like to bringred when I tell thee brown as thou art to eat thy supper. --Well, Alice?"

"I cry you mercy, Hostess, for troubling of you; but Master and me, we're bidden to lie at the mill. Mistress Ewring's been that good; butthere's no room for Rose, and--"

"Then Rose can turn in with Dorothy, and I'm fain on't if she'll giveher a bit of her earnestness for pay. There's not as much lead to herheels in a twelvemonth as would last Doll a week. --So this is what thoucalls a brown hood, is it? I call it a blue apron. Gramercy, thestupidness o' some folks!"

"Please you, Mistress, there was nought but that in the coffer. "

"What coffer?"

"The walnut, in the porch-chamber. "

"Well, if ever I did! I never spake a word of the walnut coffer, northe porch-chamber neither, I told thee the great oak coffer, and that'sin my chamber, as thou knows, as well as thou knows thy name's Dorothy. Put that apron back where thou found it, and bring me the brown hoodfrom the oak coffer. Dear heart, but she'll go and cast her eyes aboutfor an oak hood in a brown coffer, as like as not! She's that heedless. It's not for lack of wit; she could if she would. --Why, what's to bedone with yon little scraps! You can never get home to Thorpe such anight as this. Johnson! you leave these bits o' children with me, andI'll send them back to you to-morrow when the cart goes your way for aload of malt. There's room enough for you; you'd all pack in a thimble, well-nigh. --Nay, now! hast thou really found it? Now then, Agnes Love, cast that over you, and hap it close to keep you warm. Pay! bless thewoman, I want no pay! only some day I'd like to hear `Inasmuch' said tome. Good even!"

"You'll hear that, Mistress Wade!" said Agnes Love, a pale quiet-lookingwoman, with a warm grasp of Mistress Wade's hand. "You'll hear that, and something else, belike--as we've heard to-night, the King will comeforth and serve you. Eh, but it warms one's heart to hear tell of it!"

"Ay, it doth, dear heart, it doth! Good-night, and God bless thee!Now, Master Pulleyne, I'll show you your chamber, an' it like you. RoseAllen, you know the way to Dorothy's loft? Well, go you up, and takethe little ones with you. It's time for babes like them to be abed. Doll will show you how to make up a bed for them. Art waiting for someone, Bessy?"

"No, Mistress Wade, " said Elizabeth Foulkes, who had stood quietly in acorner as though she were; "but if you'd kindly allow it, I'd fain go uptoo and have a chat with Rose. My mistress gave me leave for anotherhour yet. "

"Hie thee up, good maid, and so do, " replied Mrs Wade cheerily, takingup a candlestick to light Mr Pulleyne to the room prepared for him, where, as she knew from past experience, he was very likely to sit atstudy till far into the night. 

Dorothy lighted another candle, and offered it to Rose. 

"See, you'll lack a light, " said she. 

"Nay, not to find our tongues, " answered Rose, smiling. 

"Ah, but to put yon children abed. Look you in the closet, Rose, as yougo into the loft, and you'll see a mattress and a roll of blankets, witha canvas coverlet that shall serve them. You'll turn in with me. "

"All right, Doll; I thank you. "

"You look weary, Doll, " said Elizabeth. 

"Weary? Eh, but if you dwelt with our mistress, you'd look weary, besure. She's as good a woman as ever trod shoe-leather, only she's somonstrous sharp. She thinks you can be there and back before you'vefair got it inside your head that you're to go. I marvel many a timewhether the angels 'll fly fast enough to serve her when she gets toHeaven. Marry come up but they'll have to step out if they do. "

Rose laughed, and led the way upstairs, where she had been several timesbefore. 

Inns at that time were built like Continental country inns are now, round a square space, with a garden inside, and a high archway for theentrance, so high that a load of hay could pass underneath. There wereno inside stairs, but a flight led up to the second storey from thecourtyard, and a balcony running all round the house gave access to thebedrooms. Rose, however, went into none of the rooms, but made her wayto one corner, where a second steep flight of stairs ran straight upbetween the walls. These the girls mounted, and at the top entered alow door, which led into a large, low room, lighted by a skylight, andoccupied by little furniture. At the further end was a good-sized bedcovered with a patchwork quilt, but without any hangings--the absence ofthese indicating either great poverty or extremely low rank. There wasneither drawers, dressing-table, nor washstand. A large chest besidethe bed held all Dorothy's possessions, and a leaf-table which would letdown was fixed to the wall under a mirror. A form in one corner, andtwo stools, made up the rest of the furniture. In a corner close to theentrance stood another door, which Rose opened after she had set up theleaf-table and put the candle upon it. Then, with Elizabeth's help, shedragged out a large, thick straw mattress, and the blankets and coverletof which Dorothy had spoken, and made up the bed in one of theunoccupied corners. A further search revealed a bolster, but no pillowswere forthcoming. That did not matter, for they expected none. 

"Now then, children, we'll get you into bed, " said Rose. 

"Will must say his prayers first, " said Cissy anxiously. 

"Of course. Now, Will, come and say thy prayers, like a good lad. "

Will knelt down beside the bed, and did as he was told in a shrill, sing-song voice. Odd prayers they were; but in those days nobody knewany better, and most children were taught to say still queerer things. First came the Lord's Prayer: so far all was right. Then Will repeatedthe Ten Commandments and the Creed, which are not prayers at all, andfinished with this formula:--

 "Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, Bless the bed that I lie on: Four corners to my bed, Four angels at their head; One to read, and one to write, And one to guard my bed at night. 

 "And now I lay me down to sleep, I pray that Christ my soul may keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray that Christ my soul may take; Wake I at morn, or wake I never, I give my soul to Christ for ever. "

After this strange jumble of good things and nonsense, Will jumped intobed, where the baby was already laid. It was Cissy's turn next. Eversince it had been so summarily arranged by Mrs Wade that the childrenwere to stay the night at the King's Head, Cissy had been lookingpreternaturally solemn. Now, when she was desired to say her prayers, as a prelude to going to bed, Cissy's lip quivered, and her eyes filledwith tears. 

"Why, little maid, what ails thee?" asked Rose. 

"It's Father, " said Cissy, in an unsteady voice. "I don't know howeverFather will manage without me. He'll have to dress his own supper. Ionly hope he'll leave the dish for me to wash when I get home. No bodynever put Father and me asunder afore!"

"Little maid, " answered Elizabeth, "Mistress Wade meant to save thee thelong walk home. "

"Oh, I know she meant it kind, " replied Cissy, "and I'm right thankful:but, please, I'd rather be tired than Father be without me. We've neverbeen asunder afore--never!"

CHAPTER TWELVE. 

TRYING ON THE ARMOUR. 

"Oh, thy father 'll do right well!" said Rose encouragingly. "I dare bebound he thought it should be a pleasant change for thee. "

"Ay, I dare say Father thought of us and what we should like, " saidCissy. "He nodded to Mistress Wade, and smiled on me, as he went forth;so of course I had to 'bide. But then, you see, I'm always thinking ofFather. "

"I see, " said Rose, laughing; "it's not, How shall I do without Father?but, How can Father do without me?"

"That's it, " replied Cissy, nodding her capable little head. "He'll dowithout Will and Baby--not but he'll miss them, you know; but they don'tdo nothing for him like _me_. "

This was said in Cissy's most demure manner, and Rose was exceedinglyamused. 

"And, prithee, what dost thou for him?" said she. 

"I do everything, " said Cissy, with an astonished look. "I light thefire, and dress the meat, [Note 1] and sweep the floor. Only I can't doall the washing yet; Neighbour Ursula has to help me with that. Butabout Father--please, when I've said the Paternoster [the Lord'sPrayer], and the Belief, and the Commandments, might I ask, think you, for somebody to go in and do things for Father? I know he'll miss mevery ill. "

"Thou dear little-soul!" cried Rose. 

But Cissy was looking up at Elizabeth, whom she dimly discerned to bethe graver and wiser of the two girls. Elizabeth smiled at her in thatquiet, sweet way which she usually did. 

"Little Cissy, " she said, "is not God thy Father, and his likewise? Andthinkest thou fathers love to see their children happy and at ease, orno?"

"Father likes us to be happy, " said Cissy simply. 

"And `your Father knoweth, '" softly replied Elizabeth, "`that ye haveneed of all these things. '"

"Oh, then, He'll send in Ursula, or somebody, " responded Cissy, in acontented tone. "It'll be all right if I ask Him to see to it. "

And Cissy "asked Him to see to it, " and then lay down peacefully, hertranquillity restored, by the side of little Will, and all the childrenwere asleep in a few minutes. 

"Now, Bessy, we can have our talk. "

So saying, Rose drew the stools into a corner, out of the way of thewind, which came puffing in at the skylight in a style rather unpleasantfor November, and the girls sat down together for a chat. 

"How go matters with you at Master Clere's, Bessy?"

"Oh, middling. I go not about to complain, only that I would MistressAmy were a bit steadier than she is. "

"She's a gadabout, isn't she?"

"Nay, I've said all I need, and maybe more than I should. "

"Doth Master Clere go now to mass, Bessy?"

"Oh, ay, as regular as any man in the town, and the mistress belike. The net's drawing closer, Rose. The time will soon come when even youand I, low down as we are, shall have to make choice, with death at theend of one way. "

"Ay, I'm afeard so, " said Rose gravely. "Bessy, think you that you canstand firm?"

"Firm as a rock, if God hold me up; weak and shifting as water, if Hehold me not. "

"Ay, thou hast there the right. But we are only weak, ignorant maidens, Bessy. "

"Then is He the more likely to hold us up, since He shall see we need itrather. If thou be high up on the rock, out of reach of the waves, whatmatter whether thou be a stone weight or a crystal vessel? The watersbeat upon the rock, not on thee. "

"But one sees them coming, Bess. "

"Well, what if thou dost? They'll not touch thee. "

"Eh, Bess, the fire 'll touch us, be sure!"

"It'll touch our flesh--the outward case of us--that which can drop offand turn to dust. It can never meddle with Rose Allen and ElizabethFoulkes. "

"Bessy, I wish I had thy good courage. "

"Why, Rose, art feared of death?"

"Not of what comes after, thank God! But I'm feared of pain, Bessy, andof dying. It seems so shocking, when one looks forward to it. "

"Best not look forward. Maybe 'tis more shocking to think of than tofeel. That's the way with many things. "

"O Bessy! I can't look on it calm, like that. It isn't nature. "

"Nay, dear heart, 'tis grace, not nature. "

"And thou seest, in one way, 'tis worser for me than for thee. Thou artthyself alone; but there's Father and Mother with me. How could I bearto see them suffer?"

"The Lord will never call thee to anything, Rose, which He will not givethee grace to bear. Be sure of that. Well, I've no father--he's inHeaven, long years ago. But I've a good mother at Stoke Nayland, andI'd sooner hurt my own head than her little finger, any day I live. Dear maid, neither thou nor I know to what the Lord will call us. We dobut know that on whatever journey He sendeth us, Himself shall pay thecharges. Thou goest not a warfare at thine own cost. How many times inGod's Word is it said, `Fear not?' Would the Lord have so oft repeatedit, without He had known that we were very apt to fear?"

"Ah!" said Rose, sighing, "and the `fearful' be among such as are leftwithout the gate. O Bessy, if that fear should overcome me that I drawback! I cannot but think every moment shall make it more terrible tobear. And if one held not fast, but bought life, as soon as the firewere felt, by denying the truth! I am feared, dear heart! I'm feared. "

"It shall do thee no hurt to be feared of thyself, only lose not thinehold on God. `Hold _Thou_ me up, and I shall be safe. ' But that shouldnot be, buying life, Bessy, but selling it. "

"I know it should be bartering the life eternal, for the sake of a fewyears, at most, of this lower life. Yet life is main sweet, Bessy, andwe are young. `All that a man hath will he give for his life. '"

"Think not on the life, Rose, nor on what thou givest, but alone on Himfor whom thou givest it. Is He not worth the pain and the loss?Couldst thou bear to lose _Him_?--Him, who endured the bitter rood[Cross] rather than lose thee. That must never be, dear heart. "

"I do trust not, verily; yet--"

"What, not abed yet?" cried the cheery voice of Mrs Wade. "I came upbut to see if you had all you lacked. Doll's on her way up. I reckonshe shall be here by morning. A good maid, surely, but main slow. What! the little ones be asleep? That's well. But, deary me, what longfaces have you two! Are you taking thought for your funeral, or whatdiscourse have you, that you both look like judges?"

"Something like it, Hostess, " said Elizabeth, with her grave smile. "Truly, we were considering that which may come, and marvelling if weshould hold fast. "

The landlady set her arms akimbo, and looked from one of the girls tothe other. 

"Why, what's a-coming?" said she. 

"Nay, we know not what, but--"

"Dear heart, then I'd wait till I did! I'll tell you what it is--I hateto have things wasted, even an old shoe-latchet; why, I pity to cast itaside, lest it should come in for something some day. Now, my goodmaids, don't waste your courage and resolution. Just you keep them tillthey're wanted, and then they'll be bright and ready for use. You'renot going to be burned to-night; you're going to bed. And screwing upyour courage to be burned is an ill preparation for going to bed, I cantell you. You don't know, and I don't, that any one of us will becalled to glorify the Lord in the fires. If we are, depend upon itHe'll show us how to do it. Now, then, say your prayers, and go tosleep. "

"I thank you, Hostess, but I must be going home. "

"Good-night, then, Bessy, and don't sing funeral dirges over your owncoffin afore it comes from the undertaker. What, Doll, hast really gothere? I scarce looked to see thee afore morning. Good-night, maids. "

And Mrs Wade bustled away. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. At this time they used the word _meat_ in the sense of food ofany kind--not butchers meat only. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

A DARK NIGHT'S ERRAND. 

"Must you be gone, Bessy?" said Dorothy Denny, sitting down on the sideof her bed with a weary air. "Eh, I'm proper tired! Thought this day'd never come to an end, I did. Couldn't you tarry a bit longer?"

"I don't think I ought, Dorothy. Your mistress looked to see Rose abedby now, 'twas plain; and mine gave me leave but till eight o' the clock. I'd better be on my way. "

"Oh, you're one of that sort that's always thinking what they _ought_, are you? That's all very well in the main; but, dear heart! one wants abit of what one would like by nows and thens. "

"One gets that best by thinking what one ought, " said Elizabeth. 

"Ay, but it's all to come sometime a long way off; and how do I knowit'll come to me? Great folks doesn't take so much note of poor ones, and them above 'll very like do so too. "

"There's only One above that has any right to bid aught, " answeredElizabeth, "and He takes more note of poor than rich, Doll, as you'llfind by the Bible. Good-night, Rose; good-night, Dorothy. "

And Elizabeth ran lightly down the stairs, and out so into the street. She had a few minutes left before the hour at which Mrs Clere hadenjoined her to be back, so she did not need to hurry, and she wentquietly on towards Balcon Lane, carrying her lantern--for there were nostreet lamps, and nobody could have any light on a winter evening exceptwhat he carried with him. Just before she turned the corner of the laneshe met two women, both rather heavily laden. Elizabeth was passing on, when her steps were arrested by hearing one of them say, --

"I do believe that's Bess Foulkes; and if it be--"

Elizabeth came to a standstill. 

"Yes, I'm Bess Foulkes, " she said. "What of that?"

"Why, then, you'll give me a lift, be sure, as far as the North Hill. I've got more than I can carry, and I was casting about for a face Iknew. "

"I've not much time to spare, " said Elizabeth; "but I'll give you a liftas far as Saint Peter's--I can't go further. Margaret Thurston, isn'tit? I must be in by eight; I'll go with you till then. "

"I've only to go four doors past Saint Peter's, so that'll do well. Youwere at the preaching, weren't you, this even?"

"Ay, and I thought I saw you. "

"Yes, I was there. He talked full bravely. I marvel if he'd stand ifit came to it. I don't think many would. "

"I misdoubt if any would, without God held them up. "

"Margaret says she's sure she would, " said the other woman. 

"Oh, ay, I don't doubt myself, " said Margaret. 

"Then I cry you mercy, but I doubt you, " replied Elizabeth. 

"I'm sure you needn't! I'd never flinch for pope nor priest. "

"Maybe not; but you might for rack or stake. "

"It'll ne'er come to that here. Queen Mary's not like to forget howColchester folk all stood with her against Lady Jane. "

"She mayn't; but think you the priests shall tarry at that? and she'lldo as the priests bid her. "

"Ay, they say my Lord of Winchester, when he lived, had but to hold uphis finger, and she'd have followed him, if it were over London Bridgeinto the Thames, " said the other woman. "And the like with my LordCardinal, that now is. "

By "my Lord of Winchester" she meant Bishop Gardiner, who had been deadrather more than a year. The Cardinal was Reginald Pole, the Queen'sthird cousin, who had lately been appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, inthe room of the martyred Cranmer, "Why, the Queen and my Lord Cardinalwere ever friends, from the time they were little children, " answeredMargaret. 

"Ay, there was talk once of her wedding with him, if he'd not become apriest. But I rather reckon you're right, my maid: a priest's a priest, without he's a Gospeller; and there's few of them will think more ofgoodness and charity than of their own order and of the Church. "

"Goodness and charity? Marry, there's none in 'em!" cried Margaret. "Howbeit, here's the Green Sleeves, where I'm bound, and I'm beholden toyou, Bessy, for coming with me. Good even. "

Elizabeth returned the greeting, and set off to walk back at a quickpace to Balcon Lane. She had not gone many steps when she was once morestopped, this time by a young man, named Robert Purcas, a fuller, wholived in the neighbouring village of Booking. 

"Bessy, " said he. "It is thou, I know well, for I heard thee bidMargaret Thurston good den, and I should know thy voice among athousand. "

"I cannot 'bide, Robin. I'm late, even now. "

"Tarry but one minute, Bessy. Trust me, thou wouldst if--"

"Well, then, make haste, " said Elizabeth, pausing. 

"Thou art friends with Alice Mount, of Bentley, and she knows MistressEwring, the miller's wife. "

"Ay; well, what so?"

"Bid Alice Mount tell Master Ewring there's like to be a writ outagainst him for heresy and contumaciousness toward the Church. Nevermind how I got to know; I know it, and that's enough. He, and MistressSilverside, and Johnson, of Thorpe, be like enough to come into court. Bessy, take heed to thy ways, I pray thee, that thou be not suspect. "

No thought of herself had caused Elizabeth Foulkes to lay her handsuddenly on the buttress of Saint Peter's, beside her. The father whowas so dear to little Cissy was in imminent danger; and Cissy had justbeen asking God to send somebody to see after him. Elizabeth's voicewas changed when she spoke again. 

"They must be warned, " she said. "Robin, thou and I must needs do thiserrand to-night. I shall be chidden, but that does not matter. Canstthou walk ten miles for the love of God?"

"I'd do that for the love of thee, never name God. "

Elizabeth did not answer the words. There was too much at stake to losetime. 

"Then go thou to Thorpe, and bid Johnson get away ere they take him. Mistress Wade has the children, and she'll see to them, or Alice Mountwill. I must--"

"Thou'd best not put too much on Alice Mount, for Will Mount's as likeas not to be in the next batch. "

"Lord, have mercy on us! I'll go warn them--they are with MistressEwring at the mill; and then I'll go on to Mistress Silverside. Makehaste, Robin, for mercy's sake!"

And, without waiting for anything more, Elizabeth turned and ran up thestreet as fast as she dared in the comparative darkness. Streets werevery rough in those days, and lanterns would not light far. 

Old Mistress Silverside lived in Tenant's Lane, which was further offthan the mill. Elizabeth ran across from the North Hill to Boucher'sStreet, and up that, towards the gate, beyond which the mill stood onthe bank of the Colne. Mr Ewring, the miller, was a man who kept earlyhours; and, as Elizabeth ran up to the gate, she saw that the lightswere already out in the windows of the mill. The gate was closed. Elizabeth rapped sharply on the window, and the shutter was opened, but, all being dark inside, she could not see by whom. 

"Prithee, let me through the gate. I've a message of import for MasterEwring, at the mill. "

"Gate's shut, " said the gruff voice of the gatekeeper. "Can't let anythrough while morning. "

"Darnell, you'll let me through!" pleaded Elizabeth. "I'm servant toMaster Clere, clothier, of Balcon Lane, and I'm sent with a message ofgrave import to the mill. "

"Tell Master Clere, if he wants his corn ground, he must send bydaylight. "

And the wooden shutter was flung to. Elizabeth stood for an instant asif dazed. 

"I can't get to them, " she said to herself. "There's no chance thatway. I must go to Tenant's Lane. "

She turned away from the gate, and went round by the wall to the top ofTenant's Lane. 

"Pray God I be in time to warn somebody! We are all in danger, we whowere at the preaching to-night, and Mistress Wade most of all, for itwas in her house. I'll go to the King's Head ere I go home. "

Thus thinking, Elizabeth reached Mrs Silverside's, and rapped at thedoor. Once--twice--thrice--four times. Not a sound came from inside, and she was at last sorrowfully compelled to conclude that nobody was athome. Down the lane she went, and came out into High Street at thebottom. 

"Then I can only warn Mistress Wade. I dare be bound she'll let theothers know, as soon as morning breaks. I do trust that will be timeenough. "

She picked her way across High Street, and had just reached the oppositeside, when her arm was caught as if in an iron vice, and she feltherself held fast by greater strength than her own. 

"Hussy, what goest thou about?" said the stern voice of her master, Nicholas Clere. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 

STOPPED ON THE WAY. 

Nicholas Clere was a man of one idea at once; and people of that sort doa great deal of good when they get hold of the right idea, and a greatdeal of harm when a wrong idea gets hold of them. Once let notion getinto the head of Nicholas, and no reasoning nor persuasion would driveit out. He made no allowances and permitted no excuses. If a thinglooked wrong, then wrong it must be, and it was of no use to talk to himabout it. That he should have found Elizabeth, who had been ordered tocome home at eight o'clock, running in the opposite direction athalf-past eight, was in his eyes an enormity which admitted of noexplanations. That she either had been in mischief, or was then on herway to it, were the only two alternatives possible to the mind of hermaster. 

And circumstances were especially awkward for Elizabeth, since she couldnot give any explanation of her proceedings which would clear her in theeyes of her employers. Nicholas Clere, like many other people ofprejudiced minds and fixed opinions, had a mind totally unfixed in theone matter of religion. His religion was whatever he found it to hisworldly advantage to be. During King Edward's reign, it was polite andfashionable to be a Protestant; now, under Queen Mary, the only way tomake a man's fortune was to be a Roman Catholic. And though Nicholasdid not say even to himself that it was better to have plenty of moneythan to go to Heaven when he died, yet he lived exactly as if he thoughtso. During the last few years, therefore, Nicholas had gradually beengrowing more and more of a Papist, and especially during the last fewweeks. First, he left off attending the Protestant meetings at theKing's Head; then he dropped family prayer. Papists, whether they bethe genuine article or only the imitation, always dislike family prayer. They say that a church is the proper place to pray in, though ourLord's bidding is, "When thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and whenthou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret. " Thethird step which Nicholas took was to go to mass, and command all hishousehold to follow him. This had Elizabeth hitherto, but quiterespectfully, declined to do. She was ready to obey all orders of herearthly master which did not interfere with her higher duty to GodAlmighty. But His holy Word--not her fancy, nor the traditions of men--forbade her to bow down to graven images; or to give His glory to anyperson or thing but Himself. 

And Elizabeth knew that she could not attend mass without doing that. Apiece of consecrated bread would be held up, and she would be requiredto worship it as God. And it was not God: it could neither see, norhear, nor speak; it was not even as like God as a man is. To worship abit of bread because Christ likened His body to bread, would be as sillyas to worship a stone because the Bible says, "That _Rock_ was Christ. "It was evident that He was speaking figuratively, just as He spoke whenHe said, "I am the door of the sheep, " and "I am the Morning Star. " Whoin his senses would suppose that Christ meant to say that He was awooden door? It is important that we should have true ideas about this, because there are just now plenty of foolish people who will try topersuade us to believe that that poor, powerless piece of bread is GodHimself. It is insulting the Lord God Almighty to say such a thing. Look at the 115th Psalm, from the fifth verse to the eight, and you willsee how God describes an idol, which He forbids to be worshipped: andthen look at the 26th and 27th verses of the 24th chapter of SaintMatthew, and you will see that the Lord Jesus distinctly says that youare not to believe anybody who tells you that He is come before you seeHim. When He really does come, nobody will want any telling; we shallall see Him for ourselves. So we find from His own words in every waythat the bread and wine in the Sacrament are just bread and wine, andnothing more, which we eat and drink "in remembrance of Him, " just asyou might keep and value your mother's photograph in remembrance of her. But I am sure you never would be so silly as to think that thephotograph was her own real self!

This was the reason why Elizabeth Foulkes would not go to mass. EverySunday morning Mrs Clere ordered her to go, and Elizabeth quietly, respectfully, but firmly, told her that she could not do so. Elizabethhad God's Word to uphold her; God forbade her to worship idols. It wasnot simply that she did not like it, nor that somebody else had told hernot to do it. Nothing can excuse us if we break the laws of ourcountry, unless the law of our country has broken God's law; andElizabeth would have done very wrong to disobey her mistress, exceptwhen her mistress told her to disobey God. What God said must be herrule; not what she thought. 

Generally speaking, Mrs Clere called Elizabeth some ugly names, andthen let her do as she liked. Up to this time her master had notinterfered with her, but she was constantly expecting that he would. She was not afraid of answering for herself; but she was terribly afraidfor her poor friends. To tell him that she was on her way to warn themof danger, and beg them to escape, would be the very means of preventingtheir escape, for what he was likely to do was to go at once and tellthe priests, in order to win their favour for himself. 

"Hussy, what goest thou about?" came sternly from Nicholas Clere, as heheld her fast. 

"Master, I cry you mercy. I was on my way home, and I was turned out ofit by one that prayed me to take a word of grave import to a friend. "

Elizabeth thought she might safely say so much as that. 

"I believe thee not, " answered Nicholas. "All young maids be idlegadabouts, if they be not looked to sharply, and thou art no better thanthe rest. Whither wert thou going?"

"I have told all I may, Master, and I pray you ask no further. Thesecret is not mine, but theirs that sent me and should have received mymessage. "

In those days, nothing was more usual than for secret messages to besent from one person to another. It was not safe then, as it is now, for people to speak openly. Freedom always goes hand in hand withProtestantism. If England should ever again become a Roman Catholiccountry--which many people are trying hard to make her--Englishmen willbe no longer free. 

Nicholas Clere hesitated a moment. Elizabeth's defence was not at allunlikely to be true. But he had made up his mind that she was in fault, and probabilities must not be allowed to interfere with it. 

"Rubbish!" said he. "What man, having his eyes in his head, shouldtrust a silly maid with any matter of import? Women can never keep asecret, much less a young jade like to thee. Tell no more lies, prithee. "

And he began to walk towards Balcon Lane, still firmly holding Elizabethby the arm. 

