representations; while the minister stood by in grave silence, repenting of his hasty consent. But it was arranged at last. Master Field agreed to remain behind his companions; and on the next morning Edith and he were to set out alone on their momentous journey.

He had to leave the cottage immediately to meet with his brethren, and make the necessary arrangements. Early on the morrow the good dame herself was to conduct Edith to a hostel in Carlisle, from whence they would set out; a duty which the kindly shepherd's wife undertook with much reluctance, and had even laid some simple schemes to prevent, such as darkening the chamber of her gentle guest, and forbearing the usual cheery call with which she was wont to awaken her to a new day. But Edith, in the promptitude of excitement, was beforehand with her affectionate hostess, and left her apartment, dressed in her plain traveling hood and mantle, while Dame Dutton was still donning her homely gown in stealthy silence, fearful of disturbing her.

They had a walk of ten miles to Carlisle, and not a smooth one. Ralph had been out on the hill-side with his flocks since earliest dawn; and at six o'clock, when Dame Dutton had broken her fast after the substantial fashion of the time-for she was not overbrimming with high youthful resolve and subdued excitement-they set

out.

It was a very clear, bright, hopeful day; and the breath of the great mountains rose up to heaven, and the undulating breadths of the green country lay fair below the sunshine-peace, and health, and gentle security. Edith Field lifted up her eyes to the pure sky, and sighed-to

relieve her full heart not for sorrow; for what very different scenes was she about to exchange these!

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"Ay, thou wilt go, wilt thou?" said good Dame Dutton, as they reached the level highway. Well-a-day! young folk are willful; but I would fain ask thee, Mistress Edith, what Master Field will be the better o' the like o' thee? a gentle lady-thing, that's liker a down bed, and a silk mantle, and folk serving thee hand and foot, than aught else. If thou'dst been a handy lass, wi' an arm like our Raaf's, and cheeks like the miller's maiden o'er the fell, thou might'st have thought on't; but thou, that ever wast liker a lily in a garden than a stout heatherbloom on the hills, that thou should'st stir thee on such an errand! Well-a-day! but I have telled thee; thou know'st my mind."

"But I am strong, dame," said Edith, tremulously. "Cicely Whitbread at the mill, can work better than I, but she could not bear so well. When we left Hampstead-you do not know what a hard journey it was, Dame Dutton-I was not a burden on my father; he will tell you, if you ask him. I rode behind him for whole days, traveling down to Cumberland, but I never wearied. I never felt myself weak until I was safe in the cottage, and my father away again laboring dangerously, when I could not go forth with him. So you must not speak so to me, Dame Dutton, because I am sure I go justly, and will be no hindrance to my father; and here we are at Thornleigh now, half-way to Carlisle, and you have never told me yet, dame, why this house is so desolate."

"It is none so desolate this fine morning," said the dame; thou would'st have me believe, I reckon, that

thou did'st not mark the brave gentleman and his train that rode out of the old gate as we came round the shoulder of the fell? Ah! Mistress Edith, thou's none so still, for all thy sad apparel, as to take no note of young Sir Philip, and his serving-men behind him."

"I thought no one lived here," said Edith; "and I never saw Sir Philip, dame, that I should know yonder horseman was he."

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Nay, I say not thou knowest," said the shepherd's wife; "but prithee make thy pace slower, Mistress Edith, for my breath fails me. I had a light foot enow in my day; alack, but that bides not forever! But, as I say, it is e'en as well that we be behind yonder gallant, for an thou knowest him not, it is as well for thee; and thou might'st, if thou did'st see him near at hand; and there is a wrong done between his house and thine, Mistress Edith, that it would but grieve thee to hear of. Alas, thy blessed mother! Well, surely it is a dark world, for yonder proud lady hath all she lacks, and does naught in this earth, but waste and spend, and harden the heart of her; and the other gentle face is in its grave many a year ago. Well-a-day!"

"What is that, Dame Dutton?" asked Edith, eagerly.

"An thy father told thee not, Mistress Edith," said the Dame, "it is none of my business to tell thee; and forsooth it is just and right that there should be little mentioning of old wrongs among folk that strive to fear God; for thou knowest the carnal mind is fain to have something against its neighbor, and it is not aye we do well to be angry. He was but an ill body, that prophet Jonah, that could set up his face to say the like."

"But I am not angry, dame," said Edith. "Tell me this-tell me about my mother."

"Ay, and what could I tell thee of her, sweet soul, but what was good and pleasant? She was like thee, Mistress Edith-nay, for that matter, the other lady was well favored enow. Thou could'st see at a glance they were gentlefolks, and come of good blood, but they were none like each other, for all their kindred. Alack! folk thought it a poor lot for her, when she wedded the minister, but it might have been a good lot if there had been no bad laws. Well, we know not who may be hearing us, but this is a distressed land and a dark; and I would there might come better times in my day, for it's hard upon old folk to have to go dozens of miles ere they can hear a preaching, and Raaf gets to limp now when the road's long, and I'm sadly hampered with the breath. But any way we may be thankful that there's no word of such a scourge as that plague coming hereaway, or of us canny Cumberland folk being cut down upon the hills, as they do the Scots. But we mind our troubles more than our mercies !"

CHAPTER II.

"When I view abroad both regiments,
The world's and thine,

Thine clad with simpleness and sad events,
The other, fine-

Full of glory and gay weeds,

Brave language-braver deeds!"

GEORGE HErbert.

THE Carlisle hostel was full of guests-a singular circumstance-for the quaint and humble suburban inn was out of the ordinary road of travelers. The landlady, an honest, ruddy, bustling dame, with a strong leaning to the persecuted Presbyterians, hastily led Edith and her guardian up-stairs into a little bright bed-chamber, whose latticed window looked out through embowering foliage, over the well-filled garden, upon the road they had just traversed.

""Tis but an homely place," said Mrs. Philpot, "to put a gentlewoman in; but, forsooth, Mistress Edith, we be often put to our wit's-end that live in a public way, for there's young Sir Philip Dacre below, with all his servingmen-and wherefore he came hither I wot not, for we're none such light folks as to put up with the ways of wild young gallants like him, that would have their gentle blood cover all. No, no, says I, we'll have none of your gay