"Ah, Master Vincent, it is lawful to take rest for the Lord's sake."

"I thank thee, Mistress Edith," said the preacher, more calmly, "for thy good and gentle wishes; and I think oft that I would I could look on the broad sea once more ere I go hence; but that is of slight import, seeing it concerneth no mortal thing save mine own longing. Thou hast done bravely, Mistress Edith; the Lord give thee double for thy valor; but I wist not wherefore gentle Mary Chester should be less brave than thou."

"Less brave! nay, Master Vincent, say not so," exclaimed Edith, eagerly; "only I have naught in this wide earth but my father, and Mary hath the little ones in charge. They have no mother, the little children; and Mary Chester hath been braver in patience and waiting than I."

"Sayest thou so?" said the minister, dreamily, "sayest thou so? Yet shall we all meet in yonder fair land where the Lord dwelleth. Would it were come: would we were all there! And thou wilt carry my greeting to thy friend, Mistress Edith. The Lord be her dwelling-place! And so, young sister, fare thee well."

She stood still, looking after him. He was a young man, though worn with toils and sorrows; no ascetic, but with a heart beating warm to all the kindnesses of life; with human hopes vehement as his own nature; with human affections ardent above most. Imprisoned in an unwholesome jail because he could not choose but preach, the seeds of disease had been sown in his delicate frame a year or two before; and it was thus he had spent the remnant of his life. The delicate fire, that might have

burned on longer with careful tending, blazed up in one bright flash, and only one, before it sank into darkness; and now he had but to die.

Gentle Mary Chester, in yonder quiet house in Surrey, knew all this. What then? he had his labor, she had hers. It was no question of what either wished or hoped; for who, born of those godly households, and nurtured in that simple constancy of faith, could put mortal design, or joy, or purpose, before the work of the Lord?

But Edith Field turned away with a heavy heart; so sad alway, be the spirit strung ever so strongly, is that eclipse of human expectation, of youthful joy and hope. The inner man in strong life, counting with stern composure the last grains of his mortal existence, as they passed one by one away-the falling of those numbered days which, but for that blight, would have been the brightest. It was a sad sight to look upon.

"Please you, Mistress Edith," said Mercy, when they had gone on some little way in silence," does the young cavalier dwell always at Westminster?"

"Who is that, Mercy?" asked Edith.

"Sir Philip, madam; the gentleman that hath done so graciously, as people say, to the sick and to the poor." "Nay," was the answer; "he dwells in Cumberland, Mercy."

"Because, an' please you," continued Mercy, "Dame Saffron do tell sad tales of the great lady, the cavalier's mother; and how she did speak of you in her raving, Mistress Edith, and called you Edith Dacre, and angel, and blessed one, and did not cease until she died."

"Not I," said Edith hastily; "it was not I the lady meant, but my mother, who was her kinswoman."

"Then Sir Philip is of kin to you, Mistress Edith?" said the curious Mercy; "and truly that was what Dame Saffron said."

"What did Dame Saffron say?" asked Edith.

"Nay, madam, nothing worth talking of-only that the young cavalier did not come always to have counsel with Master Field; but she knew not he was of kin to you, Mistress Edith; and forsooth she is but a gossip, and a great talker, as my mother says."

Edith went on in silence: the pure blood flushing to her face. Before that great Death visibly present among them, who could think of the brighter things that cluster about the brow of youth; but now the weight was lifted off, and the young heart, strong in its humanity, began to send its first timid glances forward into a new future-a future rich with peradventures, and beautiful to look upon -fairer, perhaps more real, in its joy of anticipation, than if its dreams were all fulfilled.

CHAPTER X.

"Good brother rest-the toil is overpast

The weariness, the travail, and the tears-
All that did trouble thee-and now beholding
From the high heaven how we lay up thy garments
In the safe treasure-house of Death, thou smil'st
Upon our pains. So, till we follow thee.

Farewell!"

Ir was a blustering, boisterous day in March; stronghanded winds, errant and violent, were roaming waywardly through London. The city had resumed its former look; the grass-grown streets were again filled with busy crowds. The terror of the great enemy had passed into other places, before himself was gone.

In the Hampstead cottage Edith Field, arrayed for a journey, sat waiting for her father. She looked very sad and downcast, and there were tears in her eyes. Dame Rogers went about her household business with loud lamentations over the departure of her guests. Mercy sat in a corner, silently weeping.

At that time the bells of Aldgate Church tolled mournfully for one dead. By a new grave there, Master Chester and Master Field stood together.

The funeral procession had departed-the grave was

closed; they were looking down solemnly upon the resting-place of a brave captain in their brotherhood; a manful and loyal servant of God.

By-and-by Master Chester put his arm through his friend's, and silently they turned away; they had emerged from the din and bustle of the city before either spoke.

"We have left him to his rest, good brother," said Master Chester then; "and we who leave him, what remaineth for us? God knoweth-the Lord help us I pray, for there seemeth nothing left for us but to become wanderers and vagabonds on the face of the earth."

"Yea, truly, God help us!" said Master Field, "for He knoweth that this oppression is even too like to make wise men mad. To think of this-that he, whom we have laid in quiet rest to-day, would have been hunted through the country, had he lived one short month longer, after spending life and strength for this people in their extremity. Who is sufficient for these things?"

"It is well," said the other, his voice faltering with the sorrow which he restrained; "it is well that the Master hath carried him home, where evil act or statute can harm him nevermore. Thou wert a good soldier, Titus Vincent, brother and son of mine, and a faithful as ever served King; and thou art gotten to thine inheritance; the Lord keep us till we join thee. But, brother, pity me for my Mary-my poor girl."

The pity was not spoken in words; but the two fathers, old and long friends, understood each other not the less.

"I can but spend a night with my little ones," said Master Chester, after a long pause; "and God knoweth how