"Master, I beseech you, let me go on my way!" she pleaded earnestly. "Iwill tarry up all night, if it be your pleasure, to make up for onehalf-hour now. Truly as I am an honest maid, I have told you the truth, and I am about nothing ill. "

"Tush, jade! Hold thy tongue. Thou goest with me, and if notpeaceably, then by force. "

"Will you, of your grace, Master, let me leave my message with someother to take instead of me? May I have leave to speak, but one moment, with Mistress Wade, of the King's Head? She would find a trustymessenger to go forward. "

"Tell me thy message, and if it be truly of any weight, then shall it besent, " answered Nicholas, still coldly, but less angrily than before. 

Could she tell him the message? Would it not go straight to the priest, and all hope of escape be thus cut off? Like Nehemiah, Elizabeth criedfor wisdom. 

"Master, I cry you mercy yet again, but I may not tell the message. "

"Yet thou wouldst fain tell Mistress Wade! Thou wicked hussy, thoucanst be after no good. What message is this, which thou canst tellMistress Wade, but mayest not tell me? I crede thee not a word. Haveforward, and thy mistress shall deal with thee. "

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 

SILENCE UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 

Elizabeth Foulkes was almost in despair. Her master held her arm tight, and he was a strong man--to break away from him was simply impossible--and to persuade him to release her seemed about as unlikely. Still shecried, "Master, let me go!" in tones that might have melted any softerheart than that of Nicholas Clere. 

"Step out!" was all he said, as he compelled Elizabeth to keep pace withhim till they reached Balcon Lane. Mrs Clere was busy in the kitchen. She stopped short as they entered, with a gridiron in her hand which shehad cleaned and was about to hang up. 

"Well, this is a proper time of night to come home, mistress! Marchedin, too, with thy master holding of thee, as if the constable had theein custody! This is our pious maid, that can talk nought but Bible, andsays her prayers once a day oftener nor other folks! I always do thinkthat sort no better than hypocrites. What hath she been about, Nicholas? what saith she?"

"A pack o' lies!" said Nicholas, harshly. "Whined out a tale of somemessage of dread import that somebody, that must not be named, hath senther on. I found her hasting with all speed across the High Street, thecontrary way from what it should have been. You'd best give her thestrap, wife. She deserves it, or will ere long. "

Nicholas sat down in the chimney-corner, leaving Mistress Clere to dealwith the offender. Elizabeth well knew that the strap was no figure ofspeech, and that Mistress Clere when angry had no light hand. Girlswere beaten cruelly in those days, and grown women too, when theirmothers or mistresses chose to punish them for real or supposedoffences. But Elizabeth Foulkes thought very little of the pain shemight suffer, and very much of the needed warning which had not beengiven. And then, suddenly, the words flashed across her, "Thy will bedone on earth, as it is in Heaven. " Then the warning was better letalone, if it were God's will. She rose with a calmer face, and followedMistress Clere to the next room to receive her penalty. 

"There!" said that lady, when her arm began to ache with beatingElizabeth. "That'll do for a bit, I hope. Perhaps thou'lt not be soheadstrong next time. I vow, she looks as sweet as if I'd given her abox of sugar plums! I'm feared thou'd have done with a bit more, butI'm proper tired. Now, speak the truth: who sent thee on thiswild-goose chase?"

"Mistress, I was trusted with a secret. Pray you, ask me not. "

"Secret me no secrets! I'll have it forth. "

"Not of me, " said Elizabeth, quietly, but firmly. 

"Highty-tighty! and who art thou, my lady?"

"I am your servant, mistress, and will do your bidding in everythingthat toucheth not my duty to God Almighty. But this I cannot. "

"I'll tell thee what, hussy! it was never good world since folks set upto think for themselves what was right and wrong, instead of hearkeningto the priest, and doing as they were bid, Thou'rt too proud, BessFoulkes, that's where it is, with thy pretty face and thy dainty ways. Go thou up and get thee abed--it's on the stroke of nine: and I'll comeand lock thee in. Dear heart, to see the masterfulness of these maids!"

"Mistress, " said Elizabeth, pausing, "I pray you reckon me notdisobedient, for in very deed I have ever obeyed you, and yet will, touching all concerns of yours: but under your good leave, this matterconcerns you not, and I have no freedom to speak thereof. "

"In very deed, my lady, " said Mistress Clere, dropping a mock courtesy, "I desire not to meddle with your ladyship's high matters of state, anddo intreat you of pardon that I took upon me so weighty a matter. Goget thee abed, hussy, and hold thine idle tongue!"

Elizabeth turned and went upstairs in silence. Words were of no use. Mistress Clere followed her. In the bedroom where they both slept, which was a loft with a skylight, was Amy, half undressed, and employedin her customary but very unnecessary luxury of admiring herself in theglass. 

"Amy, I'm going to turn the key. Here's an ill maid that I've had totake the strap to: see thou fall not in her ways. I'll let you out inthe morning. "

So saying, Mistress Clere locked the door, and left the two girlstogether. 

Like most idle folks. Amy Clere was gifted with her full share ofcuriosity. The people who do the world's work, or who go about doinggood, are not usually the people who want you to tell them how much MissSmith gave for her new bonnet, or whom Mr Robinson had yesterday todinner. They are a great deal too busy, and generally too happy, togive themselves the least trouble about the bonnet, or to feel theslightest interest in the dinner-party. But idle people--poor pitiablethings!--who do not know what to do with themselves, are often veryready to discuss anything of that sort which considerately puts itselfin their way. To have something to talk about is both a surprise and adelight to them. 

No sooner had Mrs Clere shut the door than Amy dropped her edifyingoccupation and came up to Elizabeth, who had sat wearily down on theside of the bed. 

"Why, Bess, what ails Mother? and what hast thou been doing? Thoumayest tell me; I'll not make no mischief, and I'd love dearly to hearall about it. "

If experience had assured Elizabeth Foulkes of anything, it was that shemight as safely repeat a narrative to the town-crier as tell it to AmyClere. 

"I have offenced Mistress, " said she, "and I am sorry thereat: yet I didbut what I thought was my duty. I can say no more thereanent, MistressAmy. "

"But what didst thou, Bessy? Do tell me. "

Elizabeth shook her head. "Best not, Mistress Amy. Leave it rest, Ipray you, and me likewise, for of a truth I am sore wearied. "

"Come, Bessy, don't be grumpy! let's know what it was. Life's monstroustiresome, and never a bit of play nor show. I want to know all aboutit. "

"Maybe there'll be shows ere long for you, Mistress Amy, " answeredElizabeth gravely, as a cold shiver ran through her to think of whatmight be the consequence of her untold message. Well! Cissy's fatherat any rate would be safe: thank God for that!

"Why will there? Hast been at one to-night?"

"No. " Elizabeth checked herself from saying more. What a differencethere was between Amy's fancies and the stern realities she knew!

"There's no lugging nought out of thee!" said Amy with a pout. "Thou'rtas close shut as an oyster shell. "

And she went back to the mirror, and began to plait her hair, the moreconveniently to tuck it under her night-cap. Oh, how Elizabeth longedfor a safe confidant that night! Sometimes she felt as though she mustpour out her knowledge and her fears--to Amy, if she could get no oneelse. But she knew too well that, without any evil intention, Amy wouldbe certain to make mischief from sheer love of gossip, the moment shemet with any one who would listen to her. 

"Mistress Amy, I'm right weary. Pray you, leave me be. "

"Hold thy tongue if thou wilt. I want nought with thee, not I, " repliedAmy, with equal crossness and untruth, since, as she would herself haveexpressed it, she was dying to know what Elizabeth could have done tomake her mother so angry. But Amy was angry herself now. "Get theeabed, Mistress Glum-face; I'll pay thee out some day: see if I don't!"

Elizabeth's reply was to kneel down for prayer. There was one safeConfidant, who could be relied upon for sympathy and secrecy: and Hemight be spoken to without words. It was well; for the words refused tocome. Only one thing would present itself to Elizabeth's weary heartand brain: and that was the speech of little Cissy, that, "it would beall right if she asked God to see to it. " A sob broke from her, as shesent up to Heaven the one petition of which alone she felt capable justthen--"Lord, help me!" He would know how and when to help. Elizabethdropped her trouble into the Almighty hands, and left it there. Thenshe rose, undressed, and lay down beside Amy, who was already in bed. 

Amy Clere was not an ill-natured girl, and her anger never lasted long. When she heard Elizabeth's sob, her heart smote her a little: but shesaid to herself, that she was "not going to humble herself to thatcrusty Bess, " so she turned round and went to sleep. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN. 

THE STORM BREAKS. 

When the morning came, Amy's good temper was restored by her night'srest, and she was inclined to look on her locking-in as a piece ofamusement. 

"I vow, Bess, this is fun!" said she, "I've twenty minds to get out onthe roof, and see if I can reach the next window. It would be rightjolly to wake up Ellen Mallory--she's always lies abed while seven; andI do think I could. Wilt aid me?"

Ellen Mallory was the next neighbour's daughter, a girl of about Amy'sage; and seven o'clock was considered a shocking late hour for rising in1556. 

"Mistress Amy, I do pray you never think of such a thing, " criedElizabeth, in horror. "You'll be killed!"

"Well, I'm not wishful to be killed, " answered Amy lightly: "I only wantsome fun while we are shut up here. I marvel when Mother shall come tolet us out. She'll have to light the fire herself if she does not;that's one good thing!"

Elizabeth thought it a very undutiful idea; but she was silent. If shehad but had wings like a dove, how gladly would she have flown to warnher friends! She well knew that Mrs Clere was not likely to be in themood to grant a favour and let her go, after what had happened the nightbefore. To go without leave was a thing which Elizabeth nevercontemplated. That would be putting herself in the wrong. But her poorfriends, would they escape? How if Robert Purcas had been stopped, asshe had? I was strange, but her imagination did not dwell nearly somuch upon her own friend, Rose, as on little Cissy. If Johnson weretaken, if he were martyred, what would become of little Cissy? Thechild had crept into Elizabeth's heart, before she was aware. SuddenlyAmy's voice broke in upon her thoughts. 

"Come, Bess, art in a better mood this morrow? I'll forgive thee thymiss-words last night, if thou'lt tell me now. "

All the cross words there had been the night before had come from Amyherself; but Elizabeth let that pass. 

"Mistress Amy, " said she, "this matter is not one whereof I may speak toyou or any other. I was charged with a secret, and bidden not todisclose the same. Think you I can break my word?"

"Dear heart! I break mine many a time in the week, " cried Amy, with alaugh. "I'm not _nigh_ so peevish as thou. "

"But, Mistress Amy, it is not right, " returned Elizabeth earnestly. 

Before Amy could answer, Mrs Clere's heavy step was heard approachingthe door, and the key turned in the lock. Amy, who sat on the side ofthe bed swinging her feet to and fro for amusement, jumped down. 

"Mother, you'll get nought from her. I've essayed both last night andthis morrow, and I might as well have held my tongue. "

"Go and light the fire, " said Mrs Clere sternly to Elizabeth. "I'llhave some talk with thee at after. "

Elizabeth obeyed in silence. She lighted the fire and buttered theeggs, and swept the house, and baked the bread, and washed the clothes, and churned the butter--all with a passionate longing to be free, hiddenin her heart, and constant ejaculatory prayers--silent ones, of course--for the safely of her poor friends. Mrs Clere seemed to expectElizabeth to run away if she could, and she did not let her go out ofher sight the whole day. The promised scolding, however, did not come. 

Supper was over, and the short winter day was drawing to its close, whenNicholas Clere came into the kitchen. 

"Here's brave news, Wife!" said he, "What thinkest? Here be anhalf-dozen in the town arrest of heresy--and some without, too. "

"Mercy on us! Who?" demanded Mrs Clere. 

"Why, Master Benold, chandler, and Master Bongeor, glazier, and oldMistress Silverside, and Mistress Ewring at the mill--these did I hear. I know not who else. " And suddenly turning to Elizabeth, he said, "Hussy, was this thine errand, or had it ought to do therewith?"

All the passionate pain and the earnest longing died out of the heart ofElizabeth Foulkes. She stood looking as calm as a marble statue, andalmost as white. 

"Master, " she said, quietly enough, "mine errand was to warn these myfriends. God may yet save them, if it be His will. And may He not layto your charge the blood that will otherwise be shed!"

"Mercy on us!" cried Mrs Clere again, dropping her duster. "Why, thejade's never a bit better than these precious friends of hers!"

"I'm sore afeared we have been nourishing a serpent in our bosoms, " saidNicholas, in his sternest manner. "I had best see to this. "

"Well, I wouldn't hurt the maid, " said his wife, in an uneasy tone;"but, dear heart! we must see to ourselves a bit. We shall get intotrouble if such things be tracked to our house. "

"So we shall, " answered her husband. "I shall go, speak with thepriest, and see what he saith. Without"--and he turned toElizabeth--"thou wilt be penitent, and go to mass, and do penance forthy fault. "

"I am willing enough to do penance for my faults, Master, " saidElizabeth, "but not for the warning that I would have given; for nofault is in it. "

"Then must we need save ourselves, " replied Nicholas: "for the innocentmust not suffer for the guilty. Wife, thou wert best lock up this hussyin some safe place; and, daughter, go thou not nigh her. This manner ofheresy is infectious, and I would not have thee defiled therewith. "

"Nay, I'll have nought to do with what might get me into trouble, " saidAmy, flippantly. "Bessy may swallow the Bible if she likes; I shan't. "

Elizabeth was silent, quietly standing to hear her doom pronounced. Sheknew it was equivalent to a sentence of death. No priest, consulted onsuch a subject would dare to leave the heretic undenounced. And she hadno friends save that widowed mother at Stoke Nayland--a poor woman, without money or influence; and that other Friend who would be sure tostand by her, --who, that He might save others, had not saved Himself. 

Nicholas took up his hat and marched out, and Mrs Clere orderedElizabeth off to a little room over the porch, generally used as alumber room, where she locked her up. 

"Now then, think on thy ways!" said she. "It'll mayhap do thee good. Bread and water's all thou'lt get, I promise thee, and better than thydemerits. Dear heart! to turn a tidy house upside-down like this, andall for a silly maid's fancies, forsooth! I hope thou feels ashamed ofthyself; for I do for thee. "

"Mistress, I can never be ashamed of God's truth. To that will I stand, if He grant me grace. "

"Have done with thy cant! I've no patience with it. "

And Mistress Clere banged the door behind her, locked it, and leftElizabeth alone till dinner-time, when she carried up a slice of bread--only one, and that the coarsest rye-bread--and a mug of water. 

"There!" said she. "Thou shouldst be thankful, when I've every bit ofwork on my hands in all this house, owing to thy perversity!"

"I do thank you, Mistress, " said Elizabeth, meekly. "Would you sufferme to ask you one favour? I have served you well hitherto, and I neverdisobeyed you till now. "

It was true, and Mrs Clere knew it. 

"Well, the brazen-facedness of some hussies!" cried she. "Prithee, what's your pleasure, mistress? Would you a new satin gown for yourtrial, and a pearl-necklace? or do you desire an hundred pounds given tothe judges to set you free? or would you a petition to the Queen'sMajesty, headed by Mr Mayor and my Lord of Oxenford?"

Elizabeth let the taunts go by her like a summer breeze. She felt themkeenly enough. Nobody enjoys being laughed at; but he is hardly worthcalling a man who allows a laugh to turn him out of the path of duty. 

"Mistress, " she said, quietly, "should you hear of any being arrestedfor heresy, would you do me so much grace as to let me know the name?and the like if you hear of any that have escaped?"

Mrs Clere looked down into the eyes that were lifted to her, asElizabeth stood before her. Quiet, meek, tranquil eyes, without a lookof reproach in them, with no anxiety save that aroused for the fate ofher friends. She was touched in spite of herself. 

"Thou foolish maid!" said she. "Why couldst thou not have done as otherfolks, and run no risks? I vow I'm well-nigh sorry for thee, for allthy perversity. Well, we'll see. Mayhap I will, if I think on't. "

"Thank you, Mistress!" said Elizabeth gratefully, as Mistress Clere tookthe mug from her, and left the little porch-chamber as before, lockingher prisoner in the prison. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 

ROSE HEARS THE NEWS. 

While Elizabeth Foulkes was passing through these experiences, theMounts, Rose Allen, and the children, had gone back to Much Bentley assoon as morning broke. Rose took the little ones home to Thorpe, andthey met Johnson just at the door of his own cottage. 

"Truly, friend, I am much beholden to you, " said he to Rose, "for yourkindly care of my little ones. But, I pray you, is it true what Iheard, that Mistress Silverside is arrest for heresy?"

Rose looked up in horrified astonishment. 

"Why, we left them right well, " she said, "but five hours gone. Ibrought the children o'er to you so soon as they had had their dinner. Is it true, think you?"

"Nay, that would I fain know of you, that were in town twelve hourslater than I, " answered Johnson. 

"Then, in very deed, we heard nought, " said Rose. "I do trust it shallprove but an ill rumour. "

"May it be so! yet I cannot but fear it be true. Robin Purcas came tome last night, and I could not but think he should have told me somewhatan' he might: but he found Father Tye in mine house, and might notspeak. They both tarried so long, " added Johnson, with a laugh, "that Iwas fain to marvel if each were essaying to outsit the other; but if so, Father Tye won, for Love of the Heath came for Robin and took him awayere the priest were wearied out. If any straitness do arise against theGospellers, Love had best look out. "

"Ay, they know him too well to leave him slip through their fingersagain, " replied Rose. 

"That do they, verily. Well, dear hearts, and have ye been goodchildren?"

"We've tried, " said Cissy. 

"They've been as good as could be, " answered Rose. 

"Father, did anybody come and see to you? I asked the Lord to see toit, because I knew you'd miss me sore, " said Cissy anxiously, "and Iwant to know if He did. "

"Ay, my dear heart, " replied Johnson, smiling as he looked down on her. "Ursula Felstede came in and dressed dinner for me, and MargaretThurston looked in after, and she washed some matters and did a bit ofmending; and at after I had company--Father Tye, and Robin Purcas, andJack Love. So thou seest I was not right lonesome. "

"He took good care of you. Father, " said Cissy, looking happy. It wasevident that Cissy lived for and in her father. Whatever he was, forgood or evil, that she was likewise. 

"Well, I've got to look in on Margaret Thurston, " said Rose, "for I dida bit of marketing for her this morrow in the town, and I have a fardelto leave. She was not at home when we passed, coming. But now, I thinkI'd better be on my way, so I'll wish you good den, Johnson. God blessyou, little ones!"

"Good den, Rose!" said Cissy. "And you'll learn me to weave lace withthose pretty bobbins?"

"That will I, with a very good will, sweet heart, " said Rose, stoopingto kiss Cissy. 

"Weave lace!" commented her father. "What, what is the child thinking, that she would fain learn to weave lace?"

"Oh, Father, please, you won't say nay!" pleaded Cissy, embracing herfather's arm with both her own. "I want to bring you in some money. "Cissy spoke with a most important air. "You know, of an even, I alwayhave a bit of time, after Will and Baby be abed, and at times too in theday, when Will's out with George Felstede, and I'm minding Baby; I canrock her with my feet while I make lace with my hands. And you know, Father, Will and Baby 'll be growing big by and bye, and you won't haveenough for us all without we do something. And Rose says she'll learnme how, and that if I have a lace pillow--and it won't cost very much, Father!--I can alway take it up for a few minutes by nows and thens, when I have a bit of time, and then, don't you see, Father? I can makea little money for you. Please, _please_ don't say I mustn't!" criedCissy, growing quite talkative in her eagerness. 

Johnson and Rose looked at each other, and Rose laughed; but thoughCissy's father smiled too, he soon grew grave, and laid his hand on hislittle girl's head, as she stood looking up earnestly. 

"Nay, my little maid, I'll never say nought of the sort. If Rose herewill be so good as to learn thee aught that is good, whether for body orsoul, I will be truly thankful to her, and bid thee do the like and bediligent to learn. Good little maid! God bless thee!"

Then, as Cissy trotted into the cottage, well pleased, Johnson added, "Bless the little maid's heart! she grows more like her mother in Heavenevery day. I'll never stay the little fingers from doing what they can. It'll not bring much in, I reckon, but it'll be a pleasure to thechild, and good for her to be ever busy at something, that she mayn'tfall into idle ways. Think you not so, Rose?"

"Indeed, and it so will, Johnson, " answered Rose; "not that I thinkCissy and idle ways 'll ever have much to do one with the other. She'snot one of that sort. But I shouldn't wonder if lace-weaving brings inmore than you think. I've made a pretty penny of it, and I wasn't soyoung as Cissy when I learned the work, and it's like everything else--them that begin young have the best chance to make good workers. She'llbe a rare comfort to you, Cissy, if she goes on as she's begun. "

Johnson did not reply for a moment. When he did, it was to say, "Well, God keep us all! I'm right thankful to you, Rose, for all your goodnessto my little maid. Good den!"

When she had returned the "good evening, " Rose set off home, and walkedrather fast till she came to Margaret Thurston's cottage. After thelittle business was transacted between her and Margaret, Rose inquiredif they had heard of Mistress Silverside's arrest. Both Margaret andher husband seemed thunderstruck. 

"Nay, we know nought thereof, " answered Thurston, "Pray God it be nottrue! There'll be more an' it so be. "

"I fear so much, " said Rose. 

She did not tell her mother, for Alice had not been well lately, andRose wished to spare her an apprehension which might turn out to bequite unfounded, or at least exaggerated. But she told her step-father, and old Mount looked very grave. 

"God grant it be not so!" said he. "But if it be, Rose, thou wist theyhave our names in their black list of heretics. "

"Ay, Father, I know they have. "

"God keep us all!" said William Mount, looking earnestly into the fire. And Rose knew that while he might intend to include being kept safe, yethe meant, far more than that, being kept true. 

When John Love called at Johnson's cottage to fetch Robert Purcas, thetwo walked about a hundred yards on the way to Bentley without eitherspeaking a word. Then Robert suddenly stopped. "Look you, Love! whatwould you with me? I cannot go far from Thorpe to-night. I was sentwith a message to Johnson, and I have not found a chance to deliver ityet. "

"Must it be to-night? and what chance look you for?"

"Ay, it must!" answered Robert earnestly. "What I look for is yon blacksnake coming out of his hole, and then slip I in and deliver mymessage. "

Love nodded. He knew well enough who the black snake was. "Then maybeyou came with the like word I did. Was it to warn Johnson to 'scape erethe Bailiff should be on him?"

"Ay, it was. And you?"

"I came to the same end, but not alone for Johnson. Robin, thou hadstbest see to thyself. Dost know thou art on the black list. "

"I've looked for that, this many a day. But so art thou, Love; and thouhast a wife to care for, and I've none. "

"I'm in danger anyway, Rob, but there's a chance for thee. Think of thyold father, and haste thee, lad. "

Robert shook his head. "I promised to warn Johnson, " he said; "and Igave my word for it to one that I love right dearly. I'll not break myword. No, Love; I tarry here till I've seen him. The Lord must have acare of my old father if they take me. "

Love found it impossible to move Robert from his resolution. He badehim good-night and turned away. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. 

WHAT BEFELL SOME OF THEM. 

For half-an-hour, safely hidden behind a hedge, Robert Purcas watchedthe door of Johnson's cottage, until at last he saw the priest come out, and go up the lane for a short distance. Then he stopped, looked round, and gave a low, peculiar whistle. A man jumped down from the bank onthe other side of the lane, with whom the priest held a long, low-tonedconversation. Robert knew he could not safely move before they were outof the way. At length they parted, and he just caught the priest'sfinal words. 

"Good: we shall have them all afore the even. "

"That you shall not, if God speed me!" said Robert to himself. 

The priest went up the lane towards Bentley, and the man who had beentalking with him took the opposite way to Thorpe. When his footstepshad died away, Robert crept out from the shelter of the hedge, and madehis way in the dark to Johnson's cottage. A rap on the door broughtCissy. 

"Who is it, please?" she said, "because I can't see. "

"It is Robin Purcas, Cis. I want a word with thy father. "

"Come in, Robin!" called Johnson's voice from within. "I could see thouwert bursting with some news not to be spoken in the presence but justgone. What ails thee, man?"

"Ay, I was, and I promised to tell you. Jack, thou must win away eredaylight, or the Bailiff shall be on thee. Set these little ones insafe guard, and hie thee away with all the speed thou mayest. "

"Is it come so near?" said Johnson, gravely. 

"Father, you're not going nowhere without me!" said Cissy, creeping upto him, and slipping her hand in his. "You can leave Will and Baby withNeighbour Ursula: but I'll not be left unless you bid me--and you won'tFather? You can never do without me? I must go where you go. "

"She's safe, I reckon, " said Robert, answering Johnson's look: "they'dnever do no mischief to much as she. Only maybe she'd be more out ofreach if I took her with me. They'll seek to breed her up in a convent, most like. "

Cissy felt her father's hand tighten upon hers. 

"I'm not going with you, nor nobody!" said she. "I'll go with Father. Nobody'll get me nowhere else, without they carry me. "

Johnson seemed to wake up, as if till then he had scarcely understoodwhat it all meant. 

"God bless thee for the warning, lad!" he said. "Now hie thee quick, and get out of reach thyself Cis, go up and fetch a warm wrap for Baby, and all her clothes; I'll take her next door. I reckon Will must tarrythere too. It'd be better for thee, Cis: but I'll not compel thee, ifthy little heart's set on going with me. Thoul't have to rough it, little maid. "

"I'll not stop nowhere!" was Cissy's determination. 

Robert bade them good-bye with a smile, closed the door, and set offdown the lane as fast as the darkness made it prudent. He did not thinkit wise to go through the village, so he made a _detour_ by some fields, and came into the road again on the other side of Thorpe. He had notgone many yards, when he became aware that a number of lights wereapproaching, accompanied by a noise of voices. Robert turned straightround. If he could get back to the stile which led into the fields, hewould be safer: and if not, still it would be better to be overtakenthan to meet a possible enemy face to face. He would be less likely tobe noticed in the former case than in the latter--at least so hethought. 

There must be a good number of people coming behind him, judging fromthe voices. At length they came up with him. 

"Pray you, young man, how far be we from Thorpe?"

"You are very nigh, straight on, " was Robert's answer. 

"Do you belong there?"

"No, I'm nigh a stranger to these parts: I'm from the eastern side ofthe county. I can't tell you much about folks, if that be yourmeaning. "

"And what do you here, if you be a stranger?"

"I've a job o' work at Saint Osyth, at this present. "

"What manner of work?"

"I'm a fuller by trade. "

Robert had already recognised that he was talking to the Bailiff'ssearching party. Every minute that he could keep them was a minute morefor Johnson and the little ones. 

"Know you a man named Johnson?"

"What, here?"

"Ay, at Thorpe. "

Robert pretended to consider. "Well, let's see--there's Will Johnsonthe miller, and Luke Johnson the weaver, and--eh, there's ever so manyJohnsons! I couldn't say to one or another, without I knew more. "

"John Johnson; he's a labouring man. "

"Well, there is Johnsons that lives up by the wood, but I'm none so sureof the man's name. I think it's Andrew, but I'll not say, certain. Itmay be John; I couldn't speak, not to be sure. "

"Let him be, Gregory; he knows nought, " said the Bailiff. 

Robert touched his cap, and fell behind. The Bailiff suddenly turnedround. 

"What's your own name?"

It was a terrible temptation! If he gave a false name, the strongprobability was that they would pass on, and he would very likely getsafe away. It was Johnson of whom they were thinking, not himself. Butthat would enable them to reach Johnson's cottage a minute sooner, andit would be a cowardly lie. No! Robert Purcas had not so learnedChrist. He gave his name honestly. 

"Robert Purcas! If that's not on my list--" said the Bailiff, feelingin his pocket. "Ay, here it is--stay! _William_, Purcas, of Booking, fuller, aged twenty, single; is that you?"

"My name is Robert, not William, " said the young man. 

"But thou art a fuller? and single? and aged twenty?"

"Ay, all that is so. "

"Dost thou believe the bread of the sacred host to be transmuted afterconsecration into the body of Christ, so that no substance of bread isleft there at all?"

"I do not. I cannot, for I see the bread. "

"He's a heretic!" cried Simnel. "Robert or William, it is all one. Take the heretic!"

And so Robert Purcas was seized, and carried to the Moot Hall inColchester--a fate from which one word of falsehood would have freedhim, but it would have cost him his Father's smile. 

The Moot Hall of Colchester was probably the oldest municipal buildingin England. It was erected soon after the Conquest, and its lowcircular arches and piers ornamented the High Street until 1843, whenthe town Vandals were pleased to destroy it because it impeded thetraffic. Robert was taken into the dungeon, and the great door slammedto behind him. He could not see for a few minutes, coming fresh fromthe light of day: and before he was able to make anything out clearly, an old lady's voice accosted him. 

"Robert Purcas, if I err not?" she said. "I am sorry to behold theehere, friend. "

"Truly, Mistress, more than I am, that am come hither in Christ'scause. "

"Ay? Then thou art well come. "

"Methinks it is Mistress Silverside?"

"Thou sayest well. I shall have company now, " said the old lady with asmile. "Methought some of my brethren and sisters should be like tohave after. "

"I reckon, " responded Purcas, "we be sure at the least of our Father'scompany. "

The great door just then rolled back, and they heard the gaoler's voiceoutside. 

"Gramercy, but this is tidy work!" cried he. "Never had no suchprisoners here afore. I don't know what to do with 'em. There, get youin! you aren't the first there. "

There was a moment's pause, and then Mrs Silverside and Robert, whowere looking to see what uncommon sort of prisoners could be at hand, found that their eyes had to come down considerably nearer the floor, asthe gaoler let in, hand in hand, Cissy and Will Johnson, followed bytheir father. 

CHAPTER NINETEEN. 

"FATHER'S COME TOO!"

"Why, my dear hearts!" cried old Mrs Silverside, as the children camein. "How won ye hither?"

"Please, we haven't been naughty, " said Will, rubbing his eyes with hisknuckles. 

"Father's come too, so it's all right, " added Cissy in a satisfied tone. 

Mrs Silverside turned to Robert Purcas. "Is not here a lesson for theeand me, my brother? Our Father is come too: God is with us, and thus itis all right. "

"Marry, these heretics beareth a good brag!" said Wastborowe the gaolerto his man. 

It is bad grammar now to use a singular verb with a plural noun; but in1556 it was correct English over the whole south of England, and the useof the singular with the singular, or the plural with the plural, was apeculiarity of the northern dialect. 

"They always doth, " answered the under-gaoler. 

"Will ye be of as good courage, think you, " asked Wastborowe, "the dayye stand up by Colne Water?"

"God knoweth, " was the reverent answer of Mrs Silverside. "If He holdsus up, then shall we stand. "

"They be safe kept whom He keepeth, " said Johnson. 

"Please, Mr Wastborowe, " said Cissy in a businesslike manner, "wouldyou mind telling me when we shall be burned?"

The gaoler turned round and stared at his questioner. 

"Thou aren't like to be burned, I reckon, " said he with a laugh. 

"I must, if Father is, " was Cissy's calm response. "It'll hurt a bit, Isuppose; but you see when we get to Heaven afterwards, every thing willbe so good and pleasant, I don't think we need care much. Do you, please, Mr Wastborowe?"

"Marry come up, thou scrap of a chirping canary!" answered the gaoler, half roughly and half amused. "If babes like this be in such minds, 'tis no marvel their fathers and mothers stand to it. "

"But I'm not a baby, Mr Wastborowe!" said Cissy, rather affronted. "Will and Baby are both younger than me. I'm going in ten, and I takescare of Father. "

Mr Wastborowe, who was drinking ale out of a huge tankard, removed itfrom his lips to laugh. 

"Mighty good care thou'lt take, I'll be bound!"

"Yes, I do, Mr Wastborowe, " replied Cissy, quite gravely; "I dressFather's meat and mend his clothes, and love him. That's taking care ofhim, isn't it?"

The gaoler's men, who were accustomed to see every body in the prisonappear afraid of him, were evidently much amused by the perfectfearlessness of Cissy. Wastborowe himself seemed to think it a verygood joke. 

"And who takes care of thee?" asked he. 

Cissy gave her usual answer. "God takes care of me. "

"And not of thy father?" said Wastborowe with a sneer. 

The sneer passed by Cissy quite harmlessly. 

"God takes care of all of us, " she said. "He helps Father to take careof me, and He helps me to take care of Father. "

"He'll be taken goodly care of when he's burned, " said the gaolercoarsely, taking another draught out of the tankard. 

Cissy considered that point. 

"Please, Mr Wastborowe, we mustn't expect to be taken better care ofthan the Lord Jesus; and He had to suffer, you know. But it won'tsignify when we get to Heaven, I suppose. "

"Heretics don't go to Heaven!" replied Wastborowe. 

"I don't know what heretics are, " said Cissy; "but every body who lovesthe Lord Jesus is sure to get there. Satan would not want them, youknow; and Jesus will want them, for He died for them. He'll look afterus, I expect. Don't you think so, Mr Wastborowe?"

"Hold thy noise!" said the gaoler, rising, with the empty jug in hishand. He wanted some more ale, and he was tired of amusing himself withCissy. 

"Hush thee, my little maid!" said her father, laying his hand on herhead. 

"Is he angry, Father?" asked Cissy, looking up. "I said nothing wrong, did I?"

"There's somewhat wrong, " responded he, "but it's not thee, child. "

Meanwhile Wastborowe was crossing the court to his own house, jug inhand. Opening the door, he set down the jug on the table, with theshort command, "Fill that. "

"You may tarry till I've done, " answered Audrey, calmly ironing on. Shewas the only person in the place who was not afraid of her husband. Infact, he was afraid of her when, as he expressed it, she "was wrong sideup. "

"Come, wife! I can't wait, " replied Wastborowe in a tone which he neverused to any living creature but Audrey or a priest. 

Audrey coolly set down the iron on its stand, folded up the shirt whichshe had just finished, and laid another on the board. 

"You can, wait uncommon well, John Wastborowe, " said she; "you've had asmuch as is good for you already, and maybe a bit to spare. I can'tleave my ironing. "

"Am I to get it myself, then?" asked the gaoler, sulkily. 

"Just as you please, " was the calm response. "I'm not going. "

Wastborowe took up his jug, went to the cellar, and drew the ale forhimself, in a meek, subdued style, very different indeed from the aspectwhich he wore to his prisoners. He had scarcely left the door when ashrill voice summoned him to--

"Come back and shut the door, thou blundering dizzard! When will menever have a bit of sense?"

The gaoler came back to shut the door, and then, returning to thedungeon, showed himself so excessively surly and overbearing, that hismen whispered to one another that "he'd been having it out with hismistress. " Before he recovered his equanimity, the Bailiff returned andcalled him into the courtyard. 

"Hearken, Wastborowe: how many of these have you now in ward? Well-nighall, methinks. " And he read over the list. "Elizabeth Wood, ChristianHare, Rose Fletcher, Joan Kent, Agnes Stanley, Margaret Simson, RobertPurcas, Agnes Silverside, John Johnson, Elizabeth Foulkes. "

"Got 'em all save that last, " said Wastborowe, "Who is she? I know notthe name. By the same token, what didst with the babe? There werethree of Johnson's children, and one in arms. "

"Left it wi' Jane Hiltoft, " said the gaoler, gruffly. "I didn't want itscreeching here. "

The Bailiff nodded. "Maybe she can tell us who this woman is, " said he;and stepping a little nearer the porter's lodge, he summoned theporter's wife. 

Mrs Hiltoft came to the door with little Helen Johnson in her arms. "Well, I don't know, " said she. "I'll tell you what: you'd best askAudrey Wastborowe; she's a bit of a gossip, and I reckon she knowseverybody in Colchester, by name and face, if no more. She'll tell youif anybody can. "

The Bailiff stepped across the court, and rapped at the gaoler's door. He was desired by a rather shrill voice to come in. He just opened thedoor about an inch, and spoke through it. 

"Audrey, do you know aught of one Elizabeth Foulkes?"

"Liz'beth What-did-you-say?" inquired Mrs Wastborowe, hastily dryingher arms on her apron, and coming forward. 

"Elizabeth Foulkes, " repeated the Bailiff. 

"What, yon lass o' Clere's the clothier? Oh, ay, you'll find her inBalcon Lane, at the Magpie. A tall, well-favoured young maid she is--might be a princess, to look at her. What's she been doing, now?"

"Heresy, " said the Bailiff, shortly. 

"Heresy! dear, dear, to think of it! Well, now, who could have thoughtit? But Master Clere's a bit unsteady in that way, his self, ain't he?"

"Oh nay, he's reconciled. "

"Oh!" The tone was significant. 

"Why, was you wanting yon maid o' Mistress Clere's?" said the porter'swife. "You'll have her safe enough, for I met Amy Clere this even, andshe said her mother was downright vexed with their Bess, and had turnedthe key on her. I did not know it was her you meant. I've never heardher called nought but Bess, you see. "

"Then that's all well, " said Maynard. "I'll tarry for her till themorrow, for I'm well wearied to-night. "

CHAPTER TWENTY. 

LED TO THE SLAUGHTER. 

The long hours of that day wore on, and nobody came again to Elizabethin the porch-chamber. The dusk fell, and she heard the sounds oflocking up the house and going to bed, and began to understand thatneither supper nor bed awaited her that night. Elizabeth quietlycleared a space on the floor in the moonlight, heaping boxes and basketson one another, till she had room to lie down, and then, after kneelingto pray, she slept more peacefully than Queen Mary did in her Palace. She was awoke suddenly at last. It was broad daylight, and somebody wasrapping at the street door. 

"Amy!" she heard Mistress Clere call from her bedchamber, "look out andsee who is there. "

Amy slept at the front of the house, in the room next to theporch-chamber. Elizabeth rose to her feet, giving her garments a shakedown as the only form of dressing just then in her power, and looked outof the window. 

The moment she did so she knew that one of the supreme moments of herlife had come. Before the door stood Mr Maynard, the Bailiff ofColchester--the man who had marched off the twenty-three prisoners toLondon in the previous August. Everybody who knew him knew that he wasa "stout Papist, " to whom it was dear delight to bring a Protestant topunishment. Elizabeth did not doubt for an instant that she was the onechosen for his next victim. 

Just as Amy Clere put her head out of the window. Mr Maynard, who didnot reckon patience among his chief virtues, and who was tired ofwaiting, signed to one of his men to give another sharp rap, accompaniedby a shout of--"Open, in the Queen's name!"

"Saints, love us and help us!" ejaculated Amy, taking her head in again. "Mother, it's the Queen's men!"

"Go down and open to 'em, " was Mrs Clere's next order. 

"Eh, I durstn't if it was ever so!" screamed Amy in reply. "May Iunlock the door and send Bessy?"

"Thee do as thou art bid!" came in the gruff tones of her father. 

"Come, I'll go with thee, " said her mother. "Tell Master Bailiff we'reat hand, or they'll mayhap break the door in. "

A third violent rap enforced Mrs Clere's command. 

"Have a bit of patience, Master Bailiff!" cried Amy from her window. "We're a-coming as quick as may be. Let a body get some clothes on, do!"

Somebody under the window was heard to laugh. 

Then Mrs Clere went downstairs, her heavy tread followed by the lightrun of her daughter's steps; and then Elizabeth heard the bolts drawnback, and the Bailiff and his men march into the kitchen of the Magpie. 

"Good-morrow, Mistress Clere. I am verily sorry to come to the house ofa good Catholic on so ill an errand. But I am in search of a maid ofyours, by name Elizabeth Foulkes, whose name hath been presented a aforethe Queen's Grace's Commission for heresy. Is this the maid?"

Mr Maynard, as he spoke, laid his hand not very gently on Amy'sshoulder. 

"Eh, bless me, no!" cried Amy, in terror. "I'm as good a Catholic asyou or any. I'll say aught you want me, and I don't care what it is--that the moon's made o' green cheese, if you will, and I'd a shive lastnight for supper. Don't take _me_, for mercy's sake!"

"I'm not like, " said Mr Maynard, laughing, and giving Amy a rough paton the back. "You aren't the sort I want. "

"You're after Bess Foulkes, aren't you?" said Mrs Clere. "Amy, there'sthe key. Go fetch her down. I locked her up, you see, that she shouldbe safe when wanted, I'm a true woman to Queen and Church, I am, MasterBailiff. You'll find no heresy here, outside yon jade of a Bessy. "

Mrs Clere knew well that suspicion had attached to her husband's namein time past, which made her more desirous to free herself from allcomplicity with what the authorities were pleased to call heresy. 

Amy ran upstairs and unlocked the door of the porch-chamber. 

"Bessy, the Bailiff's come for thee!"

A faint flush rose to Elizabeth's face as she stood up. 

"Now do be discreet, Bessy, and say as he says. Bless you, it's onlywords! I told him I'd say the moon was made o' green cheese if hewanted. Why shouldn't you?"

"Mistress Amy, it would be dishonour to my Lord, and I am ready foranything but that. "

"Good lack! couldst not do a bit o' penance at after? Bess, it's thylife that's in danger. Do be wise in time, lass. "

"It is only this life, " said Elizabeth quietly, "and `he that saveth hislife shall lose it. ' They that be faithful to the end shall have thecrown of life. --Master Bailiff, I am ready. "

The Bailiff looked up at the fair, tall, queenly maiden who stood beforehim. 

"I trust thou art ready to submit to the Church, " he said. "It weresore pity thou shouldst lose life and all things. "

"Nay, I desire to win them, " answered Elizabeth. "I am right ready tosubmit to all which it were good for me to submit to. "

"Come, well said!" replied the Bailiff; and he tied the cord round herhands, and led her away to the Moot Hall. 

Just stop and think a moment, what it would be to be led in this waythrough the streets of a town where nearly everybody knew you, as if youhad been a thief or a murderer!--led by a cord like an animal about tobe sold--nay, as our Master, Christ, was led, like a sheep to theslaughter! Fancy what it would be, to a girl who had always beenrespectable and well-behaved to be used in this way: to hear the rough, coarse jokes of the bystanders and of the men who were leading her, andnot to have one friend with her--not one living creature that cared whatbecame of her, except that Lord who had once died for her, and for whomshe was now, for aught she knew, upon her way to die! And even He_seemed_ as if He did not care. Men did these things, and He keptsilence. Don't you think it was hard to bear?

When Elizabeth reached the Moot Hall and was taken to the prison, for aninstant she felt as if she had reached home and friends. MrsSilverside bade her welcome with a kindly smile, and Robert Purcas cameup and kissed her--people kissed each other then instead of shakinghands as we do now, --and Elizabeth felt their sympathy a true comfort. But she was calm under her suffering until she caught sight of Cissy. Then an exclamation of pain broke from her. 

"O Cissy, Cissy; I am so sorry for thee!"

"O Bessy, but I'm so glad! Don't say you're sorry. "

"Why, Cissy, how canst thou be glad? Dost know what it all signifieth?"

"I know they've taken Father, and I'm sorry enough for that; but thenFather always said they would some day. But don't you see why I'm glad?They've got me too. I was always proper 'feared they'd take Father andleave me all alone with the children; and he'd have missed us dreadful!Now, you see, I can tend on him, and do everything for him; and that'swhy I'm glad. If it had to be, you know. "

Elizabeth looked up at Cissy's father, and he said in a husky voice, --

"`Of such is the kingdom of Heaven. '"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. 

BEFORE THE COMMISSIONERS. 

"Bessy, " said Cissy in a whisper, "do you think they'll burn us allto-day?"

"I reckon, sweet heart, they be scarce like to burn thee. "

"But they'll have to do to me whatever they do to Father!" cried Cissy, earnestly. 

"Dear child, thou wist not what burning is. "

"Oh, but I've burnt my fingers before now, " said Cissy, with an air ofextensive experience which would have suited an old woman. "It's notproper pleasant: but the worst's afterwards, and there wouldn't be anyafterwards, would there? It would be Heaven afterwards, wouldn't it? Idon't see that there's so much to be 'feared of in being burnt. If theydidn't burn me, and did Will and Baby, and--and Father"--and Cissy'svoice faltered, and she began to sob--"that would be dreadful--dreadful!O Bessy, won't you ask God not to give them leave? They couldn't, could they, unless He did?"

"Nay, dear heart, not unless He did, " answered Elizabeth, feeling herown courage strengthened by the child's faith. 

"Then if you and I both ask Him _very_ hard, --O Bessy! don't you thinkHe will?"

Before Elizabeth could answer, Johnson said--"I wouldn't, Cis. "

"You wouldn't, Father! Please why?"

"Because, dear heart, He knoweth better than we what is good for us. Sometimes, when folk ask God too earnestly for that they desire, He letsthem have it, but in punishment, not in mercy. It would have been asight better for the Israelites if they hadn't had those quails. Dostthou mind how David saith, `He gave them their desire, but sent leannesswithall into their souls?' I'd rather be burnt, Cis, than live with alean soul, and my Father in Heaven turning away His face from me. "

Cissy considered. "Father, I could never get along a bit, if you wereso angry you wouldn't look at me!"

"Truly, dear heart, and I would not have my Father so. Ask the Lordwhat thou wilt, Cis, if it be His will; only remember that His will isbest for us--the happiest as well as the most profitable. "

"Wilt shut up o' thy preachment?" shouted Wastborowe, with a severe blowto Johnson. "Thou wilt make the child as ill an heretic as thyself, andwe mean to bring her up a good Catholic Christian!"

Johnson made no answer to the gaoler's insolent command. A look ofgreat pain came into his face, and he lifted his head up towards thesky, as if he were holding communion with his Father in Heaven. Elizabeth guessed his thoughts. If he were to be martyred, and hislittle helpless children to be handed over to the keeping of priests whowould teach them to commit idolatry, and forbid them to read the Bible--that seemed a far worse prospect in his eyes than even the agony ofseeing them suffer. That, at the worst, would be an hour's anguish, tobe followed by an eternity of happy rest: but the other might mean theloss of all things--body and soul alike. Little Will did not enter intothe matter. He might have understood something if he had been payingattention, but he was not attending, and therefore he did not. ButCissy, to whom her father was the centre of the world, and who knew hisvoice by heart, understood his looks as readily as his words. 

"Father!" she said, looking at him, "don't be troubled about us. I'llnever believe nobody that says different from what you've learned us, and I'll tell Will and Baby they mustn't mind them neither. "

And Elizabeth added softly--"`I will be a God to thee, and to thy seedafter thee. ' `Leave thy fatherless children; I will preserve themalive. '"

"God bless you both!" said Johnson, and he could say no more. 

The next day the twelve prisoners accused of heresy were had up forexamination before the Commissioners, Sir John Kingston, Mr Roper, andMr Boswell, the Bishop's scribe. Six of them--Elizabeth Wood, Christian Hare, Rose Fletcher, Joan Kent, Agnes Stanley, and MargaretSimson--were soon disposed of. They had been in prison for a fortnightor more, they were terribly frightened, and they were not strong in thefaith. They easily consented to be reconciled to the Church--to saywhatever the priests bade them, and to believe--or pretend to believe--all that they were desired. 

Robert Purcas was the next put on trial. The Bishop's scribe called him(in the account he wrote to his master) "obstinate, and a gloriousprating heretic. " What this really meant was that his arguments weretoo powerful to answer. He must have had considerable ability, forthough only twenty years of age, and a village tradesman, he was setdown in the charge-sheet as "lettered, " namely, a well-educated man, which in those days was most extraordinary for a man of thatdescription. 

"When confessed you last?" asked the Commissioners of Purcas. 

"I have not confessed of long time, " was the answer, "nor will I; forpriests have no power to remit sin. "

"Come you to church, to hear the holy mass?"

"I do not, nor will I; for all that is idolatry. "

"Have you never, then, received the blessed Sacrament of the altar?"

"I did receive the Supper of the Lord in King Edward's time, but notsince: nor will I, except it be ministered to me as it was then. "

"Do you not worship the sacred host?"

That is, the consecrated bread in the Lord's Supper. 

"Those who worship it are idolaters!" said Robert Purcas, without theleast hesitation: "that which there is used is bread and wine only. "

"Have him away!" cried Sir John Kingston. "What need to questionfurther so obstinate a man?"

So they had him away--not being able to answer him--and Agnes Silversidewas called in his stead. 

She was very calm, but as determined as Purcas. 

"Come hither, Mistress!" said Boswell, roughly. "Why, what have we herein the charge-sheet? `Agnes Silverside, _alias_ Smith, _alias_ Downes, _alias_ May!' Hast thou had four husbands, old witch, or how comest byso many names?"

"Sir, " was the quiet answer, "my name is Smith from my father, and Ihave been thrice wed. "

The Commissioners, having first amused themselves by a little roughjoking at the prisoner's expense, inquired which of her husbands was thelast. 

"My present name is Silverside, " she replied. 

"And what was he, this Silverside?--a tanner or a chimney-sweep?"

"Sir, he was a priest. "

The Commissioners--who knew it all beforehand--professed themselvesexceedingly shocked. God never forbade priests to marry under the OldTestament, nor did He ever command Christian ministers to be unmarriedmen: but the Church of Rome has forbidden her priests to have any wives, as Saint Paul told Timothy would be done by those who departed from thefaith: [see One Timothy four 3. ] thus "teaching for doctrines thecommandments of men. " [See Matthew fifteen verse 9. ]

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. 

GENTLY HANDLED. 

When the Commissioners had tormented the priest's widow as long as theythought proper, they called on her to answer the charges brought againsther. 

"Dost thou believe that in the blessed Sacrament of the altar the breadand wine becometh the very body and blood of Christ, so soon as the wordof consecration be pronounced?"

"Nay: it is but bread and wine before it is received; and when it isreceived in faith and ministered by a worthy minister, then it is Christflesh and blood spiritually, and not otherwise. "

"Dost though worship the blessed Sacrament?"

"Truly, nay: for ye make the Sacrament an idol. It ought not to beworshipped with knocking, kneeling or holding up of hands. "

"Wilt thou come to church and hear mass?"

"That will I not, so long as ye do worship to other than God Almighty. Nothing that is made can be the same thing as he that made it. Theymust needs be idolators, and of the meanest sort, that worship the worksof their own hands. "

"Aroint thee, old witch! Wilt thou go to confession?"

"Neither will I that, for no priest hath power to remit sin that isagainst God. To Him surely will I confess: and having so done, I haveno need to make confession to men. "

"Take the witch away!" cried the chief Commissioner. "She's a froward, obstinate heretic, only fit to make firewood. "

The gaoler led her out of the court, and John Johnson was summoned next. 

"What is thy name, and how old art thou?"

"My name is John Johnson; I am a labouring man, of the age of four andthirty years. "

"Canst read?"

"But a little. "

"Then how darest thou set thee up against the holy doctors of theChurch, that can read Latin?"

"Cannot a man be saved without he read Latin?"

"Hold thine impudent tongue! It is our business to question, and thineto answer. Where didst learn thy pestilent doctrine?"

"I learned the Gospel of Christ Jesus, if that be what you mean bypestilent doctrine, from Master Trudgeon at the first. He learned methat the Sacrament, as ye minister it, is an idol, and that no priesthath power to remit sin. "

"Dost thou account of this Trudgeon as a true prophet?"

"Ay, I do. "

"What then sayest thou to our Saviour Christ's word to His Apostles, `Whosesoever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them'?"

"Marry, I say nought, without you desire it. "

"What meanest by that?"

"Why, you are not apostles, nor yet the priests that be now alive. Hesaid not, `Whosesoever sins Sir Thomas Tye shall remit, they areremitted unto them. '"

"Thou foolish man, Sir Thomas Tye is successor of the apostles. "

"Well, but it sayeth not neither, `Whosesoever sins ye and yoursuccessors do remit. ' I'll take the words as they stand, by your leave. To apostles were they said, and to apostles will I leave them. "

"The man hath no reason in him!" said Kingston. "Have him awaylikewise. "

"Please your Worships, " said the gaoler, "here be all that are indicted. There is but one left, and she was presented only for not attending atmass nor confession. "

"Bring her up!"

And Elizabeth Foulkes stepped up to the table, and courtesied to therepresentatives of the Queen. 

"What is thy name?"

"Elizabeth Foulkes. "

"How old art thou?"

"Twenty years. "

"Art thou a wife?"

Girls commonly married then younger than they do now. The usual lengthof human life was shorter: people who reached sixty were looked upon aswe now regard those of eighty, and a man of seventy was considered muchas one of ninety or more would be at the present time. 

"Nay, I am a maid, " said Elizabeth. 

The word maid was only just beginning to be used instead of servant; itgenerally meant an unmarried woman. 

"What is thy calling?"

"I am servant to Master Nicholas Clere, clothier, of Balcon Lane. "

"Art Colchester-born?"

"I was born at Stoke Nayland, in Suffolk. "

"And wherefore dost thou not come to mass?"

"Because I hold the Sacrament of the altar to be but bread and wine, which may not be worshipped under peril of idolatry. "

"Well, and why comest not to confession?"

"Because no priest hath power to remit sins. "

"Hang 'em! they are all in a story!" said the chief Commissioner, wrathfully. "But she's a well-favoured maid, this: it were verily pityto burn her, if we could win her to recant. "

What a poor, weak, mean thing human nature is! The men who had no pityfor the white hair of Agnes Silverside, or the calm courage of JohnJohnson, or even the helpless innocence of little Cissy: such things asthese did not touch them at all--these very men were anxious to saveElizabeth Foulkes, not because she was good, but because she wasbeautiful. 

It is a sad, sad blunder, which people often make, to set beauty abovegoodness. Some very wicked things have been done in this world, simplyby thinking too much of beauty. Admiration is a good thing in itsproper place; but a great deal of mischief comes when it gets into thewrong one. Whenever you admire a bad man because he is clever, or afoolish woman because she is pretty, you are letting admiration get outof his place. If we had lived when the Lord Jesus was upon earth, weshould not have found people admiring Him. He was not beautiful. "Hisface was marred more than any man, and His form more than the sons ofmen. " And would it not have been dreadful if we had admired PontiusPilate and Judas Iscariot, and had seen no beauty in Him who is"altogether lovely" to the hearts of those whom the Holy Ghost hastaught to love Him? So take care what sort of beauty you admire, andmake sure that goodness goes along with it. We may be quite certainthat however much men thought of Elizabeth's beautiful face, God thoughtvery little of it. The beauty which He saw in her was her love to theLord Jesus, and her firm stand against what would dishonour Him. Thissort of beauty all of us can have. Oh, do ask God to make you beautifulin _His_ eyes!

No sooner had the chief Commissioner spoken than a voice in the Courtcalled out, --

"Pray you, Worshipful Sirs, save this young maid! I am her mother'sbrother, Thomas Holt of Colchester, and I do you to wit she is of aright good inclination, and no wise perverse. I do entreat you, granther yet another chance. "

Then a gentleman stepped forward from the crowd of listeners. 

"Worshipful Sirs, " said he, "may I have leave to take charge of thisyoung maiden, to the end that she may be reconciled to the Church, andobtain remission of her errors? Truly, as Master Commissioner saith, itwere pity so fair a creature were made food for the fire. "

"Who are you?--and what surety give you?" asked Sir John. 

Sir Thomas Tye rose from his seat on the Bench. 

"Please it, your Worships, that is Master Ashby of this town, a goodCatholic man, and well to be trusted. If your Worships be pleased toshow mercy to the maid, as indeed I would humbly entreat you to do, there were no better man than he to serve you in this matter. "

The priest having spoken in favour of Mr Ashby the Commissionersrequired no further surety. 

"Art thou willing to be reformed?" they asked Elizabeth. 

"Sirs, " she answered cautiously, "I am willing to be shown God's trueway, if so be I err from it. "

This was enough for the Commissioners. They wanted to get her free, andthey therefore accepted from her words which would probably have beenused in vain by the rest. Mr Ashby was charged to keep and "reconcile"her, which he promised to do, or to feed her on barley bread if sheproved obstinate. 

As Elizabeth turned to follow him she passed close by Robert Purcas, whom the gaoler was just about to take back to prison. 

"`Thou hast set them in slippery places, '" whispered Purcas as shepassed him. "Keep thou true to Christ. O Elizabeth, mine own love, keep true!"

The tears rose to Elizabeth's eyes. "Pray for me, Robin, " she said. And then each was led away. 

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. 

RESPITE. 

The Commissioners who tried these prisoners were thoroughly worldly men, who really cared nothing about the doctrines which they burned peoplefor not believing. Had it been otherwise, when Queen Elizabeth came tothe throne, less than two years afterwards, these men would have shownthemselves willing to suffer in their turn. But most of them did not dothis--seldom even to the extent of losing promotion, scarcely ever tothat of losing life. They simply wheeled round again to what they hadbeen in the reign of Edward the Sixth. 

It is possible to respect men who are willing to lose their lives forthe sake of what they believe to be true, even though you may think themquite mistaken. But how can you respect a man who will not run the riskof losing a situation or a few pounds in defence of the truth? It isnot possible. 

After the trial of the Colchester prisoners, the Commissioners passed onto other places, and the town was quiet for a time. Mrs Silverside, Johnson and the children, and Purcas, remained in prison in the MootHall, and Elizabeth Foulkes was as truly a prisoner in the house ofHenry Ashby. At first she was very kindly treated, in the hope ofinducing her to recant. But as time went on, things were altered. MrAshby found that what Elizabeth understood by "being shown God's trueway, " was not being argued with by a priest, nor being commanded to obeythe Church, but being pointed to some passage in the Bible which agreedwith what he said; and since what he said was not in accordance with theBible, of course he could not show her any texts which agreed with it. 

The Church of Rome herself admits that people who read the Bible forthemselves generally become Protestants. Does not common sense showthat in that case the Protestant doctrines must be the doctrines of theBible? Why should Rome be so anxious to shut up the Bible if her owndoctrines are to be found there?

Above four months passed on, and no change came to the prisoners, butthere had not been any fresh arrests. The other Gospellers began tobreathe more freely, and to hope that the worst had come already. MrsWade was left at liberty; Mr Ewring had not been taken; surely allwould go well now!

How often we think the worst must be over, just a minute before it comesupon us!

A little rap on Margaret Thurston's door brought her to open it. 

"Why, Rose! I'm fain to see thee, maid. Come in. "

"My mother bade me tell you, Margaret, " said Rose, when the door wasshut, "that there shall be a Scripture reading in our house this even. Will you come?"

"That will we, right gladly, dear heart. At what hour?"

"Midnight. We dare not afore. "

"We'll be there. How fares thy mother to-day?"

"Why, not over well. She seems but ill at ease. Her hands burn, andshe is ever athirst. 'Tis an ill rheum, methinks. "

"Ay, she has caught a bad cold, " said Margaret. "Rose, I'll tell youwhat--we'll come a bit afore midnight, and see if we cannot help you. My master knows a deal touching herbs; he's well-nigh as good as anyapothecary, though I say it, and he'll compound an herb drink that shalldo her good, with God's blessing, while I help you in the house. Whatsay you? Have I well said?"

"Indeed, Margaret, and I'd be right thankful if you would, for it'll behard on Father if he's neither Mother nor me to do for him--she, sickabed, and me waiting on her. "

"Be sure it will! But I hope it'll not be so bad as that. Well, then, look you, we'll shut up the hut and come after you. You haste on toher, and when I've got things a bit tidy, and my master's come fromwork--he looked to be overtime to-night--we'll run over to Bentley, anddo what we can. "

Rose thanked her again, and went on with increased speed. She found hermother no better, and urged her to go to bed, telling her that Margaretwas close at hand. It was now about five in the afternoon. 

Alice agreed to this, for she felt almost too poorly to sit up. Shewent to bed, and Rose flew about the kitchen, getting all finished thatshe could before Margaret should arrive. 

It was Saturday night, and the earliest hours of the Sabbath were to beushered in by the "reading. " Only a few neighbours were asked, for itwas necessary now to be very careful. Half-a-dozen might be invited, asif to supper; but the times when a hundred or more had assembled to hearthe Word of God were gone by. Would they ever come again? They darednot begin to read until all prying eyes and ears were likely to beclosed in sleep; and the reader's voice was low, that nobody might beroused next door. Few people could read then, especially among thelabouring class, so that, except on these occasions, the poorerGospellers had no hope of hearing the words of the Lord. 

The reading was over, and one after another of the guests stole silentlyout into the night--black, noiseless shadows, going up the lane into thevillage, or down it on the way to Thorpe. At length the last was goneexcept the Thurstons, who offered to stay for the night. John Thurstonlay down in the kitchen, and Margaret, finding Alice Mount apparentlybetter, said she would share Rose's bed. 

Alice Mount's malady was what we call a bad feverish cold, and generallywe do not expect it to do anything more than make the patient veryuncomfortable for a week. But in Queen Mary's days they knew very muchless about colds than we do, and they were much more afraid of them. Itwas only six years since the last attack of the terrible sweatingsickness--the last ever to be, but they did not know that--and peoplewere always frightened of anything like a cold turning to that dreadfulepidemic wherein, as King Edward the Sixth writes in his diary, "if onetook cold he died within three hours, and if he escaped, it held him butnine hours, or ten at the most. " It was, therefore, a relief to hearAlice say that she felt better, and urge Rose to go to bed. 

"Well, it scarce seems worth while going to bed, " said Margaret. "Whattime is it? Can you see the church clock, Rose?"

"We can when it's light, " said Rose; "but I think you'll not see itnow. "

Margaret drew back the little curtain, but all was dark, and she let itdrop again. 

"It'll be past one, I reckon, " said she. 

"Oh, ay; a good way on toward two, " was Rose's answer. 

"Rose, have you heard aught of Bessy Foulkes of late?"

"Nought. I've tried to see her, but they keep hot so close at MasterAshby's there's no getting to her. "

"And those poor little children of Johnson's. They're yet in prison, trow?"

"Oh, ay. I wish they'd have let us have the baby Jane Hiltoft has it. She'll care it well enough for the body: but for the soul--"

"Oh, when Johnson's burned--as he will be, I reckon--the children 'll bebred up in convents, be sure, " was Margaret's answer. 

"Nay! I'll be sure of nought so bad as that, as long as God's inheaven. "

"There's no miracles now o' days, Rose. "

"There's God's care, just as much as in Elijah's days. And, Margaret, they've burned little children afore now. "

"Eh, don't, Rose! you give me the cold chills!"

"What's that?" Rose was listening intently. 

"What's what?" said Margaret, who had heard nothing. 

"That! Don't you hear the far-off tramp of men?"

They looked at each other fearfully. Margaret knew well enough of whatRose thought--the Bailiff and his searching party. They stopped theirundressing. Nearer and nearer came that measured tread of a body ofmen. It paused, went on, came close under the window, and paused again. Then a thundering rattle came at the door. 

"Open, in the Queen's name!"

Then they knew it had come--not the worst, but that which led to it--thebeginning of the end. 

Rose quietly, but quickly, put her gown on again. Before she was ready, she heard her step-father's heavy tread as he went down the stairs;heard him draw the bolt, and say, as he opened the door, in calm tones--

"Good-morrow, Master Bailiff. Pray you enter with all honour, an' youcome in the Queen's name. "

Just then the church clock struck two. Two o'clock on the Sabbathmorning!

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. 

ROSE'S FIERY ORDEAL. 

"Art thou come, dear heart?" said Alice Mount, as her daughter ranhurriedly into her bedchamber. "That is well. Rose, the Master iscome, and calleth for us, and He must find us ready. "

There was no time to say more, for steps were ascending the stairs, andin another minute Master Simnel entered--the Bailiff of ColchesterHundred, whose office it was to arrest criminals within his boundaries. He was a rough, rude sort of man, from whom women were wont to shrink. 

"Come, mistress, turn out!" said he. "We'll find you other lodgings fora bit. "

"Master, I will do mine utmost, " said Alice Mount, lifting her achinghead from the pillow; "but I am now ill at ease, and I pray you, giveleave for my daughter to fetch me drink ere I go hence, or I fear I mayscarce walk. "

We must remember that they had then no tea, coffee, or cocoa; and theyhad a funny idea that cold water was excessively unwholesome. The richdrank wine, and the poor thin, weak ale, most of which they brewedthemselves from simple malt and hops--not at all like the strong, intoxicating stuff which people drink in public-houses now. 

Mr Simnel rather growlingly assented to the request. Rose ran down, making her way to the dresser through the rough men of whom the kitchenwas full, to get a jug and a candlestick. As she came out of thekitchen, with the jug in her right hand and the candle in her left, shemet a man--I believe he called himself a gentleman--named Edmund Tyrrel, a relation of that Tyrrel who had been one of the murderers of poorEdward the Fifth and his brother. Rose dropped a courtesy, as she hadbeen taught to do to her betters in social position. 

Mr Tyrrel stopped her. "Look thou, maid! wilt thou advise thy fatherand mother to be good Catholic people?"

Catholic means _general_; and for any one Church to call itself theCatholic Church, is as much as to say that it is the only ChristianChurch, and that other people who do not belong to it are notChristians. It is, therefore, not only untrue, but most insulting toall the Christians who belong to other Churches. Saint Paulparticularly warned the Church of Rome not to think herself better thanother Churches, as you will see in the eleventh chapter of the Epistleto the Romans, verses 17 to 22. But she took no heed, and keeps callingherself _the_ Catholic Church, as if nobody could be a Christian who didnot belong to her. No Protestant Church has ever committed this sin, though some few persons in several denominations may have done so. 

However, Rose was accustomed to the word, and she knew what Mr Tyrrelmeant. So she answered, gently--

"Master, they have a better instructor than I, for the Holy Ghost dothteach them, I hope, which I trust shall not suffer them to err. " [SeeNote 1. ]

Mr Tyrrel grew very angry. He remembered that Rose had been before themagistrates before on account of Protestant opinions, "Why art thoustill in that mind, thou naughty hussy?" cried he. "Marry, it is timeto look upon such heretics indeed. "

Naughty was a much stronger word then than it is now. It meant, utterlyworthless and most wicked. 

Brave Rose Allen! she lifted her eyes to the face of her insulter, andreplied, --"Sir, with that which you call heresy, do I worship my LordGod, I tell you truth. "

"Then I perceive you will burn, gossip, with the rest for company'ssake, " said Mr Tyrrel, making a horrible joke. 

"No, sir, not for company's sake, " said Rose, "but for my Christ's sake, if so be I be compelled; and I hope in His mercies, if He call me to it, He will enable me to bear it. "

Never did apostle or martyr answer better, nor bear himself morebravely, than this girl! Mr Tyrrel was in the habit of looking withthe greatest reverence on certain other young girls, whom he calledSaint Agnes, Saint Margaret, and Saint Katherine--girls who had madesuch answers to Pagan persecutors, twelve hundred years or so beforethat time: but he could not see that the same scene was being enactedagain, and that he was persecuting the Lord Jesus in the person of youngRose Allen. He took the candle from her hand, and she did not resisthim. The next minute he was holding her firmly by the wrist, with herhand in the burning flame, watching her face to see what she would do. 

She did nothing. Not a scream, not a word, not even a moan, came fromthe lips of Rose Allen. All that could be seen was that the empty jugwhich she held in the other hand trembled a little as she stood there. 

"Wilt thou not cry?" sneered Tyrrel as he held her, --and he called hersome ugly names which I shall not write. 

The answer was as calm as it could be. "I have no cause, thank God, "said Rose tranquilly; "but rather to rejoice. You have more cause toweep than I, if you consider the matter well. "

When people set to work to vex you, nothing makes them more angry thanto take it quietly, and show no vexation. That is, if they are peoplewith mean minds. If there be any generosity in them, then it is the wayto make them see that they are wrong. There was no generosity, nor loveof justice, in Edmund Tyrrel. When Rose Allen stood so calmly beforehim, with her hand on fire, he was neither softened nor ashamed. Heburned her till "the sinews began to crack, " and then he let go her handand pushed her roughly away, calling her all the bad names he couldthink of while he did so. 

"Sir, " was the meek and Christlike response, "have you done what youwill do?"

Surely few, even among martyrs, have behaved with more exquisitegentleness than this! The maiden's hand was cruelly burnt, and hertormentor was adding insult to injury by heaping false and abominablenames upon her: and the worst thing she had to say to him was simply toask whether he wished to torture her any more!

"Yes, " sneered Tyrrel. "And if thou think it not well, then mend it!"

"`Mend it'!" repeated Rose. "Nay! the Lord mend you, and give yourepentance, if it be His will. And now, if you think it good, begin atthe feet, and burn to the head also. For he that set you a-work shallpay you your wages one day, I warrant you. "

And with this touch of sarcasm--only just enough to show how well shecould have handled that weapon if she had chosen to fight with it--Rosecalmly went her way, wetted a rag, and bound up her injured hand, andthen drew the ale and carried it to her mother. 

"How long hast thou been, child!" said her mother, who of course had nonotion what had been going on downstairs. 

"Ay, Mother; I am sorry for it, " was the quiet reply. "Master Tyrrelstayed me in talk for divers minutes. "

"What said he to thee?" anxiously demanded Alice. 

"He asked me if I did mean to entreat you and my father to be goodCatholics; and when I denied the same, gave me some ill words. "

Rose said nothing about the burning, and as she dexterously kept herinjured hand out of her mother's sight, all that Alice realised was thatthe girl was a trifle less quick and handy than usual. 

"She's a good, quick maid in the main, " said she to herself: "I'll notfault her if she's upset a bit. "

While Rose was helping her mother to dress, the Bailiff was questioningher step-father whether any one else was in the house. 

"I'm here, " said John Thurston, rising from the pallet-bed where he layin a corner of the little scullery. "You'd best take me, if you wantme. "

"Take them all!" cried Tyrrel. "They be all in one tale, be sure. "

"Were you at mass this last Sunday?" said the Bailiff to Thurston. Hewas not quite so bad as Tyrrel. 

"No, that was I not, " answered Thurston firmly. 

"Wherefore?"

"Because I will not worship any save God Almighty. "

"Why, who else would we have you to worship?"

"Nay, it's not who else, it's what else. You would have me to worshipstocks and stones, that cannot hear nor see; and cakes of bread that thebaker made overnight in his oven. I've as big a throat as other men, yet can I not swallow so great a notion as that the baker made Him thatmade the baker. "

"Of a truth, thou art a naughty heretic!" said the Bailiff; "and I mustneeds carry thee hence with the rest. But where is thy wife?"

Ay, where was Margaret? Nobody had seen her since the Bailiff knockedat the door. He ordered his men to search for her; but she had hiddenherself so well that some time passed before she could be found. Atlength, with much laughter, one of the Bailiff's men dragged her out ofa wall-closet, where she crouched hidden behind an old box. Then theBailiff shouted for Alice Mount and Rose to be brought down, andproceeded to tie his prisoners together, two and two, --Rose contrivingto slip back, so that she should be marched behind her parents. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. This part of the story is all quite true, and I am not puttinginto Rose's lips, in her conversation with Mr Tyrrel, one word whichshe did not really utter. 

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. 

IN COLCHESTER CASTLE. 

The whole population of Much Bentley seemed to have turned out towitness the arrest at the Blue Bell. Some were kindly and sympathising, some bitter and full of taunts; but the greater number were simplyinquisitive, neither friendly nor hostile, but gossipping. It was nowfour o'clock, a time at which half the people were up in the village, and many a woman rose an hour earlier than her wont, in order to see thestrange sight. There were the carpenters with baskets of tools slungover their shoulders; the gardeners with rake or hoe; the labourers withtheir spades; the fishermen with their nets. 

The Colne oyster-fishery is the oldest of all known fisheries inEngland, and its fame had reached imperial Rome itself, nearly twothousand years ago, when the Emperor Caligula came over to Englandpartly for the purpose of tasting the Colchester oyster. The oystersare taken in the Colne and placed in pits, where they are fattened tillthey reach the size of a silver oyster preserved among the towntreasures. In April or May, when the baby oyster first appears in theriver, it looks like a drop from a tallow candle; but in twenty-fourhours the shell begins to form. The value of the oyster spawn (as thebaby oysters are called) in the river, is reckoned at twenty thousandpounds; and from five to ten thousand pounds' worth of oysters is soldevery year. 

"Well, Master Mount, how like you your new pair o' bracelets?" said oneof the fishermen, as William Mount was led out, and his hands tied witha rough cord. 

"Friend, I count it honour to bear for my Lord that which He first barefor me, " was the meek answer. 

"Father Tye 'll never preach a better word than that, " said a voice inthe crowd. 

Mr Simnel looked up as if to see who spoke. 

"Go on with thy work, old cage-maker!" cried another voice. "We'll notfind thee more gaol-birds to-day than what thou hast. "

"You'd best hold your saucy tongues, " said the nettled Bailiff. 

"Nay, be not so tetchy, Master Simnel!" said another. The same personnever seemed to speak twice; a wise precaution, since the speaker wasless likely to be arrested if he did not repeat the offence. "Fiveslices of meat be enough for one man's supper. "

This allusion to the number of the prisoners, and the rapacity of theBailiff, was received with laughter by the crowd. The Bailiff's temper, never of the best, was quite beyond control by this time. He relievedit by giving Mount a heavy blow, as he pushed him into line after tyinghis wife to him. 

"Hit him back, Father Mount!" cried one of the voices. William Mountshook his head with a smile. 

"I'll hit some of you--see if I don't!" responded the incensed Bailiff, who well knew his own unpopularity. 

"Hush, fellows!" said an authoritative voice. "Will ye resist theQueen's servants?"

John Thurston and his wife were next tied together, and placed behindthe Mounts, the crowd remaining quiet while this was being done. Thenthey brought Rose Allen, and fastened her, by a cord round her wrists, to the same rope. 

"Eh, Lord have mercy on the young maid!" said a woman's voice in acompassionate tone. 

"Young witch, rather!" responded a man, roughly. 

"Hold thy graceless tongue, Jack Milman!" replied a woman's shrilltones. "Didn't Rose Allen make broth for thee when we were both sick, and go out of a cold winter night a-gathering herbs to ease thy pain?Be shamed to thee, if thou knows what shame is, casting ill words at herin her trouble!"

Just as the prisoners were marched off, another voice hitherto silentseemed to come from the very midst of the crowd. It said, --

"Be ye faithful unto death, and Christ shall give you a crown of life. "

"Take that man!" said the Bailiff, stopping. 

But the man was not to be found. Nobody knew--at least nobody wouldown--who had uttered those fearless words. 

So the prisoners were marched away on the road to Colchester. They wentin at Bothal's Gate, up Bothal Street, and past the Black Friars'monastery to the Castle. 

Colchester Castle is one of the oldest castles in England, for it wasbuilt by King Edward the Elder, the son of Alfred the Great. It is alow square mass, with the largest Norman keep, or centre tower, in thecountry. The walls are twelve feet thick, and the whole ground floor, and two of the four towers, are built up perfectly solid from thebottom, that it might be made as strong as possible. It was built withRoman bricks, and the Roman mortar still sticks to some of them. Builders always know Roman mortar, for it is so much harder than anymortar people know how to make now--quite as hard as stone itself. Thechimneys run up through the walls. 

The prisoners were marched up to the great entrance gate, on the southside of the Castle. The Bailiff blew his horn, and the porter opened alittle wicket and looked out. 

"Give you good-morrow, Master Bailiff. Another batch, I reckon?"

"Ay, another batch, belike. You'll have your dungeons full ere long. "

"Oh, we've room enough and to spare!" said the porter with a grin. "None so many, yet. Two men fetched in yestereven for breaking folks'heads in a drunken brawl; and two or three debtors; and a lad forthieving, and such; then Master Maynard brought an handful in thismorrow--Moot Hall was getting too full, he said. "

"Ay so? who brought he?"

"Oh, Alegar o' Thorpe, and them bits o' children o' his, that should belearning their hornbooks i' school sooner than be here, trow. "

"You'd best teach 'em, Tom, " suggested Mr Simnel with a grim smile. "Now then, in with you!"

And the prisoners were marched into the Castle dungeon. 

In the corner of the dungeon sat John Johnson, his Bible on his knee, and beside him, snuggled close to him, Cissy. Little Will was seated onthe floor at his father's feet, playing with some bits of wood. Johnsonlooked up as his friends entered. 

"Why, good friends! Shall I say I am glad or sorry to behold you here?"

"Glad, " answered William Mount, firmly, "if so we may glorify God. "

"I'm glad, I know, " said Cissy, jumping from the term, and giving a warmhug to Rose. "I thought God would send somebody. You see, Father wasdown a bit when we came here this morning, and left everybody behind us;but you've come now, and he'll be ever so pleased. It isn't bad, youknow--not bad at all--and then there's Father. But, Rose, what have youdone to your hand? It's tied up. "

"Hush, dear! Only hurt it a bit, Cissy. Don't speak of it, " said Rosein an undertone; "I don't want mother to see it, or she'll trouble aboutit, maybe. It doesn't hurt much now. "

Cissy nodded, with a face which said that she thoroughly entered intoRose's wish for silence. 

"Eh dear, dear! that we should have lived to see this day!" criedMargaret Thurston, melting into tears as she sat down in the corner. 

"Rose!" said her father suddenly, "thy left hand is bound up. Hast hurtit, maid?"

Rose's eyes, behind her mother's back, said, "Please don't ask meanything about it!" But Alice turned round to look, and she had to ownthe truth. 

"Why, maid! That must have been by the closet where I was hid, and Inever heard thee scream, " said Margaret. 

"Nay, Meg, I screamed not. "

"Lack-a-day! how could'st help the same?"

"Didn't it hurt sore, Rose?" asked John Thurston. 

"Not nigh so much as you might think, " answered Rose, brightly. "At thefirst it caused me some grief; but truly, the more it burned the less ithurt, till at last it was scarce any hurt at all. "

"But thou had'st the pot in thine other hand, maid; wherefore not havehit him a good swing therewith?"

"Truly, Meg, I thank God that He held mine hand from any such deed. `The servant of the Lord must not strive. ' I should thus havedishonoured my Master. "

"Marry, but that may be well enough for angels and such like. _We_dwell in this nether world. "

"Rose hath the right, " said William Mount. "We may render unto no manrailing for railing. `If we suffer as Christians, happy are we; for theSpirit of glory and of God resteth upon us. ' Let us not suffer asmalefactors. "

"You say well, neighbour, " added John Thurston. "We be called to thedefence of God's truth, but in no wise to defend ourselves. "

"Nay, the Lord is the avenger of all that have none other, " said Alice. "But let me see thine hand, child, maybe I can do thee some ease. "

"Under your good leave, Mother, I would rather not unlap it, " repliedRose. "Truly, it scarce doth me any hurt now; and I bound it well witha wet rag, that I trow it were better to let it be. It shall do wellenough, I cast no doubt. "

She did not want her mother to see how terribly it was burned. And inher heart was a further thought which she would not put into words--Ifthey shortly burn my whole body, what need is there to trouble aboutthis little hurt to my hand?

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. 

SHUTTING THE DOOR. 

Once more the days wore on, and no fresh arrests were made; but no helpcame to the prisoners in the Castle and the Moot Hall, nor to ElizabethFoulkes in the keeping of Mr Ashby. Two priests had talked toElizabeth, and the authorities were beginning to change their opinionabout her. They had fancied from her quiet, meek appearance, that shewould be easily prevailed upon to say what they wanted. Now they foundthat under that external softness there was a will of iron, and a powerof endurance beyond anything they had imagined. 

The day of examination for all the prisoners--the last day, when theywould be sentenced or acquitted--was appointed to be the 23rd of June. On the previous day the Commissioners called Elizabeth Foulkes beforethem. She came, accompanied by Mr Ashby and her uncle; and they askedher only one question. 

"Dost thou believe in a Catholic Church of Christ, or no?"

Of course Elizabeth replied "Yes, " for the Bible has plenty to say ofthe Church of Christ, though it never identifies it with the Church ofRome. They asked her no more, for Boswell, the scribe, interposed, andbegged that she might be consigned to the keeping of her uncle. TheCommissioners assented, and Holt took her away. It looks very much asif Boswell had wanted her to escape. She was much more carelesslyguarded in her uncle's house than in Mr Ashby's, and could have gotaway easily enough if she had chosen. She was more than once sent toopen the front door, whence she might have slipped out after dark withalmost a certainty of escape. It was quite dark when she answered thelast rap. 

"Pray you, " asked an old man's voice, "is here a certain young maid, byname Elizabeth Foulkes?"

"I am she, master. What would you with me?"

"A word apart, " he answered in a whisper. "Be any ears about thatshould not be?"

Elizabeth glanced back into the kitchen where her aunt was sewing, andher two cousins gauffering the large ruffs which both men and women thenwore. 

"None that can harm. Say on, my master. "

"Bessy, dost know my voice?"

"I do somewhat, yet I can scarce put a name thereto. "

"I am Walter Purcas, of Booking. "

"Robin's father! Ay, I know you well now, and I cry you mercy that Idid no sooner. "

"Come away with me, Bessy!" he said, in a loud whisper. "I have walkedall the way from Booking to see if I might save thee, for Robin's sake, for he loves thee as he loveth nought else save me. Mistress Wade shalllend me an horse, and we can be safe ere night be o'er, in the house ofa good man that I know in a place unsuspect. O Bessy, my dear lass, save thyself and come with me!"

"Save thyself!" The words had been addressed once before, fifteenhundred years back, to One who did not save Himself, because He came tosave the world. Before the eyes of Elizabeth rose two visions--one fairand sweet enough, a vision of safety and comfort, of life and happiness, which might be yet in state for her. But it was blotted out by theother--a vision of three crosses reared on a bare rock, when the One whohung in the midst could have saved Himself at the cost of the glory ofthe Father and the everlasting bliss of His Church. And from that crossa voice seemed to whisper to her--"If any man serve Me, let him followMe. "

"Verily, I am loth you should have your pain for nought, " said she, "butindeed I cannot come with you, though I do thank you with all my heart. I am set here in ward of mine uncle, and for me to 'scape away wouldcause penalty to fall on him. I cannot save myself at his cost. Andshould not the Papists take it to mean that I had not the courage tostand to that which they demanded of me? Nay, Father Purcas, this willI not do, for so should I lose my crown, and dim the glory of myChrist. "

"Bessy!" cried her aunt from the kitchen, "do come within and shut thedoor, maid! Here's the wind a-blowing in till I'm nigh feared o' losingmy ears, and all the lace like to go up the chimney, while thou tarriestchatting yonder. What gossip hast thou there? Canst thou not bring herin?"

"Bessy, _come_!" whispered Purcas earnestly. 

But Elizabeth shook her head. "The Lord bless you! I dare not. " Andshe shut the door, knowing that by so doing, she virtually shut it uponlife and happiness--that is, happiness in this life. Elizabeth wentquietly back to the kitchen, and took up an iron. She scarcely knewwhat she was ironing, nor how she answered her cousin Dorothy's rathersarcastic observations upon the interesting conversation which sheseemed to have had. A few minutes later her eldest cousin, a marriedwoman, who lived in a neighbouring street, lifted the latch and came in. 

"Good even, Mother!" said she. "Well, Doll, and Jenny! So thou gave inat last, Bess? I'm fain for thee. It's no good fighting against astone wall. "

"What dost thou mean, Chrissy?"

"What mean I? Why, didn't thou give in? Lots o' folks is saying so. Set thy name, they say, to a paper that thou'd yield to the Pope, and beobedient in all things. I hope it were true. "

"True! that I yielded to the Pope, and promised to obey him!" criedElizabeth in fiery indignation. "It's not true, Christian Meynell!Tell every soul so that asks thee! I'll die before I do it. Where bethe Commissioners?"

"Thank the saints, they've done their sitting, " said Mrs Meynell, laughing: "or I do believe this foolish maid should run right into thelion's den. Mother, lock her up to-morrow, won't you, without she'ssummoned?"

"Where are they?" peremptorily demanded Elizabeth. 

"Sitting down to their supper at Mistress Cosin's, " was the laughinganswer. "Don't thou spoil it by rushing in all of a--"

"I shall go to them this minute, " said Elizabeth tying on her hood, which she had taken down from its nail. "No man nor woman shall saysuch words of me. Good-night, Aunt; I thank you for all your goodness, and may the good Lord bless you and yours for ever Farewell!" And amida shower of exclamations and entreaties from her startled relatives, whonever expected conduct approaching to this, Elizabeth left the house. 

She had not far to go on that last walk in this world. The White Hart, where the Commissioners were staying, was full of light and animationthat night when she stepped into it from the dark street, and askedleave to speak a few words to the Queen's Commissioners. 

"What would you with them?" asked a red-cheeked maid who came to her. 

"That shall they know speedily, " was the answer. 

The Commissioners were rather amused to be told that a girl wanted tosee them: but when they heard who it was, they looked at each other withraised eyebrows, and ordered her to be called in. They had finishedsupper, and were sitting over their wine, as gentlemen were then wont todo rather longer than was good for them. 

Elizabeth came forward to the table and confronted them. TheCommissioners themselves were two in number, Sir John Kingston and DrChedsey; but the scribe, sheriff, and bailiffs were also present. 

"Worshipful Sirs, " she said in a clear voice, "I have been told it isreported in this town that I have made this day by you submission andobedience to the Pope. And since this is not true, nor by God's graceshall never be, I call on you to do your duty, and commit me to theQueen's Highness' prison, that I may yet again bear my testimony for myLord Christ. "

There was dead silence for a moment. Dr Chedsey looked at the girlwith admiration which seemed almost reverence. Sir John Kingston knithis brows, and appeared inclined to examine her there and then. Boswellhalf rose as if he would once more have pleaded with or for her. ButMaynard, the Sheriff, whom nothing touched, and who was scarcely sober, sprang to his feet and dashed his hand upon the table, with a cry that"the jibbing jade should repent kicking over the traces this time!" Heseized Elizabeth, marched her to the Moot Hall, and thrust her into thedungeon: and with a bass clang as if it had been the very gate of doom, the great door closed behind her. 

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. 

AT THE BAR. 

The great hall of the Moot Hall in Colchester was filling rapidly. Every townsman, and every townswoman, wanted to hear the examination, and to know the fate of the prisoners--of whom there were so many thatnot many houses were left in Colchester where the owners had not somefamily connection or friend among them. Into the hall, robed injudicial ermine, filed the Royal Commissioners, Sir John Kingston, andDr Chedsey, followed by Boswell, the scribe, Robert Maynard and RobertBrown the Sheriffs, several priests, and many magistrates and gentlemenof the surrounding country. Having opened the Court, they firstsummoned before them William Bongeor, the glazier, of Saint Michael'sparish, aged sixty, then Thomas Benold, the tallow-chandler, andthirdly, Robert Purcas. They asked Purcas "what he had to say touchingthe Sacrament. "

"When we receive the Sacrament, " he answered, "we receive bread in anholy use, that preacheth remembrance that Christ died for us. "

The three men were condemned to death: and then Agnes Silverside wasbrought to the bar. She was some time under examination, for sheanswered all the questions asked her so wisely and so firmly, that theCommissioners themselves were disconcerted. They took refuge, as suchmen usually did, in abuse, calling her ugly names, and asking "if shewished to burn her rotten old bones?"

Helen Ewring, the miller's wife, followed: and both were condemned. 

Then the last of the Moot Hall prisoners, Elizabeth Foulkes, was placedat the bar. 

"Dost thou believe, " inquired Dr Chedsey, "that in the most holySacrament of the altar, the body and blood of Christ is really andsubstantially present?"

Elizabeth's reply, in her quiet, clear voice, was audible in every partof the hall. 

"I believe it to be a substantial lie, and a real lie. "

"Shame! shame!" cried one of the priests on the bench. 

"Horrible blasphemy!" cried another. 

"What is it, then, that there is before consecration?" asked DrChedsey. 

"Bread. "

"Well said. And what is there after consecration?"

"Bread, still. "

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing more, " said Elizabeth firmly. "The receiving of Christ liesnot in the bread, but is heavenly and spiritual only. "

"What say you to confession?"

"I will use none, seeing no priest hath power to remit sin. "

"Will you go to mass?"

"I will not, for it is idolatry. "

"Will you submit to the authority of the Pope?"

Elizabeth's answer was even stronger than before. 

"I do utterly detest all such trumpery from the bottom of my heart!"

They asked her no more. Dr Chedsey, for the sixth and last time, assumed the black cap, and read the sentence of death. 

"Thou shalt be taken from here to the place whence thou earnest, andthence to the place of execution, there to be burned in the fire tillthou art dead. "

Never before had Chedsey's voice been known to falter in pronouncingthat sentence. He had spoken it to white-haired men, and delicatewomen, ay, even to little children; but this once, every spectatorlooked up in amazement at his tone, and saw the judge in tears. Andthen, turning to the prisoner, they saw her face "as it were the face ofan angel. "

Before any one could recover from the sudden hush of awe which hadfallen upon the Court, Elizabeth Foulkes knelt down, and carried herappeal from that unjust sentence to the higher bar of God Almighty. 

"O Lord our Father!" she said, "I thank and praise and glorify Thee thatI was ever born to see this day--this most blessed and happy day, whenThou hast accounted me worthy to suffer for the testimony of Christ. And, Lord, if it be Thy will, forgive them that thus have done againstme, for they know not what they do. "

How many of us would be likely to thank God for allowing us to bemartyrs? These were true martyrs who did so, men and women so full ofthe Holy Ghost that they counted not their lives dear unto them, --soupheld by God's power that the shrinking of the flesh from that dreadfulpain and horror was almost forgotten. We must always remember that itwas not by their own strength, or their own goodness, but by the bloodof the Lamb, that Christ's martyrs have triumphed over Death and Satan. 

Then Elizabeth rose from her knees, and turned towards the Bench. Likean inspired prophetess she spoke--this poor, simple, humble servant-girlof twenty years--astonishing all who heard her. 

"Repent, all ye that sit there!" she cried earnestly, "and especially yethat brought me to this prison: above all thou, Robert Maynard, that artso careless of human life that thou wilt oft sit sleeping on the benchwhen a man is tried for his life. Repent, O ye halting Gospellers! andbeware of blood-guiltiness, for that shall call for vengeance. Yea, ifye will not herein repent your wicked doings, "--and as Elizabeth spoke, she laid her hand upon the bar--"this very bar shall be witness againstyou in the Day of Judgment, that ye have this day shed innocent blood!"

Oh, how England needs such a prophetess now! and above all, those"halting Gospellers, " the men who talk sweetly about charity andtoleration, and sit still, and will not come to the help of the Lordagainst the mighty! They sorely want reminding that Christ has said, "He that is not with us is against us. " It is a very poor excuse tosay, "Oh, I am not doing any harm. " Are you doing any good? That isthe question. If not, a wooden post is as good as you are. And are yousatisfied to be no better than a wooden post?

What grand opportunities there are before boys and girls on thethreshold of life! What are you going to do with your life? Remember, you have only one. And there are only two things you can do with it. You must give it to somebody--and it must be either God or Satan. Allthe lives that are not given to God fall into the hands of Satan. Thereare very few people who say to themselves deliberately, Now, I will notgive my life to God. They only say, Oh, there's plenty of time; I won'tdo it just now; I want to enjoy myself. They don't know that there isno happiness on earth like that of deciding for God. And so they go onday after day, not deciding either way, but just frittering their livesaway bit by bit, until the last day comes, and the last bit of life, andthen it is too late to decide. Would you like such a poor, mean, valueless thing as this to be the one life which is all you have? Wouldyou not rather have a bright, rich, full life, with God Himself for yourbest friend on earth, and then a triumphal entry into the Golden City, and the singer's harp, and the victor's palm, and the prince's crown, and the King's "Well done, good and faithful servant?"

Do you say, Yes. I would choose that, but I do not know how? Well, then, tell the Lord that. Say to Him, "Lord, I want to be Thy friendand servant, and I do not know how. " Keep on saying it till He showsyou how. He is sure to do it, for He cares about it much more than youdo. Never fancy for one minute that God does not want you to go toHeaven, and that it will be hard work to persuade Him to let you in. Hewants you to come more than you want it. He gave His own Son that youmight come. "Greater love hath no man than this. "

Now, will you not come to Him--will you not say to Him, "Lord, here amI; take me"? Are you going to let the Lord Jesus feel that all thecruel suffering which He bore for you was in vain? He is ready to saveyou, if you will let Him; but He will not do it against your will. Howshall it be?

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. 

THE SONG OF TRIUMPH. 

Elizabeth Foulkes was the last prisoner tried in the Moot Hall. TheCommissioners then adjourned to the Castle. Here there were sixprisoners, as before. The first arraigned was William Mount. He wasasked, as they all were--it was the great test question for the Marianmartyrs--what he had to say of the Sacrament of the altar, which wasanother name for the mass. 

"I say that it is an abominable idol, " was his answer. 

"Wherefore comest thou not to confession?"

"Sirs, I dare not take part in any Popish doings, for fear of God'svengeance, " said the brave old man. 

Brave! ay, for the penalty was death. But what are they, of whom thereare so many, whose actions if not words say that they dare not refuse totake part in Popish doings, for fear of man's scorn and ridicule? Poor, mean cowards!

It was not worth while to go further. William Mount was sentenced todeath, and John Johnson was brought to the bar. Neither were they longwith him, for he had nothing to say but what he had said before. He toowas sentenced to die. 

Then Alice Mount was brought up. She replied to their questions exactlyas her husband had done. She was satisfied with his answers: theyshould be hers. Once more the sentence was read, and she was led away. 

Then Rose Allen was placed at the bar. So little had the past dauntedher, that she did more than defy the Commissioners: she made fun ofthem. Standing there with her burnt hand still in its wrappings, shepositively laughed Satan and all his servants to scorn. 

They asked her what she had to say touching the mass. 

"I say that it stinketh in the face of God! [see Note 1] and I dare nothave to do therewith for my life. "

"Are you not a member of the Catholic Church?"

"I am no member of yours, for ye be members of Antichrist, and shallhave the reward of Antichrist. "

"What say you of the see of the Bishop of Rome?"

"I am none of his. As for his see, it is for crows, kites, owls, andravens to swim in, such as you be; for by the grace of God I will notswim in that sea while I live, neither will I have any thing to dotherewith. "

Nothing could overcome the playful wit of this indomitable girl. Shepunned on their words, she laughed at their threats, she held them up toridicule. This must be ended. 

For the fourth time Dr Chedsey assumed the black cap. Rose keptsilence while she was condemned to death. But no sooner had his voiceceased than, to the amazement of all who heard her, she broke forth intosong. It was verily:

 "The shout of them that triumph, The song of them that feast. "

She was led out of the court and down the dungeon steps, singing, tillher voice filled the whole court. 

 "Yea, though I walk through death's dark vale, Yet will I fear none ill; Thy rod, Thy staff doth comfort me, And Thou art with me still. "

Which was the happier, do you think, that night? Dr Chedsey, who hadread the sentence of death upon ten martyrs? or young Rose Allen, whowas to be burned to death in five weeks?

When Rose's triumphant voice had died away, the gaoler was hastilybidden to bring the other two prisoners. The Commissioners were verymuch annoyed. It was a bad thing for the people who stood by, theythought, when martyrs insisted on singing in response to a sentence ofexecution. They wanted to make the spectators forget such scenes. 

"Well, where be the prisoners?" said Sir John Kingston. 

"Please, your Worships, they be at the bar!" answered the gaolor, with agrin. 

"At the bar, man? But I see nought. Be they dwarfs?"

"Something like, " said the gaoler. 

He dragged up a form to the bar, and lifted on it, first, Will Johnson, and then Cissy. 

"Good lack! such babes as these!" said Sir John, in great perplexity. 

He felt it really very provoking. Here was a girl of twenty who hadmade fun of him in the most merciless manner, and had the audacity tosing when condemned to die, thus setting a shocking example, andawakening the sympathy of the public: and here, to make matters worse, were two little children brought up as heretics! This would never do. It was the more awkward from his point of view, that Cissy was so smallthat he took her to be much younger than she was. 

"I cannot examine these babes!" said he to Chedsey. 

Dr Chedsey, in answer, took the examination on himself. 

"How old art thou, my lad?" said he to Will. 

Will made no answer, and his sister spoke up for him. 

"Please, sir, he's six. "

"And what dost thou believe?" asked the Commissioner, half scornfully, half amused. 

"Please, we believe what Father told us. "

"Who is their father?" was asked of the gaoler. 

"Johnson, worshipful Sirs: Alegar, of Thorpe, that you have sentencedthis morrow. "

"Gramercy!" said Sir John. "Take them down, Wastborowe, --take themdown, and carry them away. Have them up another day. Such babes!"

Cissy heard him, and felt insulted, as a young woman of her agenaturally would. 

"Please, Sir, I'm not a baby! Baby's a baby, but Will's six, and I'mgoing in ten. And we are going to be as good as we can, and mind allFather said to us. "

"Take them away--take them away!" cried Sir John. 

Wastborowe lifted Will down. 

"But please--" said Cissy piteously--"isn't nothing to be done to us?Mayn't we go 'long of Father?"

"Ay, for the present, " answered Wastborowe, as he took a hand of each tolead them back. 

"But isn't Father to be burned?"

"Come along! I can't stay, " said the gaoler hastily. Even his hardheart shrank from answering yes to that little pleading face. 

"But please, oh please, they mustn't burn Father and not us! We _must_go with Father. "

"Wastborowe!" Sir John's voice called back. 

"Take 'em down, Tom, " said Wastborowe to his man, --not at all sorry togo away from Cissy. He ran back to court. 

"We are of opinion, Wastborowe, " said Dr Chedsey rather pompously, "that these children are too young and ignorant to be put to the bar. We make order, therefore, that they be discharged, and set in care ofsome good Catholic woman, if any be among their kindred; and if not, letthem be committed to the care of some such not akin to them. "

"Please, your Worships, I know nought of their kindred, " said the gaolerscratching his head. "Jane Hiltoft hath the babe at this present. "

"What, is there a lesser babe yet?" asked Dr Chedsey, laughing. 

"Ay, there is so: a babe in arms. "

"Worshipful Sirs, might it please you to hear a poor woman?"

"Speak on, good wife. "

"Sirs, " said the woman who had spoken, coming forward out of the crowd, "my name is Ursula Felstede, and I dwell at Thorpe, the next door toJohnson. The babes know me, and have been in my charge aforetime. MayI pray your good Worships to set them in my care? I have none of mineown, and would bring them up to mine utmost as good subjects and honestfolks. "

"Ay so? and how about good Catholics?"

"Sirs, Father Tye will tell you I go to mass and confession both. "

"So she doth, " said the priest: "but I misdoubt somewhat if she be notof the `halting Gospellers' whereof we heard this morrow in the MootHall. "

"Better put them in charge of the Black Sisters of Hedingham, " suggestedDr Chedsey. "Come you this even, good woman, to the White Hart, andyou shall then hear our pleasure. Father Tye, I pray you come with usto supper. "

Dr Chedsey had quite recovered from his emotions of the morning. 

"Meanwhile, " said Sir John, rising, "let the morrow of Lammas beappointed for the execution of those sentenced. " [See note 2. ]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Rose's words are given as she spoke them: but it must beremembered that they would not sound nearly so strong to those who heardthem as they do to us. 

Note 2. Lammas is the second of August. 

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. 

MAN PROPOSES. 

Mrs Cosin, the landlady of the White Hart, prepared a very good supperfor the Commissioners. These gentlemen did not fare badly. First, theyhad a dish of the oysters for which the town was famous, then some roastbeef and a big venison pasty, then some boiled pigeons, then two orthree puddings, a raspberry pie, curds and whey, cheese, with a gooddeal of Malmsey wine and old sack, finishing up with cherries and sweetbiscuits. 

They had reached the cherry stage before they began to talk beyond merepassing remarks. Then the priest said:--

"I am somewhat feared, Master Commissioners, you shall reckon Colchesteran infected place, seeing there be here so many touched with the poisonof heresy. "

"It all comes of self-conceit, " said Sir John. 

"Nay, " answered Dr Chedsey. "Self-conceit is scarce wont to bring aman to the stake. It were more like to save him from it. "

"Well, but why can't they let things alone?" inquired Sir John, helpinghimself to a biscuit. "They know well enough what they shall come to ifthey meddle with matters of religion. Why don't they leave the priestto think for them?"

Dr Chedsey was silent: not because he did not know the answer. Thetime was when he, too, had been one of those now despised and condemnedGospellers. In Edward the Sixth's day, he had preached the full, richGospel of the grace of God: and now he was a deserter to the enemy. Some of such men--perhaps most--grew very hard and stony, and seemed totake positive pleasure in persecuting those who were more faithful thanthemselves: but there were a few with whom the Spirit of God continuedto strive, who now and then remembered from whence they had fallen, andto whom that remembrance brought poignant anguish when it came uponthem. Dr Chedsey appears to have been one of this type. Let us hopethat these wandering sheep came home at last in the arms of the GoodShepherd who sought them with such preserving tenderness. But the sadtruth is that we scarcely know with certainty of one who did so. On theaccession of Elizabeth, when we might have expected them to come forwardand declare their repentance if it were sincere, they did no such thing:they simply dropped into oblivion, and we lose them there. 

It is a hard and bitter thing to depart from God: how hard, and howbitter, only those know in this world who try to turn round and comeback. It will be known fully in that other world whence there is nocoming back. 

Dr Chedsey, then, was silent: not because he did not understand thematter, but because he knew it too well. Sir John had said theProtestants "knew what they would come to": that was the stake and thefire. But those who persecuted Christ in the person of His elect--whatwere they going to come to? It was not pleasant to think about that. Dr Chedsey was very glad that it was just then announced that a womanbegged leave to speak with their Worships. 

"It shall be yon woman that would fain take the children, I cast nodoubt, " said Sir John: "and we have had no talk thereupon. Shall shehave them or no?"

"What say you, Father Tye?"

"Truly, that I have not over much trust in Felstede's wife. She waswont of old time to have Bible-readings and prayer-meetings at herhouse; and though she feigneth now to be reconciled and Catholic, yet Idoubt her repentance is but skin deep. The children were better a dealwith the Black Nuns. Yet--there may be some time ere we can despatchthem thither, and if you thought good, Felstede's wife might have themtill then. "

"Good!" said Sir John. "Call the woman in. "

Ursula Felstede was called in, and stood courtesying at the door. SirJohn put on his stern and pompous manner in speaking to her. 

"It seemeth best to the Queen's Grace's Commission, " said he, "thatthese children were sent in the keeping of the Sisters of Hedingham: yetas time may elapse ere the Prioress cometh to town, we leave them in thycharge until she send for them. Thou shalt keep them well, learn themto be good Catholics, and deliver them to the Black Nuns when theydemand it. "

Ursula courtesied again, and "hoped she should do her duty. "

"So do I hope, " said the priest. "But I give thee warning, UrsulaFelstede, that thy duty hath not been over well done ere this: and 'tishigh time thou shouldst amend if thou desire not to be brought to book. "

Ursula dropped half-a-dozen courtesies in a flurried way. 

"Please it, your Reverence, I am a right true Catholic, and shall learnthe children so to be. "

"Mind thou dost!" said Sir John. 

Dr Chedsey meanwhile had occupied himself in writing out an order forthe children to be delivered to Ursula, to which he affixed the seal ofthe Commission. Armed with this paper, and having taken leave of theCommissioners, with many protests that she would "do her duty, " Ursulamade her way to the Castle gate. 

"Who walks so late?" asked the porter, looking out of his little wicketto see who it was. 

"Good den, Master Style. I am James Felstede's wife of Thorpe, and Icome with an order from their Worships the Commissioners to takeJohnson's children to me; they be to dwell in my charge till the BlackSisters shall send for them. "

"Want 'em to-night?" asked the porter rather gruffly. 

"Well, what say you?--are they abed? I'm but a poor woman, and cannotafford another walk from Thorpe. I'd best take 'em with me now. "

"You're never going back to Thorpe to-night?"

"Well, nay. I'm going to tarry the night at my brother's outside EastGate. "

"Bless the woman! then call for the children in the morning, and harrynot honest folk out o' their lives at bed-time. "

And Style dashed the wicket to. 

"Now, then, Kate! be those loaves ready? The rogues shall be clamouringfor their suppers, " cried he to his wife. 

Katherine Style, who baked the prison bread, brought out in answer alarge tray, on which three loaves of bread were cut in thick slices, with a piece of cheese and a bunch of radishes laid on each. These werefor the supper of the prisoners. Style shouted for the gaoler, and hecame up and carried the tray into the dungeon, followed by the porter, who was in rather a funny mood, and--as I am sorry to say is often thecase--was not, in his fun, careful of other people's feelings. 

"Now, Johnson, hast thou done with those children?" said he. "Thou'dbest make thy last dying speech and confession to 'em, for they're goingaway to-morrow morning. "

Johnson looked up with a grave, white face. Little Cissy, who wassitting by Rose Allen, at once ran to her father, and twined her arm inhis, with an uneasy idea of being parted from him, though she did notclearly understand what was to happen. 

"Where?" was all Johnson seemed able to say. 

"Black Nuns of Hedingham, " said the porter. He did not say anythingabout the temporary sojourn with Ursula Felstede. 

Johnson groaned and drew Cissy closer to him. 

"Don't be feared, Father, " said Cissy bravely, though her lips quiveredtill she could hardly speak. "Don't be feared: we'll never do anythingyou've told us not. "

"God bless thee, my darling, and God help thee!" said the poor father. "Little Cissy, He must be thy Father now. " And looking upwards, hesaid, "Lord, take the charge that I give into Thine hands this night!Be Thou the Father to these fatherless little ones, and lead them forthby a smooth way or a rough, so it be the right way, whereby they shallcome to Thy holy hill, and to Thy tabernacle. Keep them as the apple ofThine eye; hide them under the covert of Thy wings! I am no more in theworld; but these are in the world: keep them through Thy Name. Givethem back safe to my Helen and to me in the land that is very far-off, whereinto there shall enter nothing that defileth. Lord, I trust themto no man, but only unto Thee! Here me, O Lord my God, for I rest onThee. Let no man prevail against Thee. I have no might against thiscompany that cometh against me, neither know I what to do; but mine eyesare upon Thee. "

CHAPTER THIRTY. 

"THEY WON'T MAKE ME!"

"What! Agnes Bongeor taken to the Moot Hall? Humph! they'll bea-coming for me next. I must get on with my work. Let's do as much aswe can for the Lord, ere we're called to suffer for Him. Thou tookestmy message to Master Commissary, Doll?"

Dorothy Denny murmured something which did not reach the ear of MrsWade. 

"Speak up, woman! I say, thou tookest my message?"

"Well, Mistress, I thought--"

"A fig for thy thought! Didst give my message touching Johnson'schildren?"

"N-o, Mistress, I, --"

"Beshrew thee for an unfaithful messenger. Dost know what the wise Kingsaith thereof? He says it is like a foot out of joint. Hadst ever thyfoot out o' joint? I have, and I tell thee, if thou hadst the one footout of joint, thou wouldst not want t'other. I knew well thou wert anass, but I did not think thee unfaithful. Why didst not give mymessage?"

There were tears in Dorothy's eyes. 

"Mistress, " said she, "forgive me, but I will not help you to run intotrouble, though you're sore set to do it. It shall serve no goodpurpose to keep your name for ever before the eyes of Master Commissaryand his fellows. Do, pray, let them forget you. You'll ne'er be safe, an' you thrust yourself forward thus. "

"Safe! Bless the woman! I leave the Lord to see to my safety. I've nocare but to get His work done. "

"Well, then He's the more like to have a care of you; but, Mistress, won't you let Dorothy Denny try to see to you a bit too?"

"Thou'rt a good maid, Doll, though I'm a bit sharp on thee at times; andthou knows thou art mortal slow. Howbeit, tell me, what is come ofthose children? If they be in good hands, I need not trouble. "

"Ursula Felstede has them, Mistress, till the Black Nuns of Hedinghamshall fetch them away. "

"Ursula Felstede! `Unstable as water. ' That for Ursula Felstede. Black Nuns shall not have 'em while Philippa Wade's above ground. Itell thee, Dorothy, wherever those little ones go, the Lord's blessing'll go with them. Dost mind what David saith? `I have been young, andnow am old; and yet saw I never the righteous forsaken, nor his seedbegging their bread. ' And I want them, maid, --part because I feel forthe little ones, and part because I want the blessing. Why, that poorlittle Cicely 'll be crying her bits of eyes out to part with `Father. 'Doll, I'll go down this even, if I may find leisure, to Ursula Felstede, and see if I cannot win her to give me the children. I shall tell hermy mind first, as like as not: and much good may it do her! But I'llhave a try for 'em--I will. "

"Folks saith, Mistress, the prisoners be in as good case as may be:always reading and strengthening one another, and praising God. "

"I'm fain to hear it, Dorothy. Ah, they be not the worst off in thistown. If the Lord were to come to judge the earth this even, I'd a dealliefer be one of them in the Moot Hall than be of them that have them incharge. I marvel He comes not. If he had been a man and not God, He'dhave been down many a time afore now. "

About six o'clock on a hot July evening, Ursula Felstede heard a tap ather door. 

"Come in! O Mistress Wade, how do you do? Will you sit? I'm sureyou're very welcome, " said Ursula, in some confusion. 

"I'm not quite so sure of it, Ursula Felstede: but let be. You'veJohnson's children here, haven't you?"

"Ay, I have so: and I tell you that Will's a handful! Seems to me he'sworser to rule than he used. He's getting bigger, trow. "

"And Cicely?"

"Oh, she's quiet enough, only a bit obstinate. Won't always do as she'stold. I have to look after her sharp, or she'd be off, I do believe. "

"I'd like to see her, an't please you. "

"Well, to be sure! I sent 'em out to play them a bit. I don't justknow where they are. "

"Call that looking sharp after 'em?"

Ursula laughed a little uneasily. 

"Well, one can't be just a slave to a pack of children, can one? I'lllook out and see if they are in sight. "

"Thank you, I'll do that, without troubling you. Now, Ursula Felstede, I've one thing to say to you, so I'll say it and get it over. Thosechildren of Johnson's have the Lord's wings over them: they'll be takencare of, be sure: but if you treat them ill, or if you meddle with whattheir father learned them, you'll have to reckon with Him instead of theQueen's Commissioners. And I'd a deal sooner have the Commissionersagainst me than have the Lord. Be not afraid of them that kill thebody, and after that have no more that they can do but fear Him whichafter He hath killed, hath power to cast into Hell. Yea, I say untothee, Fear Him!"

And Mrs Wade walked out of the door without saying another word. Shewas going to look for the children. The baby she had already seenasleep on Ursula's bed. Little Will she found in the midst of a groupof boys down by the brook, one of whom, a lad twice his size, was justabout to fight him when Mrs Wade came up. 

"Now, Jack Tyler, if thou dost not want to be carried to thy father bythe scuff of thy neck, like a cat, and well thrashed to end with, letthat lad alone. --Will, where's thy sister?"

Little Will, who looked rather sheepish, said, --

"Over there. "

"Where's _there_?"

"On the stile. She's always there when we're out, except she's lookingafter me. "

"Thou lackest looking after. "

"Philip Tye said he'd see to me: and then he went off with Jem Morris, bird-nesting. "

"Cruel lads! well, you're a proper lot! It'd do you good, and me too, to give you a caning all round. I shall have to let be to-night, for Iwant to find Cicely. "

"Well, you'll see her o' top o' the stile. "

Little Will turned back to his absorbing amusement of bulrush-plaiting, and Mrs Wade went up to the stile which led to the way over the fieldstowards Colchester. As she came near, sheltered by the hedge, she hearda little voice. 

 "Yea, though I walk in vale of death, Yet will I fear no ill: Thy rod, Thy staff, doth comfort me, And Thou art with me still. "

Mrs Wade crept softly along till she could see through the hedge. Thestile was a stone one, with steps on each side, such as may still beseen in the north of England: and on the top step sat Cissy, resting herhead upon her hand, and looking earnestly in the direction ofColchester. 

"What dost there, my dear heart?" Mrs Wade asked gently. 

"I'm looking at Father, " said Cissy, rather languidly. She spoke as ifshe were not well, and could not care much about anything. 

"`Looking at Father'! What dost thou mean, my child?"

"Well, you see that belt of trees over yonder? When the sun shines, Ican see All Hallows' tower stand up against it. You can't see itto-day: it does not shine; but it's there for all that. And Father'sjust behind in the Castle: so I haven't any better way to look at him. Only God looks at him, you know; they can't bar Him out. So I comehere, and look as far as I can, and talk to God about Father. I can'tsee Father, but he's there: and I can't see God, but He's there too: andHe's got to see to Father now I can't. "

The desolate tone of utter loneliness in the little voice touched MrsWade to the core of her great warm heart. 

"My poor little Cicely!" she said. "Doth Ursula use thee well?"

"Yes, I suppose so, " said Cissy, in a quiet matter-of-fact way; "onlywhen I won't pray to her big image, she slaps me. But she can't make medo it. Father said not. It would never do for God to see us doingthings Father forbade us, because he's shut up and can't come to us. I'm not going to pray to that ugly thing: never! And if it was pretty, it wouldn't make any difference, when Father said not. "

"No, dear heart, that were idolatry, " said Mrs Wade. 

"Yes, I know, " replied Cissy: "Father said so. But Ursula says theBlack Sisters will make me, or they'll put me in the well. I do hopeGod will keep away the Black Sisters. I ask Him every day, when I'vedone talking about Father. I shouldn't like them to put me in thewell!" and she shuddered. Evidently Ursula had frightened her very muchwith some story about this. "But God would be there, in the well, wouldn't He? They won't make me do it when Father said not!"

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. 

SUMPTUOUS APARTMENTS. 

"Well, be sure! who ever saw such a lad? Sent out to play at four o'the clock, and all o'er mud at five! Where hast thou been, Will? Speakthe truth, now!"

"Been down by the brook rush-plaiting, " said little Will, looking as ifhis mind were not quite made up whether to cry or to be sulky. 

"The mischievousness of lads! Didn't I tell thee to mind and keep thyclothes clean?"

"You're always after clothes! How could I plait rushes and keep 'emclean?"

"And who told you to plait rushes, Master Impudence? Take that. "_That_ was a sound box on the ear which Ursula delivered by way ofillustration to her remarks. "What's become o' Phil Tye? I thought hewas going to look after thee. "

"Well, he did, a bit: then he and Jem Morris went off bird-nesting. "

"I'll give it him when I see him! Where's Cicely?"

"She's somewhere, " said Will, looking round the cottage, as if heexpected to see her in some corner. 

"I reckon I could have told thee so much. Did Mistress Wade find you?"

"She was down at the brook: but she went after Cis. "

"Well, thou'lt have to go to bed first thing, for them clothes must bewashed. "

Will broke into a howl. "It isn't bed-time nor it isn't washing-day!"

"It's bed-time when thou'rt bidden to go. As to washing-day, it'salways washing-day where thou art. Never was such a boy, I do believe, for getting into the mud. Thou'rt worser ten times o'er than thou wert. I do wish lads 'd stop babes till they're men, that one could tuck 'emin the cradle and leave 'em! There's never a bit of peace! I would theBlack Ladies 'd come for you. I shall be mighty thankful when they do, be sure. "

"Mistress Wade 'll have us, " suggested Master William, briskly, lookingup at Ursula. 

"Hold that pert tongue o' thine! Mistress Wade's not like to have you. You're in my care, and I've no leave to deliver you to any save theBlack Ladies. "

"Well! I wouldn't mind camping out a bit, if you're so set to be rid ofus, " said Will, reflectively. "There's a blanket you've got rolled upin the loft, that 'd make a tent, and we could cut down poles, if you'lllend us an axe; and--"

"You cut down poles! Marry come up! You're not about to have any of myblankets, nor my axes neither. "

"It wouldn't be so bad, " Will went on, still in a meditative key, "onlyfor dinner. I don't see where we should get that. "

"I see that you're off to bed this minute, and don't go maundering abouttents and axes. You cut down poles! you'd cut your fingers off, morelike. Now then, be off to the loft! Not another word! March!"

Just as Ursula was sweeping Will upstairs before her, a rap came on thedoor. 

"There! didn't I say a body never had a bit of peace?--Go on, Will, andget to bed; and mind thou leaves them dirty clothes on the floor bytheirselves: don't go to dirt everything in the room with 'em. --Walk in, Mistress Wade! So you found Cis?"

"Ay, I found her, " said the landlady, as she and Cissy came in together. 

"Cis, do thou go up, maid, and see to Will a bit. He's come in all o'ermud and mire, and I sent him up to bed, but there's no trusting him togo. See he does, prithee, and cast his clothes into the tub yonder, there's a good maid. "

Cissy knew very well that Ursula spoke so amiably because Mrs Wade wasthere to hear her. She went up to look after her little brother, andthe landlady turned to Ursula. 

"Now, Ursula Felstede, I want these children. "

"Then you must ask leave from the Queen's Commissioners, Mistress Wade. Eh, I couldn't give 'em up if it were ever so! I daren't, for the lifeo' me!"

Mrs Wade begged, coaxed, lectured, and almost threatened her, but foronce Ursula was firm. She dared not give up the children, and she wasquite honest in saying so. Mrs Wade had to go home without them. 

As she came up, very weary and unusually dispirited, to the archway ofthe King's Head, she heard voices from within. 

"I tell you she's not!" said Dorothy Denny's voice in a ratherfrightened tone; "she went forth nigh four hours agone, and whither Iknow not. "

"That's an inquiry for me, " said Mrs Wade to herself, as she sprangdown from her old black mare, and gave her a pat before dismissing herto the care of the ostler, who ran up to take her. "Good Jenny! goodold lass!--Is there any company, Giles?" she asked of the ostler. 

"Mistress, 'tis Master Maynard the Sheriff and he's making inquirationfor you. I would you could ha' kept away a bit longer!"

"Dost thou so, good Giles? Well, I would as God would. The Sheriff hadbest have somebody else to deal with him than Doll and Bab. " And shewent forward into the kitchen. 

Barbara, her younger servant, who was only a girl, stood leaning againsta dresser, looking very white and frightened, with the rolling-pin inher hand; she had evidently been stopped in the middle of making a pie. Dorothy stood on the hearth, fronting the terrible Sheriff, who wasarmed with a writ, and evidently did not mean to leave before he hadseen the mistress. 

"I am here, Mr Maynard, if you want me, " said Mrs Wade, quite calmly. 

"Well said, " answered the Sheriff, turning to her. "I have here a writfor your arrest, my mistress, and conveyance to the Bishop's Court atLondon, there to answer for your ill deeds. "

"I am ready to answer for all my deeds, good and ill, to any that have aright to question me. I will go with you. --Bab, go and tell Giles toleave the saddle on Jenny. --Doll, here be my keys; take them, and do thebest thou canst. I believe thee honest and well-meaning, but I'm fearedthe house shall ne'er keep up its credit. Howbeit, that cannot behelped. Do thy best, and the Lord be with you! As to directions, Iwere best to leave none; maybe they should but hamper thee, and set theein perplexity. Keep matters clean, and pay as thou goest--thou wistwhere to find the till; and fear God--that's all I need say. And if itcome in thy way to do a kind deed for any, and in especial those poorlittle children that thou wist of, do it, as I would were I here: ay, and let Cissy know when all's o'er with her father. And pray for me, and I'll do as much for thee--that we may do our duty and please God, and for bodily safety let it be according to His will. --Now, MasterMaynard, I am ready. "

Four days later, several strokes were rang on the great bell of theBishop's Palace at Fulham. The gaoler came to his gate when summoned bythe porter. 

"Here's a prisoner up from Colchester--Philippa Wade, hostess of theKing's Head there. Have you room?"

"Room and to spare. Heresy, I reckon?"

"Ay, heresy, --the old tale. There must be a nest of it yonder down inEssex. "

"There's nought else all o'er the country, methinks, " said the gaolerwith a laugh. "Come in, Mistress; I'll show you your lodging. HisLordship hath an apartment in especial, furnished of polished black oak, that he keepeth for such as you. Pray you follow me. "

Mrs Wade followed the jocose gaoler along a small paved passage betweentwo walls, and through a low door, which the gaoler barred behind her, himself outside, and then opened a little wicket through which to speak. 

"Pray you, sit down, my mistress, on whichsoever of the chairs you countdesirable. The furniture is all of one sort, fair and goodly;far-fetched and dear-bought, which is good for gentlewomen, and likeththem: fast colours the broidery, I do ensure you. "

Mrs Wade looked round, so far as she could see by the little wicket, everything was black--even the floor, which was covered with blackshining lumps of all shapes and sizes. She touched one of the lumps. There, could be no doubt of its nature. The "polished black oak"furniture was cobs of coal, and the sumptuous apartment wherein she wasto--lodged was Bishop Bonner's coal-cellar. 

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. 

"READY! AY, READY!"

It was the evening of the first of August. The prisoners in the Castle, now reduced to four--the Mounts, Rose, and Johnson--had held theirBible-reading and their little evening prayer-meeting, and sat waitingfor supper. John and Margaret Thurston, who had been with them untilthat day, were taken away in the morning to undergo examination, and hadnot returned. The prisoners had not yet heard when they were to die. They only knew that it would be soon, and might be any day. Yet we aretold they remained in their dungeons "with much joy and great comfort, in continual reading and invocating the name of God, ever looking andexpecting the happy day of their dissolution. "

We should probably feel more inclined to call it a horrible day. Butthey called it a happy day. They expected to change their prison for apalace, and their prison bonds for golden harps, and the prison fare forthe fruit or the Tree of Life, and the company of scoffers andtormentors for that of Seraphim and Cherubim, and the blessed dead: andabove all, to see His Face who had laid down His life for them. 

Supper was late that evening. They could hear voices outside, withoccasional exclamations of surprise, and now and then a peal oflaughter. At length the door was unlocked, and the gaoler's man came inwith four trenchers, piled on each other, on each of which was laid aslice of rye-bread and a piece of cheese. He served out one to eachprisoner. 

"Want your appetites sharpened?" said he with a sarcastic laugh. "Because, if you do, there's news for you. "

"Prithee let us hear it, Bartle, " answered Mount, quietly. 

"Well, first, writs is come down. Moot Hall prisoners suffer at sixto-morrow, on the waste by Lexden Road, and you'll get your deserving i'th' afternoon, in the Castle yard. "

"God be praised!" solemnly responded William Mount, and the others addedan Amen. 

"Well, you're a queer set!" said Bartle, looking at them. "I shouldn'twant to thank nobody for it, if so be I was going to be hanged: andthat's easier of the two. "

"We are only going Home, " answered William Mount. "The climb may besteep, but there is rest and ease at the end thereof. "

"Well, you seem mighty sure on't. I know nought. Priests say you'llfind yourselves in a worser place nor you think. "

"Nay! God is faithful, " said Johnson. 

"Have it your own way. I wish you might, for you seem to me a dealtidier folks than most that come our way. Howbeit, my news isn't alltold. Alegar, your brats be gone to Hedingham. "

"God go with them!" replied Johnson; but he seemed much sadder to hearthis than he had done for his own doom. 

"And Margaret Thurston's recanted. She's reconciled and had to betterlodging. "

It was evident, though to Bartle's astonishment, that the prisonersconsidered this the worst news of all. 

"And John Thurston?"

"Ah, they aren't so sure of him. They think he'll bear a faggot, butit's not certain yet. "

"God help and strengthen him!"

"And Mistress Wade, of the King's Head, is had up to London to theBishop. "

"God grant her His grace!"

"I've told you all now. Good-night. "

The greeting was returned, and Bartle went out. He was commissioned tocarry the writ down to the Moot Hall. 

Not many minutes later, Wastborowe entered the dungeon with the writ inhis hand. The prisoners were conversing over their supper, but thesight of that document brought silence without any need to call for it. 

"Hearken!" said Wastborowe. "At six o'clock in the morning, on thewaste piece by Lexden Road, shall suffer the penalty of the law thesemen and women underwritten:--William Bongeor, Thomas Benold, Robert_alias_ William Purcas, Agnes Silverside _alias_ Downes _alias_ Smith_alias_ May, Helen Ewring, Elizabeth Foulkes, Agnes Bowyer. "

With one accord, led by Mr Benold, the condemned prisoners stood up andthanked God. 

"`Agnes Bowyer', " repeated Wastborowe in some perplexity. "Your name'snot Bowyer; it's Bongeor. "

"Bongeor, " said its bearer. "Is my name wrong set down? Pray you, MrWastborowe, have it put right without delay, that I be not left out. "

"I should think you'd be uncommon glad if you were!" said he. 

"Nay, but in very deed it should grieve me right sore, " she repliedearnestly. "Let there not be no mistake, I do entreat you. "

"I'll see to it, " said Wastborowe, as he left the prison. 

The prisoners had few preparations to make. Each had a garment ready--along robe of white linen, falling straight from the neck to the ankles, with sleeves which buttoned at the wrist. There were many such robesmade during the reign of Mary--types of those fairer white robes whichwould be "given to every one of them, " when they should have crossed thedark valley, and come out into the light of the glory of God. OnlyAgnes Bongeor and Helen Ewring had something else to part with. WithAgnes in her prison was a little baby only a few weeks old, and she mustbid it good-bye, and commit it to the care of some friend. Helen Ewringhad to say farewell to her husband, who came to see her about four inthe morning; and to the surprise of Elizabeth Foulkes, she found herselfsummoned also to an interview with her widowed mother and her uncleHolt. 

"Why, Mother!" exclaimed Elizabeth in astonishment, "I never knew youwere any where nigh. "

"Didst thou think, my lass, that aught 'd keep thy mother away from theewhen she knew? I've been here these six weeks, a-waiting to hear. Eh, my pretty mawther, [see note 1] but to see this day! I've looked forthee to be some good man's wife, and a happy woman, --such a good maid asthou always wast!--and now! Well, well! the will of the Lord be done!"

"A happy woman, Mother!" said Elizabeth with her brightest smile. "Inall my life I never was so happy as this day! This is my wedding day--nay, this is my crowning day! For ere the sun be high this day, I shallhave seen the Face of Christ, and have been by Him presented faultlessbefore the light of the glory of God. Mother, rejoice with me, andrejoice for me, for I can do nothing save rejoice. Glory be to God onhigh, and on earth peace, good-will towards men!"

There was glory to God, but little good-will towards men, when the sixprisoners were marched out into High Street, on their way to martyrdom. Yet only one sorrowful heart was in the dungeon of the Moot Hall, andthat was Agnes Bongeor's, who lamented bitterly that owing to themis-spelling of her name in the writ, she was not allowed to make theseventh. She actually put on her robe of martyrdom, in the _hope_ thatshe might be reckoned among the sufferers. Now, when she learned thatshe was not to be burned that day, her distress was poignant. 

"Let me go with them!" she cried. "Let me go and give my life forChrist! Alack the day! The Lord counts me not worthy. "

The other six prisoners were led, tied together, two and two, throughHigh Street and up to the Head Gate. First came William Bongeor andThomas Benold; then Mrs Silverside and Mrs Ewring; last, Robert Purcasand Elizabeth Foulkes. They were led out of the Head Gate, to "a plotof ground hard by the town wall, on the outward side, " beside the LexdenRoad. There stood three great wooden stakes, with a chain affixed toeach. The clock of Saint Mary-at-Walls struck six as they reached thespot. 

Around the stakes a multitude were gathered to see the sight. MrEwring, with set face, trying to force a smile for his wife'sencouragement; Mrs Foulkes, gazing with clasped hands and tearful eyeson her daughter; Thomas Holt and all his family; Mr Ashby and all his;Ursula Felstede, looking very unhappy; Dorothy Denny, looking very sad;old Walter Purcas, leaning on his staff, from time to time shaking hiswhite head as if in bitter lamentation; a little behind the others, MrsClere and Amy; and in front, busiest of the busy, Sir Thomas Tye andNicholas Clere. There they all were, ready and waiting, to see the MootHall prisoners die. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Girl. This is a Suffolk provincialism. 

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. 

HOW THEY WENT HOME. 

Arrived at the spot where they were to suffer, the prisoners knelt downto pray: "but not in such sort as they would, for the cruel tyrantswould not suffer them. " Foremost of their tormentors at this lastmoment was Nicholas Clere, who showed an especial spite towardsElizabeth Foulkes, and interrupted her dying prayers to the utmost ofhis power. When Elizabeth rose from her knees and took off her outergarments--underneath which she wore the prepared robe--she asked theBailiff's leave to give her petticoat to her mother; it was all thelegacy in her power to leave. Even this poor little comfort was deniedher. The clothes of the sufferers were the perquisite of the Sheriffs'men, and they would not give them up. Elizabeth smiled--she did nothingbut smile that morning--and cast the petticoat on the ground. 

"Farewell, all the world!" she said. "Farewell, Faith! farewell, Hope!"Then she took the stake in her arms and kissed it. "Welcome, Love!"

Ay, faith and hope were done with now. A few moments, and faith wouldbe lost in sight; hope would be lost in joy; but love would abide forever and ever. 

Her mother came up and kissed her. 

"My blessed dear, " she said, "be strong in the Lord!"

They chained the two elder men at one stake; the two women at another:Elizabeth and Robert together at the last. The Sheriff's men put thechain round them both, and hammered the other end fast, so that theyshould not attempt to escape. 

Escape! none of them dreamed of such a thing. They cared neither forpain nor shame. To their eyes Heaven itself was open, and the LordChrist, on the right hand of the Father, would rise to receive Hisservants. Nor did they say much to each other. There would be time forthat when all was over! Were they not going the journey together? wouldthey not dwell in happy company, through the long years of eternity?The man who was nailing the chain close to where Elizabeth stoodaccidentally let his hammer slip. He had not intended to hurt her; butthe hammer came down heavily upon her shoulder and made a severe wound. She turned her head to him and smiled on him. Then she lifted up hereyes to heaven and prayed. Her last few moments were spent in alternateprayer and exhortation of the crowd. 

The torch was applied to the firewood and tar-barrels heaped aroundthem. As the flame sprang up, the six martyrs clapped their hands: andfrom the bystanders a great cry rose to heaven, --

"The Lord strengthen them! the Lord comfort them! the Lord pour Hismercies upon them!"

Ah, it was not England, but Rome, who burned those Marian martyrs! Theheart of England was sound and true; she was a victim, not a persecutor. 

Just as the flame reached its fiercest heat, there was a slight cry inthe crowd, which parted hither and thither as a girl was borne out of itinsensible. She had fainted after uttering that cry. It was no wonder, said those who stood near: the combined heat of the August sun and thefire was scarcely bearable. She would come round shortly if she weretaken into the shade to recover. 

Half-an-hour afterwards nothing could be seen beside the Lexden Road butthe heated and twisted chains, with fragments of charred wood and ofgrey ashes. The crowd had gone home. 

And the martyrs had gone home too. No more should the sun light uponthem, nor any heat. The Lamb in the midst of the Throne had led them toliving fountains of water, and they were comforted for evermore. 

"Who was that young woman that swooned and had to be borne away?" askeda woman in the crowd of another, as they made their way back into thetown. 

The woman appealed to was Audrey Wastborowe. 

"Oh, it was Amy Clere of the Magpie, " said she. "The heat was too muchfor her, I reckon. "

"Ay, it was downright hot, " said the neighbour. 

Something beside the heat had been too much for Amy Clere. The familiarface of Elizabeth Foulkes, with that unearthly smile upon it, had goneright to the girl's heart. For Amy had a heart, though it had beenoverlaid by a good deal of rubbish. 

The crowd did not disperse far. They were gathered again in theafternoon in the Castle yard, when the Mounts and Johnson and Rose Allenwere brought out to die. They came as joyfully as their friends haddone, "calling upon the name of God, and exhorting the people earnestlyto flee from idolatry. " Once more the cry rose up from the wholecrowd, --

"Lord, strengthen them, and comfort them, and pour Thy mercy upon them!"

And the Lord heard and answered. Joyfully, joyfully they went home andthe happy company who had stood true, and had been faithful unto death, were all gathered together for ever in the starry halls above. 

To two other places the cry penetrated: to Agnes Bongeor weeping in theMoot Hall because she was shut out from that blessed company; and toMargaret Thurston in her "better lodging" in the Castle, who had shutherself out, and had bought life by the denial of her Lord. 

The time is not far-off when we too shall be asked to choose betweenthese two alternatives. Not, perhaps, between earthly life and death(though it may come to that): but between faith and unfaithfulness, between Christ and idols, between the love that will give up all and theself-love that will endure nothing. Which shall it be with you? Willyou add your voice to the side which tamely yields the pricelesstreasures purchased for us by these noble men and women at this awfulcost? or will you meet the Romanising enemy with a firm front, and ashout of "No fellowship with idols!--no surrender of the liberty whichour fathers bought with their heart's blood!" God grant you grace tochoose the last!

When Mrs Clere reached the Magpie, she went up to Amy's room, and foundher lying on the bed with her face turned to the wall. 

"Amy! what ailed thee, my maid?--art better now?"

"Mother, we're all wrong!"

"Dear heart, what does the child mean?" inquired the puzzled mother. "Has the sun turned thy wits out o' door?"

"The sun did nought to me, mother. It was Bessie's face that I couldnot bear. Bessie's face, that I knew so well--the face that had lainbeside me on this pillow over and over again--and that smile upon herlips, as if she were half in Heaven already--Mother it was dreadful! Ifelt as if the last day were come, and the angels were shutting me out. "

"Hush thee, child, hush thee! 'Tis not safe to speak such things. Heretics go to the ill place, as thou very well wist. "

"Names don't matter, do they, Mother? It is truth that signifies. Whatever names they please to call Bessie Foulkes, she had Heaven andnot Hell in her face. That smile of hers never came from Satan. I knowwhat his smiles are like: I've seen them on other faces afore now. Henever had nought to do with her. "

"Amy, if thy father hears thee say such words as those, he'll be properangry, be sure!"

Amy sat up on the bed. 

"Mother, you know that Bessie Foulkes loved God, and feared Him, andcared to please Him, as you and I never did in all our lives. Do folksthat love God go to Satan? Does He punish people because they want toplease Him? I know little enough about it, alack-the-day! but if anangel came from Heaven to tell me Bessie wasn't there this minute, Icould not believe him. "

"Well, well! think what you will, child, only don't say it! I'venothing against Bess being in Heaven, not I! I hope she may be, poorlass. But thou knowest thy father's right set against it all, and thepriests too; and, Amy, I don't want to see _thee_ on the waste by LexdenRoad. Just hold thy tongue, wilt thou? or thou'lt find thyself in thewrong box afore long. "

"Mother, I don't think Bessie Foulkes is sorry for what happened thismorning. "

"Maybe not, but do hold thy peace!"

"I can hold my peace if you bid me, Mother. I've not been a good girl, but I mean to try and be better. I don't feel as if I should ever careagain for the gewgaws and the merrymakings that I used to think all theworld of. It's like as if I'd had a glimpse into Heaven as she went in, and the world had lost its savour. But don't be feared, Mother; I'llnot vex you, nor Father neither, if you don't wish me to talk. Only--nobody 'll keep me from trying to go after Bessie!"

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. 

DOROTHY TAKES A MESSAGE. 

"Now then, attend, can't you? How much sugar?"

"Please, Sister Mary, my head does ache so!"

"No excuses, Cicely! Answer at once. "

A long sobbing sigh preceded the words--"Half a pound. "

"Now get to your sewing. Cicely, I must be obeyed; and you are a rightperverse child as one might look for with the training you have had. Let me hear no more about headache: it's nothing but nonsense. "

"But my head does ache dreadfully, Sister. "

"Well, it is your own fault, if it do. Two mortal hours were you cryinglast night, --the stars know what for!"

"It was because I didn't hear nothing about Father, " said poor Cissysorrowfully. "Mistress Wade promised she--"

"Mistress Wade--who is that?"

"Please, she's the hostess of the King's Head: and she said she wouldlet me know when--"

"When what?"

"When Father couldn't have any pain ever any more. "

"Do you mean that you wish to hear your Father is dead, you wickedchild?"

Cissy looked up wearily into the nun's face. "He's in pain now, " shesaid; "for he is waiting, and knows he will have more. But when it hascome, he will have no more, never, but will live with God and be happyfor ever and ever. I want to know that Father's happy. "

"How can these wicked heretics fall into such delusions?" said SisterMary, looking across the room at Sister Joan, who shook her head in away which seemed to say that there was no setting any bounds to thedelusions of heretics. "Foolish child, thy father is a bad man, and badmen do not go to Heaven. "

"Father's not a bad man, " said Cissy, not angrily, but in a tone of calmpersuasion that nothing would shake. "I cry you mercy, Sister Mary, butyou don't know him, and somebody has told you wrong. Father's good, andloves God; and people are not bad when they love God and do what He saysto them. You're mistaken, please, Sister. "

"But thy father does not obey God, child, because he does not obey theChurch. "

"Please, I don't know anything about the Church. Father obeys theBible, and that is God's own Word which He spoke Himself. The Churchcan't be any better than that. "

"The Church, for thee, is the priest, who will tell thee how to pleaseGod and the Holy Mother, if thou wilt hearken. "

"But the priest's a man, Sister: and God's Book is a great deal betterthan that. "

"The priest is in God's stead, and conveys His commands. "

"But I've got the commands, Sister Mary, in the Book; and God hasn'twritten a new one, has He?"

"Silly child! the Church is above any Book. "

"Oh no, it can't be, Sister, please. What Father bade me do his ownself must be better than what other people bid me; and so what God saysin His own Book must be better than what other people say, and theChurch is only people. "

"Cicely, be silent! Thou art a very silly, perverse child. "

"I dare say I am, Sister, but I am sure that's true. "

Sister Joan was on the point of bidding Cissy hold her tongue in a stillmore authoritative manner, when one of the lay Sisters entered the room, to say that a woman asked permission to speak with one of the teachingSisters. 

"What is her name?"

"She says her name is Denny. "

"Denny! I know nobody of that name. "

"Oh, please, is her name Dorothy?" asked Cissy, eagerly. "If it'sDorothy Denny, Mrs Wade has sent her--she's Mrs Wade's servant. Oh, do let me--"

"Silence!" said Sister Mary. "I will go and speak with the woman. "

She found in the guest-chamber a woman of about thirty, who stooddropping courtesies as if she were very uncomfortable. 

Very uncomfortable Dorothy Denny was. She did not know what "nervous"meant, but she was exceedingly nervous for all that. In the firstplace, she felt extremely doubtful whether if she trusted herself insidea convent, she would ever have a chance of getting out again; and in thesecond she was deeply concerned about several things, of which one wasCissy. 

"What do you want, good woman?"

"Please you, Madam, I cry you mercy for troubling of you, but if I mightspeak a word with the dear child--"

"What dear child?" asked the nun placidly. 

Dorothy's fright grew. Were they going to deny Cissy to her, or even tosay that she was not there?

"Please you, good Sister, I mean little Cis--Cicely Johnson, an' it likeyou, that I was sent to with a message from my mistress, the hostess ofthe King's Head in Colchester. "

"Cicely Johnson is not now at liberty. You can give the message to me. "

"May I wait till I can see her?"

Plainly, Dorothy was no unfaithful messenger when her own comfort onlywas to be sacrificed. Sister Mary considered a moment; and then saidshe would see if Cicely could be allowed to have an interview with hervisitor. Bidding Dorothy sit down, she left the room. 

For quite an hour Dorothy sat waiting, until she began to think the nunsmust have forgotten her existence, and to look about for some means ofreminding them of it. There were no bells in sitting-rooms at thattime, except in the form of a little hand-bell on a table, and for thislast Dorothy searched in vain. Then she tried to go out into thepassage, in the hope of seeing somebody; but she was terrified to findherself locked in. She did not know what to do. The window was barredwith an iron grating; there was no escape that way. Poor Dorothy beganto wonder whether, if she found herself a prisoner, she could contriveto climb the chimney, and what would become of her after doing so, whenshe heard at last the welcome sound of approaching steps, and the keywas turned in the lock. The next minute Cissy was in Dorothy's arms. 

"O Dorothy! dear Dorothy! tell me quick--Father--" Cissy could get nofurther. 

"He is at rest, my dear heart, and shall die no more. "

Cissy was not able to answer for the sobs that choked her voice, andDorothy smoothed her hair and petted her. 

"Nay, grieve not thus, sweet heart, " she said. 

"Oh no, it is so wicked of me!" sobbed poor Cissy. "I thought I shouldhave been so glad for Father: and I can only think of me and thechildren. We've got no father now!"

"Nay, my dear heart, thou hast as much as ever thou hadst. He is onlygone upstairs and left you down. He isn't dead, little Cissy: he'salive in a way he never was before, and he shall live for ever andever. "

Neither Dorothy nor Cissy had noticed that a nun had entered with her, and they were rather startled to hear a voice out of the dark corner bythe door. 

"Take heed, good woman, how thou learn the child such errors. That isonly true of great saints; and the man of whom you speak was a wickedheretic. "

"I know not what sort of folks your saints are, " said Dorothy bravely:"but my saints are folks that love God and desire to please Him, andthat John Johnson was, if ever a man were in this evil world. An _evil_tree cannot bring forth good fruit. "

The nun crossed herself, but she did not answer. 

"It would be as well if folks would be content to set the bad folks inprison, and let the good ones be, " said Dorothy. "Cissy, our mistressis up to London to the Bishop. "

"Will they do somewhat to her?"

"God knoweth!" said Dorothy, shaking her head sorrowfully. "I shall befain if I may see her back; oh, I shall!"

"Oh, I hope they won't!" said Cissy, her eyes filling again with tears. "I love Mistress Wade. "

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. 

NOBODY LEFT FOR CISSY. 

"Please, Dorothy, what's become of Rose Allen? and Bessy Foulkes? andMistress Mount, and all of them?"

"All gone, my dear heart--all with thy father. "

"Are they all gone?" said Cissy with another sob, "Isn't there oneleft?"

"Not one of them. "

"Then if we came out, we shouldn't find nobody?"

"Prithee reckon not, Cicely, " said the nun, "that thou art likely tocome out. There is no such likelihood at all whilst our good Queenreigneth; and if it please God, she shall have a son after her thatshall be true to the Catholic faith, as she is, and not suffer evilcourses and naughty heretics to be any more in the realm. Ye will abidehere till it be plainly seen whether God shall grant to thee and thysister the grace of a vocation; and if not, it shall be well seen tothat ye be in care of good Catholic folk, that shall look to it ye go inthe right way. So prithee, suffer not thy fancy to deceive thee withany thought of going forth of this house of religion. When matters besomewhat better established, and the lands whereof the Church hath beenrobbed are given back to her, and all the religious put back in theirhouses, or new ones built, then will England be an Isle of Saints as inolden time, and men may rejoice thereat. "

Cissy listened to this long speech, which she only understood in part, but she gathered that the nuns meant to keep her a prisoner as long asthey could. 

"But Sister Joan, " said she, "you don't know, do you, what God is goingto do? Perhaps he will give us another good king or queen, like KingEdward. I ask Him to do, every day. But, please, what is a vocation?"

"Thou dost, thou wicked maid? I never heard thee. "

"But I don't ask you, Sister Joan. I ask God. And I think He'll do it, too. What is a vocation, please?"

"What I'm afeared thou wilt never have, thou sinful heretic child--thecall to become a holy Sister. "

"Who is to call me? I am a sister now; I'm Will's and Baby's sister. Nobody can't call me to be a sister to nobody else, " said Cissy, gettingvery negative in her earnestness. 

Sister Joan rose from her seat. "The time is up, " said she. "Sayfarewell to thy friend. "

"Farewell, Dorothy dear, " said Cissy, clinging to the one person sheknew, who seemed to belong to her past, as she never would have thoughtof doing to Dorothy Denny in bygone days. "Please give Mistress Wade myduty, when she comes home, and say I'm trying to do as Father bade me, and I'll never, never believe nothing he told me not. You see theycouldn't do nothing to me save burn me, as they did Father, and then Ishould go to Father, and all would be right directly. It's much betterfor them all that they are safe there, and I'll try to be glad--thoughthere's nobody left for me. Father'll have company: I must try and thinkof that. I thought he'd find nobody he knew but Mother, but if they'veall gone too, there'll be plenty. And I suppose there'll be some holyangels to look after us, because God isn't gone away, you see: He'sthere and here too. He'll help me still to look after Will and Baby, now I haven't"--a sob interrupted the words--"haven't got Father. Good-bye, Dolly! Kiss me, please. Nobody never kisses me now. "

"Thou poor little dear!" cried Dorothy, fairly melted, and sobbing overCissy as she gave her half-a-dozen kisses at least. "The Lord blessthee, and be good to thee! I'm sure He'll take proper vengeance onevery body as isn't. I wouldn't like to be them as ill-used thee. They'll have a proper bill to pay in the next world, if they don't getit in this. Poor little pretty dear!"

"You will drink a cup of ale and eat a manchet?" asked Sister Joan ofDorothy. 

A manchet was a cake of the best bread. 

"No, I thank you, Sister, I am not a-hungered, " was the answer. 

"But, Dolly, you did not come all the way from Colchester?" said Cissy. 

"Ay, I did so, my dear, in the miller's cart, and I'm journeying back inthe same. I covenanted to meet him down at the end of yonder lane atthree o'clock, and methinks I had best be on my way. "

"Ay, you have no time to lose, " responded Sister Joan. 

Dorothy found Mr Ewring waiting for her at the end of the lane. 

"Have you had to eat, Dorothy?" was his first question when she hadclimbed up beside him. 

"Never a bite or sup in _that_ house, Master, I thank you, " wasDorothy's rejoinder. "If I'd been starving o' hunger, I wouldn't havetouched a thing. "

"Have you seen the children?"

"I've seen Cissy. That was enough and to spare. "

"What do they with her?"

"They are working hard with both hands to make an angel of her at thesoonest--that's what they are doing. It's not what they mean to do. They want to make her a devil, or one of the devil's children, whichcomes to the same thing: but the Lord 'll not suffer that, or I'm amistaken woman. They are trying to bend her, and they never will. She'll break first. So they'll break her, and then there'll be no morethey can do. That's about where it is, Master Ewring. "

"Why, Dorothy, I never saw you thus stirred aforetime. "

"Maybe not. It takes a bit to stir me, but I've got it this even, I cantell you. "

"I could well-nigh mistake you for Mistress Wade, " said Mr Ewring witha smile. 

"Eh, poor Mistress! but if she could see that poor little dear, it wouldgrieve her to her heart. Master Ewring, how long will the Lord bearwith these sons of Satan!"

"Ah, Dorothy, that's more than you or I can tell. `Many shall bepurified, and made white, and tried': that is all we know. "

"How much is many?" asked Dorothy almost bitterly. 

"Not one too many, " said the miller gravely: "and not one too few. Weare called to wait until our brethren be accomplished that shall suffer. It may be shorter than we think. But, Dorothy, who set you among theprophets? I rather thought you had not over much care for such things. "

"Master Ewring, I've heard say that when a soldier's killed in battle, another steppeth up behind without delay to fill his place. There'ssome places wants filling at Colchester, where the firing's been fierceof late: and when most of the old warriors be killed, they'll be like tofill the ranks up with new recruits. And if they be a bit awkward, anddon't step just up to pace, maybe they'll learn by and by, and meantimethe others must have patience. "

"The Lord perfect that which concerneth thee!" said the miller, withmuch feeling. "Dorothy, was your mistress not desirous to have broughtup these little ones herself?"

"She was so, Master Ewring, and I would with all my heart she could. Poor little dears!"

"I would have taken the lad, if it might have been compassed, when hewas a bit older, and have bred him up to my own trade. The maids shouldhave done better with good Mistress Wade. "

"Eh, Master, little Cicely's like to dwell in other keeping than either, and that's with her good father and mother above. "

"The Lord's will be done!" responded Mr Ewring. "If so be, she atleast will have little sorrow. "

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. 

INTO THE LION'S MOUTH. 

"Give you good den, Master Hiltoft! May a man have speech of yourprisoner, Mistress Bongeor?"

"You're a bold man, Master Ewring. "

"Wherefore?"

"Wherefore! Sotting your head in the lion's mouth! I should havethought you'd keep as far from Moot Hall as you could compass. Yourselfnot unsuspected, and had one burned already from your house--I marvel atyou that you hide not yourself behind your corn-measures andflour-sacks, and have a care not to show your face in the street. Andhere up you march as bold as Hector, and desire to have speech of aprisoner! Well--it's your business, not mine. "

"Friend, mine hearth is desolate, and I have only God to my friend. Doyou marvel that I haste to do His work whilst it is day, or that Idesire to be approved of Him?"

"You go a queer way about it. I reckon you think with the old saw, [Proverb. ] `The nearer the church the further from Heaven'!"

"That is true but in some sense. Verily, the nearer some churches, andsome priests, so it is. May I see Mistress Bongeor?"

"Ay, you would fain not commit yourself, I see, more than may be. Come, you have a bit of prudence left. So much the better for you. Come in, and I'll see if Wastborowe's in a reasonable temper, and that hangssomewhat on the one that Audrey's in. "

The porter shut the gate behind Mr Ewring, and went to seek Wastborowe. Just then Jane Hiltoft, coming to her door, saw him waiting, andinvited him to take a seat. 

"Fine morning, Master. "

"Ay, it is, Jane. Have you yet here poor Johnson's little maid?"

"I haven't, Master, and I feel fair lost without the dear babe. A raregood child she was--never see a better. The Black Ladies of Hedinghamhas got her, and I'm all to pieces afeard they'll not tend her rightway. How should nuns (saving their holy presences) know aught aboutbabes and such like? Eh dear! they'd better have left her with me. I'dhave taken to her altogether, if Simon'd have let me--and I think hewould after a bit. And she'd have done well with me, too. "

"Ay, Jane, you'd have cared her well for the body, I cast no doubt. "

"Dear heart, but it's sore pity, Master Ewring, such a good man as youcannot be a good Catholic like every body else! You'd save yourselfever so much trouble and sorrow. I cannot think why you don't. "

"We should save ourselves a little sorrow, Jane; but we should have adeal more than we lost. "

"But how so, Master? It's only giving up an opinion. "

"Maybe so, with some: but not with us. They that have been taught thisway by others, and never knew Christ for themselves--with them, as yousay, it were but the yielding of opinion: but to us that know Him, andhave heard His voice, it would be the betraying of the best Friend inearth or Heaven. And we cannot do that, Jane Hiltoft--not even forlife. "

"Nay, that stands to reason if it were so, Master Ewring; but, trust me, I know not what you mean, no more than if you spake Latin. "

"Read God's Book, and pray for His Spirit, and you shall find out, Jane. --Well, Hiltoft?"

"Wastborowe says you may see Mistress Bongeor if you'll give him a royalfarthing, but he won't let you for a penny less. He's had words withtheir Audrey, and he's as savage as Denis of Siccarus. "

"Who was he, Hiltoft?" answered Mr Ewring with a smile, as he felt inhis purse for the half-crown which was to be the price of his visit toAgnes Bongeor. 

"Eh, I don't know: I heard Master Doctor say the other day that his dogwas as fierce as him. "

"Art sure he said not `Syracuse'?"

"Dare say he might. Syracuse or Siccarus, all's one to me. "

At the door of the dungeon stood the redoubtable Wastborowe, his keyshanging from his girdle, and looking, to put it mildly, not particularlyamiable. 

"Want letting out again by and by?" he inquired with grim satire, as MrEwring put the coin in his hand. 

"If you please, Wastborowe. You've no writ to keep me, have you?"

"Haven't--worse luck! Only wish I had. I'll set a match to the lot ofyou with as much pleasure as I'd drink a pot of ale. It'll never begood world till we're rid of heretics!"

"There'll be Satan left then, methinks, and maybe a few rogues andmurderers to boot. "

"Never a one as bad as you Lutherans and Gospellers! Get you in. You'll have to wait my time to come out. "

"Very well, " said Mr Ewring quietly, and went in. 

He found Agnes Bongeor seated in a corner of the window recess, with herBible on her knee; but it was closed, and she looked very miserable. 

"Well, my sister, and how is it with you?"

"As 'tis like to be, Master Ewring, with her whom the Lord hath castforth, and reckons unworthy to do Him a service. "

"Did he so reckon Abraham, then, at the time of the offering up ofIsaac? Isaac was not sacrificed: he was turned back from the same. Yetwhat saith the Lord unto him? `Because thou hast done this thing, andhast not withheld thy son, thou shalt be blessed, because thou hastobeyed My voice. ' See you, his good will thereto is reckoned as thoughhe had done the thing. `The Lord looketh on the heart. ' Doubt thounot, my good sister, but firmly believe, that to thee also faith iscounted for righteousness, and the will passeth for the deed, with Himwho saith that `if thou be Christ's then art thou Abraham's seed. '"

"That's comforting, in truth, " said poor Agnes. "But, Master Ewring, think you there is any hope that I may yet be allowed to witness for myLord before men in very deed? To have come so near, and be thrust back!Is there no hope?"

Agnes Bongeor was not the only one of the sufferers in this persecutionwho actually coveted and longed for martyrdom. If the imperial crown ofall the world had been laid at their feet, they would have reckoned itbeneath contempt in comparison with that crown of life promised to suchas are faithful unto death. Not faithful _till_ death, but _unto_ it. 

"I know not what the Lord holds in reserve for thee, my sister. I onlyknow that whatsoever it be, it is that whereby thou mayest best glorifyHim. Is that not enough? If more glory should come to Him by thy dyingin this dungeon after fifty years' imprisonment, than by thy burning, which wouldst thou choose? Speak truly. "

Agnes dropped her face upon her hands for a moment. 

"You have the right, Master Ewring, " said she, when she looked up again. "I fear I was over full of myself. Let the Lord's will be done, andHis glory ensured, by His doing with me whatsoever He will. I willstrive to be patient, and not grieve more than I should. "

"Therein wilt thou do well, my sister. And now I go--when as it shallplease Wastborowe, " added Mr Ewring with a slight smile of amusement, and then growing grave, --"to visit one in far sorer trouble thanthyself. "

"Eh, Master, who is that?"

"It is Margaret Thurston, who hath not been, nor counted herself, rejected of the Lord, but hath of her own will rejected Him. She boughtlife by recanting. "

"Eh, poor soul, how miserable must she be! Tell her, if it like you, that I will pray for her. Maybe the Lord will grant to both of us thegrace yet to be His witnesses. "

Mr Ewring had to pass four weary hours in the dungeon before it pleasedWastborowe to let him out. He spent it in conversing with the otherprisoners, --all of whom, save Agnes Bongeor, were arrested for somecrime, --and trying to do them good. At last the heavy door rolled back, and Wastborowe's voice was heard inquiring, in accents which did notsound particularly sober, --

"Where's yon companion that wants baking by Lexden Road?"

"I am here, Wastborowe, " said Mr Ewring, rising. "Good den, friends. The Lord bless and comfort thee, my sister!"

And out he went into the summer evening air, to meet the half-tipsygaoler's farewell of, --

"There! Take to thy heels, old shortbread, afore thou'rt done a bit toobrown. Thou'lt get it some of these days!"

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. 

"REMEMBER!"

Mr Ewring only returned Wastborowe's uncivil farewell by a nod, as hewalked up High Street towards East Gate. At the corner of Tenant's Lanehe turned to the left, and went up to the Castle. A request to see theprisoner there brought about a little discussion between the porter andthe gaoler, and an appeal was apparently made to some higher authority. At length the visitor was informed that permission was granted, oncondition that he would not mention the subject of religion. 

The condition was rejected at once. Mr Ewring had come to talk aboutthat and nothing else. 

"Then you'd best go home, " said Bartle. "Can't do to have matters seta-crooked again when they are but now coming straight. MargaretThurston's reconciled, and we've hopes for John, though he's been harderof the two to bring round. Never do to have folks coming and setting'em all wrong side up. Do you want to see 'em burned, my master?"

"I want to see them true, " was Mr Ewring's answer, "The burning doesn'tmuch matter. "

"Oh, doesn't it?" sneered Bartle. "You'll sing another tune, MasterEwring, the day you're set alight. "

"Methinks, friend, those you have burned sang none other. But how abouta thousand years hence? Bartholomew Crane, what manner of tune wiltthou be singing then?"

"Time enough to say when I've got it pricked, Master, " said Bartle: butMr Ewring saw from his uneasiness that the shot had told. 

People were much more musical in England three hundred years ago thannow. Nearly everybody could sing, or read music at sight: and a ladywas thought very poorly educated if she could not "set"--that is, writedown a tune properly on hearing it played. Writing music they called"pricking" it. 

Mr Ewring did not stay to talk with Bartle; he bade him good-bye, andwalked up Tenant's Lane on his way home. But before he had gone manyyards, an idea struck him, and he turned round and went back to theCastle. 

Bartle was still in the court, and he peeped through the wicket to seewho was there. 

"Good lack! you're come again!"

"I'm come again, " said Mr Ewring, smiling. "Bartle, wilt take amessage to the Thurstons for me?"

"Depends, " said Bartle with a knowing nod. "What's it about? If youwant to tell 'em price of flour, I don't mind. "

"I only want you to say one word to either of them. "

"Come, that's jolly! What's the word?"

"Remember!"

Bartle scratched his head. "Remember what? There's the rub!"

"Leave that to them, " said Mr Ewring. 

"Well, --I--don't--know, " said Bartle very slowly. "Mayhap _I_ sha'n'tremember. "

"Mayhap that shall help you, " replied the miller, holding up an angelet, namely, a gold coin, value 3 shillings 4 pence--the smallest gold cointhen made. 

"Shouldn't wonder if that strengthened my wits, " said Bartle with agrin, as the little piece of gold was slipped through the wicket. "That's over a penny a letter, bain't it?"

"Fivepence. It's good pay. "

"It's none so bad. I'm in hopes you'll have a few more messages, MasterEwring. They're easy to carry when they come in a basket o' thatmetal. "

"Ah, Bartle! wilt thou do that for a gold angelet which thou wouldst notfor the love of God or thy neighbour? Beware that all thy good thingscome not to thee in this life--which can only be if they be things thatpertain to this life alone. "

"This life's enough for me, Master: it's all I've got. "

"Truth, friend. Therefore cast it not away in folly. "

"In a good sooth, Master Ewring, I love your angelets better than yourpreachment, and you paid me not to listen to a sermon, but to carry amessage. Good den!"

"Good den, Bartle. May the Lord give thee good ending!"

Bartle stood looking from the wicket until the miller had turned thecorner. 

"Yon's a good man, I do believe, " said he to himself. "I marvel whatthey burn such men for! They're never found lying or cheating ormurdering. Why couldn't folks let 'em alone? We shouldn't want to hurt'em, if the priests would let us alone. Marry, this would be a goodland if there were no priests!"

Bartle shut the wicket, and prepared to carry in supper to hisprisoners. John and Margaret Thurston were not together. The priestswere afraid to let them be so, lest John, who stood more firmly of thetwo, should talk over Margaret. They occupied adjoining cells. Bartleopened a little wicket in the first, and called John to receive hisrations of brown bread, onions, and weak ale. 

"I promised to give you a message, " said he, "but I don't know as it'slike to do you much good. It's only one word. "

"Should be a weighty one, " said John. "What is it?"

"`Remember!'"

"Ah!" John Thurston's long-drawn exclamation, which ended with a heavysigh, astonished Bartle. 

"There's more in it than I reckoned, seemingly, " said he as he turned toMargaret's cell, and opened her wicket to pass in the supper. 

"Here's a message for you, Meg, from Master Ewring the miller. Let'ssee what _you'll_ say to it--`Remember!'"

"`Remember!'" cried Margaret in a pained tone. "Don't I alwaysremember? isn't it misery to me to remember? And can't I guess what hemeans--`Remember from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do thefirst works'? Eh, then there's repentance yet for them that havefallen! `I will fight against thee, _except_ thou repent. ' God blessyou, Bartle: you've given me a buffet and yet a hope. "

"That's a proper powerful word, is that!" said Bartle. "Never knew oneword do so much afore. "

There was more power in that one word from Holy Writ than Bartleguessed. The single word, sent home to their consciences by the HolyGhost, brought quit different messages to the two to whom it was sent. To John Thurston it did not say, "Remember from whence thou hastfallen. " That was the message with which it was charged for Margaret. But to John it said, "Call to remembrance the former days, in which, after that ye were illuminated, ye endured a great flight of afflictions. . . Knowing in yourselves that ye have in Heaven a better and anenduring substance. Cast not away therefore your confidence, which hathgreat recompense of reward. " That was John's message, and it found himjust on the brink of casting his confidence away, and stopped him. 

Mr Ewring had never spent an angelet better than in securing thetransmission of that one word, which was the instrument in God's hand tosave two immortal souls. 

As he reached the top of Tenant's Lane, he met Ursula Felstede, carryinga large bundle, with which she tried to hide her face, and to slinkpast. The miller stopped. 

"Good den, Ursula. Wither away?"

"Truly, Master, to the whitster's with this bundle. "

The whitster meant what we should now call a dyer and cleaner. 

"Do you mind, Ursula, what the Prophet Daniel saith, that `many shall bepurified and made white'? Methinks it is going on now. White, as nofuller on earth can white them! May you and I be so cleansed, friend!Good den. "

Ursula courtesied and escaped, and Mr Ewring passed through the gate, and went up to his desolated home. He stood a moment in the mill-door, looking back over the town which he had just left. 

"`The night cometh, when no man can work, '" he said to himself. "Grantme, Lord, to be about Thy business until the Master cometh!"

And he knew, while he said it, that in all likelihood to him that comingwould be in a chariot of fire, and that to be busied with that workwould bring it nearer and sooner. 

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. 

FILLING THE RANKS. 

As Mr Ewring stood looking out, he saw somebody coming up from the gatetowards the mill--a girl, who walked slowly, as if she felt very hot orvery tired. The day was warm, but not oppressively so; and he watchedher coming languidly up the road, till he saw that it was Amy Clere. What could she want at the mill? Mr Ewring waited to see. 

"Good den, Mistress Amy, " said he, as she came nearer. 

Amy looked up as if it startled her to be addressed. 

"Good den, Master Ewring. Father's sending some corn to be ground, andhe desired you to know the last was ground a bit too fine for hisliking: would you take the pains to have it coarser ground, an' itplease you?"

"I will see to it, Mistress Amy. A fine even, methinks?"

"Ay, right fair, " replied Amy in that manner which shows that thespeaker's thoughts are away elsewhere. But she did not offer to go; shelingered about the mill-door, in the style of one who has something tosay which she is puzzled or unwilling to bring out. 

"You seem weary, " said Mr Ewring, kindly; "pray you, sit and rest you aspace in the porch. "

Amy took the seat suggested at once. 

"Master Clere is well, I trust?--and Mistress Clere likewise?"

"They are well, I thank you. "

Mr Ewring noticed suddenly that Amy's eyes were full of tears. 

"Mistress Amy, " said he, "I would not by my good-will be meddlesome inmatters that concern me not, but it seemeth me all is scarce well withyou. If so be that I can serve you any way, I trust you will say somuch. "

"Master Ewring, I am the unhappiest maid in all Colchester. "

"Truly, I am right sorry to hear it. "

"I lack one to help me, and I know not to whom to turn. You could, if--"

"Then in very deed I will. Pray give me to wit how?"

Amy looked up at him. "Master Ewring, I set out for Heaven, and I havelost the way. "

"Why, Mistress Amy! surely you know well enough--"

"No, I don't, " she said, cutting him short. "Lack-a-day! I never tookno heed when I might have learned it: and now have I no chance to learn, and everything to hinder. I don't know a soul I could ask about it. "

"The priest, " suggested Mr Ewring a little constrainedly. Thislanguage astonished him from Nicholas Clere's daughter. 

"I don't want the priest's way. He isn't going himself; or if he is, it's back foremost. Master Ewring, help me! I mean it. I never wist asoul going that way save Bessy Foulkes: and she's got there, and I wantto go _her_ way. What am I to do?"

Mr Ewring did not speak for a moment. He was thinking, in the firstplace, how true it was that "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of theChurch"; and in the second, what very unlikely subjects God sometimeschooses as the recipients of His grace. One of the last people inColchester whom he would have expected to fill Elizabeth Foulkes' vacantplace in the ranks was the girl who sat in the porch, looking up at himwith those anxious, earnest eyes. 

"Mistress Amy, " he said, "you surely know there is peril in this path?It were well you should count the cost afore you enter on it. "

"Where is there not peril?" was the answer. "I may be slain oflightning to-morrow, or die of some sudden malady this next month. Canyou say surely that there is more peril of burning than of that? Ifnot, come to mine help. I must find the way somehow. Master Ewring, Iwant to be _safe_! I want to feel that it will not matter how or when Igo, because I know whither it shall be. And I have lost the way. Ithought I had but to do well and be as good as I could, and I shouldsure come out safe. And I have tried that way awhile, and it servesnot. First, I can't be good when I would: and again, the better I am--as folks commonly reckon goodness--the worser I feel. There's somewhatinside me that won't do right; and there's somewhat else that isn'tsatisfied when I have done right; it wants something more, and I don'tknow what it is. Master Ewring, you do. Tell me!"

"Mistress Amy, what think you religion to be?"

"Nay, I always thought it were being good. If it's not that, I know notwhat it is. "

"But being good must spring out of something. That is the flower. Whatis the seed--that which is to make you `be good, ' and find it easy andpleasant?"

"Tell me!" said Amy's eyes more than her words. 

"My dear maid, religion is fellowship; living fellowship with the livingLord. It is neither being good nor doing good, though both will springout of it. It is an exchange made between you and the Lord Christ: Hisrighteousness for your iniquity; His strength for your weakness; Hisrich grace for your bankrupt poverty of all goodness. Mistress Amy, youwant Christ our Lord, and the Holy Ghost, which He shall give you--thenew heart and the right spirit which be His gift, and which He died topurchase for you. "

"That's it!" said Amy, with a light in her eyes. "But how come you bythem?"

"You may have them for the asking--if you do truly wish it. `Whosoever_will_, let him take the water of life. ' Know you what Saint Austinsaith? `Thou would'st not now be setting forth to find God, if He hadnot first set forth to find thee. ' `For by grace ye are saved, throughfaith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God. ' Keep fasthold of that, Mistress Amy. "

"That 'll do!" said Amy, under her breath. "I've got what I want now--if He'll hearken to me. But, O Master Ewring, I'm not fit to keepfellowship with Him!"

"Dear maid, you are that which the best and the worst man in the worldare--a sinner that needeth pardon, a sinner that can be saved onlythrough grace. Have you the chance to get hold of a Bible, or no?"

"No! Father gave up his to the priest, months agone. I never carednought about it while I had it, and now I've lost the chance. "

"Trust the Lord to care for you. He shall send you, be sure, either thequails or the manna. He'll not let you starve. He has bound Himself tobring all safe that trust in Him. And--it looks not like it, verily, yet it may be that times of liberty shall come again. "

"Master Ewring, I've given you a deal of trouble, " said Amy, risingsuddenly, "and taken ever so much time. But I'm not unthankful, trustme. "

"My dear maid, how can Christian men spend time better than in helping afellow soul on his way towards Heaven? It's not time wasted, be sure. "

"No, it's not time wasted!" said Amy, with more feeling than Mr Ewringhad ever seen her show before. 

"Farewell, dear maid, " said he. "One thing I pray you to remember: whatyou lack is the Holy Ghost, for He only can show Christ unto you. I orothers can talk of Him, but the Spirit alone can reveal Him to your ownsoul. And the Spirit is promised to them that ask Him. "

"I'll not forget, Master. Good even, and God bless you!"

Mr Ewring stood a moment longer to watch Amy as she ran down the road, with a step tenfold more light and elastic than the weary, languid onewith which she had come up. 

"God bless the maid!" he said half aloud, "and may He `stablish, strengthen, settle' her! `He hath mercy on whom He will have mercy. 'But we on whom He has had it aforetime, how unbelieving and hopeless weare apt to be! Verily, the last recruit that I looked to see joinChrist's standard was Nicholas Clere's daughter. "

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. 

THE LAST MARTYRDOM. 

"Good-morrow, Mistress Clere! Any placards of black velvet have you?"

A placard with us means a large handbill for pasting on walls: in QueenMary's time they meant by it a double stomacher, --namely anornamentation for the front of a dress, put on separate from it, whichmight either be plain silk or velvet, or else worked with beautifulembroidery, gold twist, sometimes even pearls and precious stones. 

Mrs Clere came in all haste and much obsequiousness, for it was no lessa person than the Mayoress of Colchester who thus inquired for a blackvelvet placard. 

"We have so, Madam, and right good ones belike. Amy, fetch down yonderbox with the bettermost placards. "

Amy ran up the little ladder needful to reach the higher shelves, andbrought down the box. It was not often that Mrs Clere was asked forher superior goods, for she dealt chiefly with those whose purses wouldnot stretch so far. 

"Here, Madam, is a fine one of carnation velvet--and here a blackwrought in gold twist; or what think you of this purple bordered inpearls?"

"That liketh me the best, " said the Mayoress taking up the purplevelvet. "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, andpearls of right good colour. You shall not find a better in any shop inthe town. " And Mrs Clere dexterously turned the purple placard to thelight in such a manner that a little spot on one side of it should notshow. "Or if this carnation please you the better--"

"No, I pass not upon that, " said the Mayoress; which meant, that she didnot fancy it. "Will you take four-and-twenty shillings, MistressClere?"

It was then considered almost a matter of course that a shopkeeper mustbe 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 apenny thereby; yet rather than lose your good custom, seeing for whom itis--"

"Very good, " said the Mayoress, "put it up. "

Amy knew that the purple placard had cost her mother 16 shillings 8pence, and had been slightly damaged since it came into her hands. Sheknew also that Mrs Clere would confess the fraud to the priest, wouldprobably be told to repeat the Lord's Prayer three times over as apenance for it, would gabble through the words as fast as possible, andwould then consider her sin quite done away with, and her profit of 7shillings 4 pence cheaply secured. She knew also that the Mayoress, inall probability, was aware that Mrs Clere's protestation about notgaining a single penny was a mere flourish of words, not at all meant tobe accepted as a fact. 

"Is there aught of news stirring, an' it like you, Madam?" asked MrsClere, as she rolled up the placard inside out, and secured it withtape. 

"I know of none, truly, " answered the Mayoress, "save to-morrow'sburning, 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, butthat I would some less displeasant manner of execution might be found. Truly, what with the heat, and the dust, and the close crowds thatgather, 'tis no dainty matter to behold. "

"You say truth, Madam. Indeed, the last burning we had, my daughterhere was so close pressed in the crowd, and so near the fire, she fairswooned, 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 sogreat a burning as the last--so very likely the crowd shall be lessalso. "

The crowd was not much less on the waste place by the Lexden Road, whenon the 17th of September, 1557, those two martyrs were brought forth todie: Agnes Bongeor, full of joy and triumph, praising God that at lengthshe was counted worthy to suffer for His Name's sake; Margaret Thurston, the disciple who had denied Him, and for whom therefore there could beno triumph; yet, even now, a meek and fervent appeal from the heart'score, of "Lord, Thou knowest that I love Thee!"

As the chain was being fastened around them a voice came from thecrowd--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 Hiscovenant forever. ' `According to Thy mercy, remember Thou me!'"

Only Margaret Thurston knew who spoke three times that word never to beforgotten, 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 madehis way back to her. 

"You come to behold, do you, Dorothy?" said he, when they had turnedinto 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 benot. "

"Eh, I'm as weak as any one, " replied Dorothy. "What comforts me is tosee how the good Lord can put strength into the very feeblest lamb ofall His flock. It seems like as if the Shepherd lifted the lamb intoHis 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 anything, and then I just go and ask for it for everything, and methinks Iget along best that way. "

"Ay, so? You are coming on fast, Dorothy. Many Christian folks missthat 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 thantheir own; so they don't get thinking they can manage the little thingsthemselves, 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 thismorrow. "

"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 Ewringreflectively. 

"Eh, Master Ewring don't you go into peril! The Lord's cause can'tafford to lose you. Don't 'ee, now!"

"Dorothy, " said Mr Ewring with a smile, "if the Lord's cause can'tafford to lose me, you may be very sure it won't lose me. `The Lordreigneth, be the people never so impatient. ' He is on the throne, notthe priests. But in truth, Dorothy, the Lord can afford anything: He isable of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham. `He Himselfknew what He would do, ' touching the miracle of the loaves: Andrewdidn't know, and Philip hadn't a notion. Let us trust Him, Dorothy, andjust go forward and do our duty. We shall not die one moment before theMaster 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 upinto a tall, slim, lily-like girl, nearly as white as a lily, and asdelicate-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 teachyou that is good. We're being better learned than Father could havelearned 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 talkingabout him, " said Will uneasily, trying to wriggle himself out of hissister's clasp. 

"Not talk about Father!" exclaimed Cissy indignantly. "Will, whateverdo you mean? I couldn't bear not to talk about Father! It would seemlike 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 bidingit. Look here. Cissy--I'm going to give up. "

"Give up what?" Cissy's voice was very low. There might be pain anddisappointment in it, but there was no weakness. 

"Oh, all this standing out against the nuns. You can go on, if you likebeing starved and beaten and made to kneel on the chapel floor, and soforth; but I've stood it as long as I can. And--wait a bit, Cis; let mehave my say out--I can't see what it signifies, not one bit. What canit matter whether I say my prayers looking at yon image or not? If Isaid them looking at the moon, or at you, you wouldn't say I was prayingto you or the moon. I'm not praying to _it_; only, if they think I am, I sha'n't get thrashed and sent to bed hungred. Don't you see? Thatcan't be idolatry. "

Cissy was silent till she had felt her way through the mist raised byWill'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 theymake 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 doit. "

"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 bearthings. I've had enough of it. God Almighty won't be hard on me, if Ido give in. "

"Hard, Will! Do you call it hard when people are grieved to the heartbecause you do something which they'd lay down their lives you shouldn'tdo? The Lord did lay down His life for you: and yet you say that youcan'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 theydon'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, onwhom hardships fell lightly, while she had to bear the blows and thehunger 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 beto 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. Itwould 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 allin 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?--areyou forgetting Father himself?"

"Cis, I wish you wouldn't!"

"I wish _you_ wouldn't, Will. "

"You don't think Father can hear, do you?" asked Will uncomfortablyglancing around. 

"I hope he can't, indeed, or he'll be sore grieved, even in Heaven, tothink what his little Will's coming to. "

"Oh, well--come, I'll try a bit longer, Cis, if you--But I say, I dohope it won't be long, or I _can't_ stand it. "

------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, or rather in the early hours of the following morning, ahorseman came spurring up to the Head Gate of Colchester. He alightedfrom 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 aminute, will you? I'll be with you anon. "

"Tarry!" repeated the horseman with a contemptuous laugh. "Thou'd notwant me to tarry if thou knewest what news I bring. "

"Good tidings, eh? let's have 'em!" said the gatekeeper in a briskervoice. 

"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 saveQueen Elizabeth'?"

The gate was dashed open in the unsleepiest way that ever gate wasmoved. 

"You never mean--is the Queen departed?"

"Queen Mary is gone to her reward, " replied the horseman gravely. "Godsave 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! nomore hiding of men's heads in dens and caves of the earth! God save theQueen! 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 toroar and dance in his inexpressible delight. But now and then he doesit; and never did he dance and roar as he did on that eighteenth ofNovember, 1558. All over England, men went wild with joy. The terribleweight of the chains in which she had been held, was never truly feltuntil 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 werelike children in their frantic glee that day Men who were perfectstrangers were seen in the streets shaking hands with each other asthough they were the dearest friends. Women who ordinarily would not ofthought of speaking to one another were kissing each other and callingon each other to rejoice. Nobody calmed down until he was so worn-outthat wearied nature absolutely forced him to repose. It was seen thatday that however she had been oppressed, compelled to silence, ortortured into apparent submission, England was Protestant. The prophetshad prophesied falsely, and the priests borne rule, but the people hadnot loved to have it so, as they very plainly showed. Colchester haddeclared for Mary five years before, because she was the true heir whohad the right to reign, and rebellion was not right because her religionwas 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 priestsbear 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 loveto 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 bondageand the sin of idolatry under Queen Elizabeth; but she bound them tightagain, 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 brickfloor 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 satbefore the fire, and the wood now and then gave a little crackle as itburned gently away, and those were all the signs of life to be seen onthe premises. 

Getting tired at last, Mr Ewring went out into the courtyard, andcalled in his loudest tones--"Do-ro-thy!"

He thought he heard a faint answer of "Coming!" which sounded high upand a long way off: so he went back to the kitchen, and took a seat onthe hearth opposite the cat. In a few minutes the sound of running downstairs was audible, and at last Dorothy appeared--her gown pinned upbehind, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and her entire aspect thatof 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 theresurrection happened? for your face looks nigh too glad for aughtelse. "

The gladness died suddenly away, as those words brought to Mr Ewringthe thought of something which could not happen--the memory of thebeloved face which for thirty years had been the light of his home, andwhich he should behold in this world never any more. 

"Nay, Dorothy--nay, not that! Yet it will be, one day, thank God! Andwe 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 aring of triumph in his voice. "King David is come, and the Philistineswill take flight, and Israel shall sit in peace under his vine andfig-tree. May God save Elizabeth our Queen!"

"Good lack, but you never mean _that_!" cried Dorothy in a voice asdelighted as his own. "Why then, Mistress 'll be back to her own, andthem poor little dears 'll be delivered from them black snakes, andthere 'll be Bible-reading and sermons again. "

"Ay, every one of them, I trust. And a man may say what he will that isright, 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 makesure I'm awake. But, Master, do you think it is sure? She haven'tchanged, think you?"

Mr Ewring shook his head. "The Lady Elizabeth suffered with us, " hesaid, "and she will not forsake us now. No, Dorothy, she has notchanged: she is not one to change. Let us not distrust either her orthe Lord. Ah, He knew what He would do! It was to be a sharp, shorthour of tribulation, through which His Church was to pass, to purify, and try, and make her white: and now the land shall have rest fortyyears, that she may sing to Him a new song on the sea of glass. Thosefive years have lit the candle of England's Church, and as our good oldBishop 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 thinklong till those poor children be rescued. And the nuns will be readyand glad to give them up; they'll not want to be found with Protestantchildren in their keeping--children, too, of a martyred man. "

"Master Ewring, give me but time to get me tidied and my hood, and I'llgo with you this minute, if you will. I was mopping out the loft. WhenMistress do come back, she shall find her house as clean as she'd havehad 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 overSunday?"

"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 forthem--I'll work early and late but I will. Did you think of taking thelittle 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'shand 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 isto 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 bein the Bishop of London's keeping, as she was, I cast no doubt she shallbe delivered early. Doubtless all the bishops that refuse to conformshall be deprived: and he will not conform, without he be a greaterrogue than I think. "

There was something of the spirit of the earliest Christians when theyhad all things common, in the matter-of-course way in which it wasunderstood on both sides that each was ready to take charge, at anysacrifice of time, money, or ease, of children who had been leftfatherless by martyrdom. 

Early the next morning, the miller's cart drew up before the door of theKing's Head, and Dorothy, hooded and cloaked, with a round basket on herarm, was quite ready to get in. The drive to Hedingham was pleasantenough, cold as the weather was; and at last they reached the barredgate of the convent. Dorothy alighted from the cart. 

"I'll see you let in, Dorothy, ere I leave you, " said he, "if indeed Ihave to leave you at all. I should never marvel if they brought thechildren forth, and were earnest to be rid of them at once. "

It did not seem like it, however, for several knocks were necessarybefore the wicket unclosed. The portress looked relieved when she sawwho 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 thelittle ones. "

"Come within, " said the portress, "and I will inquire. "

This appeared more promising. Dorothy was led to the guest-chamber, andwas not kept waiting. Only a few minutes had elapsed when the Prioressherself appeared. 

"You wish to see the children?" she said. 

"I wish to take them with me, if you please, " answered Dorothyaudaciously. "I look for my mistress back shortly, and she wasaforetime desirous to bring them up. I will take the full charge ofthem, with your leave. "

"Truly, and my leave you shall have. We shall be right glad to be ridof the charge, for a heavy one it has been, and a wearisome. A moreobstinate, perverse, ungovernable maid than Cicely never came in myhands. "

"Thank the Lord!" said Dorothy. 

"Poor creatures!" said the Prioress. "I suppose you will do your bestto undo our teaching, and their souls will be lost. Howbeit, we werelittle like to have saved them. And it will be well, now for thecommunity 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 inthe 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 unmistakabledelight. "Oh, they didn't tell me who it was! Are we to go with_you_?--back to Colchester? Has something happened? Do tell me what isgoing to become of us. "

"My dear heart, peace and happiness, if it please the Lord. MasterEwring 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 berid of you. If my dear mistress come home safe--as please God, sheshall--you shall be all her children, and Master Ewring hath offered totake Will when he be old enough, and learn him his trade. Your troublesbe over, I trust the Lord, for some while. "

"It's just in time!" said Cissy with a gasp of relief. "Oh, how wickedI have been, not to trust God better! and He was getting this ready forus 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 belong in fulfilling her errand. He cast the reins on the neck of his oldbay horse, and allowed it to crop the grass while he waited. Many ashort prayer for the success of the journey went up as he sat there. Atlast the gate was opened, and a boy of seven years old bounded out of itand 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 thengive me your hand and make a long jump. "

Will obeyed, just as the gate opened again, and Dorothy came out of itwith the two little girls. Little Nell--no longer Baby--could walk now, and chatter too, though few except Cissy understood what she said. Shetalked away in a very lively manner, until Dorothy lifted her into thecart, when the sight of Mr Ewring seemed to exert a paralysing effectupon her, nor was she reassured at once by his smile. 

"Dear heart, but it 'll be a close fit!" said Dorothy. "How be we topack ourselves?"

"Cissy must sit betwixt us, " answered the miller; "she's not quite sofat as a sack of flour. Take the little one on your knees, Dorothy; andWill shall come in front of me, and take his first lesson in drivingTim. "

They settled themselves accordingly, Will being highly delighted at hispromotion. 

"Well, I reckon you are not sorry to be forth of that place?" suggestedMr Ewring. 

"Oh, so glad!" said Cissy, under her breath. 

"And how hath Will stood out?" was the next question, which producedprofound silence for a few seconds. Then Will broke forth. 

"I haven't, Master Ewring--at least, it's Cissy's doing, and she's hadhard work to make me stick. I should have given up ever so many timesif she'd have let me. I didn't think I could stand it much longer, andit was only last night I told her so, and she begged and prayed me tohold on. "

"That's an honest lad, " said Mr Ewring. 

"And that's a dear maid, " added Dorothy. 

"Then Cissy stood out, did she?"

"Cissy! eh, they'd never have got _her_ to kneel down to their uglyimages, not if they'd cut her head off for it. She's just like a stonewall. Nell did, till Cissy got hold of her and told her not; but shedidn't know what it meant, so I hope it wasn't wicked. You see, she'sso little, and she forgets what is said to her. "

"Ay, ay; poor little dear!" said Dorothy. "And what did they to you, mypoor dears, when you wouldn't?"

"Oh, lots of things, " said Will. "Beat us sometimes, and shut us indark cupboards, and sent us to bed without supper. One night they madeCissy--"

"Never mind, Will, " said Cissy blushing. 

"But they'd better know, " said Will stoutly. "They made Cissy kneel allnight on the floor of the dormitory, tied to a bed-post. They said ifshe wouldn't kneel to the saint, she should kneel without it. AndSister 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 atthe end of it they would hold out something uncommon good, and just whenwe 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 apiece 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! Andthey beat thee, Will?"

"Hard, " said Will. 

"And thee, Cissy?"

"Yes--sometimes, " said Cissy quietly. "But I did not care for that, ifthey'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 rightand wrong about it, I could not have done what would vex Father. "

Tim trotted on for a while, and Will was deeply interested in hisdriving lesson. About a mile from Colchester, Mr Ewring rathersuddenly pulled up. 

"Love! is that you?" he said. 

John Love, who was partly hidden by some bushes, came out and showedhimself. 

"Ay, and I well-nigh marvel it is either you or me, " said hesignificantly. 

"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 sideof these five bitter years, left to rejoice together. "

"Love, I would your Agnes would look in on me a time or two, " saidDorothy. "I have proper little wit touching babes, and she might helpme 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, haveyou 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 firmtill the priests were fair astonied at him; they thought they'd havebrought him round, and that was why they never burned him. He'll comeforth now, I guess. "

"Not a doubt of it. There shall be some right happy deliverances allover the realm, and many an happy meeting, " said Mr Ewring, with afaint 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 passinggreeting to Amy Clere, who was taking down mantles at the shop door, andwhose whole face lighted up at the sight, and turned through the greatarchway into the courtyard of the King's Head. The cat came out to meetthem, with arched back and erect tail, and began to mew and rub herselfagainst Dorothy, having evidently some deeply interesting communicationto make in cat language; but what it was they could not even guess untilthey reached the kitchen. 

"Sure, " said Dorothy, "there's somebody here beside Barbara. Run in, mydears, " she added to the children. "Methinks there must be company inthe 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 therein a minute, only I'd fain not wake the babe, for she's weary withunwonted sights. "

Little Helen had fallen asleep in Dorothy's arms. Cissy and Will wentforward 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 thenknown. 

"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 astonisheddelight. 

"Mistress Wade!" cried Mr Ewring, following her. "Truly, you are apleasant sight, and I am full fain to welcome you back. I trusted weshould 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 forfourteen months hath seen little beside the sea-coals [Note 1] in theBishop of London's coalhouse. That's where he sets his prisoners thatbe principally [note 2] lodged, and he was pleased to account of me as agreat woman, " said Mrs Wade, cheerily. "But we have right good causeto praise God, every one; and next after that to give some thanks toeach other. I've heard much news from Bab, touching many folks andthings, and thee not least, Doll. Trust me, I never guessed into howfaithful hands all my goods should fall, nor how thou shouldst keepmatters going as well as if I had been here mine own self. Thou shaltfind 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 andhenceforth?--only I hear, Master Ewring, you mean to share the littlelad 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 Ionly hope He's told Father. "

"Dear child, thy father shall lack no telling, " said Mr Ewring. "He iswhere no shade of mistrust can come betwixt him and God, and he knowswith certainty, as the angels do, that all shall be well with you forever. "

Cissy looked up. "Please, may we sing the hymn Rose did, when she wastaken down to the dungeon?"

"Sing, my child, and we will join thee. "

 "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host, Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!"

"Dear heart! but that's sweet!" said Dorothy, wiping her eyes. 

"Truth! but they sing it better _there_, " responded Mr Ewring softly. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Coals. --all coal then came to London by sea. 

Note 2. Principally: handsomely. 

THE END.