Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

She then moistened his lips with milk from the bottle.
In a few minutes the sick man opened his eyes.

[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]

[Year 1685]

WINIFRED;

OR,

AN ENGLISH MAIDEN IN THE

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

BY

L. E. G.

[Lucy Ellen Guernsey]

LONDON:

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48 PATERNOSTER ROW.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. JACK'S GHOST

II. THE MIDNIGHT WALK

III. MY LADY

IV. THE CONFERENCE

V. JACK'S MISFORTUNE

VI. A NARROW ESCAPE

VII. FURTHER CONSULTATIONS

VIII. THE DISGUISE

IX. SUNDAY

X. THE ESCAPE

XI. THE BEGINNING OF CHANGES

XII. BRISTOL

XIII. THE CITY KNIGHT'S FAMILY

XIV. THE BANQUET

XV. THE FEVER

XVI. SURPRISES

XVII. THE PRINCE

XVIII. CONCLUSION

WINIFRED.

CHAPTER I.

JACK'S GHOST.

IT was nearly two mouths after the battle of Sedgemoor, which was fought on the 6th of July, 1685, between the forces of James the Second, King of England, and those of the Duke of Monmouth, his illegitimate nephew, who laid claim to the crown. Monmouth was without the shadow of right upon his side, and was utterly unsupported, save by a few political exiles and adventurers as reckless as himself. He had hoped that as soon as he landed, the gentry of the western counties would flock to his standard, but in this he was mistaken. Nobody joined him but the country people, and a few prominent dissenters who were misled by their hatred of popery and their dread and dislike of the reigning king.

After some weeks of aimless marching and counter-marching, of foolish proclamations and senseless quarrels among themselves, the forces of Monmouth encountered those of King James upon Sedgemoor, not far from Bridgewater in Somersetshire, and were utterly defeated, though most of his raw, undisciplined troops behaved with the greatest bravery, resisting to the very last, even after they were abandoned by their leader. Monmouth fled, but was soon taken, carried to London, tried, and executed.

No one could blame King James for putting Monmouth to death. He had been guilty of high treason in taking up arms against the government, and had justly forfeited his life. But nothing could excuse the barbarous cruelty exercised toward his followers, almost all of whom were simple country people, who had been influenced chiefly by personal attachment to the duke. In Somersetshire alone two hundred and thirty persons were put to death. Their bodies hung in chains, or their heads and mangled corpses, hoisted upon poles, poisoned the air of every market-place and village-green in the County. One poor half idiot, who had been long supported by charity, was treated in this way. And two aged women, one in Hampshire and one in London, were sentenced to be burned alive, merely for sheltering and assisting with food and money some of the wretched fugitives. Both were persons of the best character, noted for their piety and their active benevolence. By the urgent intercession of certain of the king's own party, the sentence of Alice Lisle was changed from burning to beheading, but Elizabeth Gaunt perished in the flames, meeting her death with a patience and courage worthy of an ancient Christian martyr.

At the time when my story commences, Master David Evans lived near a little hamlet called Holford, about nine or ten miles from Bridgewater. He was a yeoman, that is to say, he farmed his own land, which had belonged to his family for several generations. Master Evans had received more education than most of his neighbors, even those of higher rank than himself, and possessed what in that time and place was esteemed quite a library, that is to say, he had besides his great Bible and Prayer-book, "The Whole Duty of Man," Foxe's "Martyrs," and a couple of odd volumes of Hackluyt's "Voyages." He was not rich, for his land was none of the best, and scientific farming was unknown in those days. But he had always enough and to spare, and no poor person applying to him for help was sent empty away. His principal profits were derived from his orchards and cider presses, for which then as now Somersetshire was famous, and from the horses he raised for the London market.

His elder son had been apprenticed to a shipwright in Bristol, and was now in business for himself. The younger was captain of a fine vessel sailing from the same port, while his wife Magdalen lived with her father-in-law, kept his house, and attended to the dairy and poultry yard.

Magdalen belonged to a good Devonshire family, which had sent more than one confessor to the rack and the stake in the time of Queen Mary, and had borne a good share in the naval exploits by which the men of Devon rendered themselves famous during the next glorious reign. Magdalen herself was a woman of a grave and earnest spirit, scrupulously exact in the performance of all daily duties, kind and considerate to those about her, and thoroughly imbued with that spirit of religious devotion which had sustained her great-grandmother amid the fires of Smithfield. She had two children. Jack was a sturdy boy of twelve, with a great aptitude for fishing, birds'-nesting, and riding on horseback, and an equal disinclination for learning of any sort, together with a marvellous capacity for tearing his clothes, blackening his eyes, and getting into scrapes generally. Winifred was nearly three years older, and very much resembled her mother, both in mind and person.

Master Evans had been in no way concerned in the Rebellion. He was not given to politics at any time, and he looked upon the Duke of Monmouth's adventure with equal dislike and contempt. He was a constant and devout church-goer, and even his great high-tory neighbor, Sir Edward Peckham, could find no other fault with him than that he dispensed his charities to churchman and dissenter alike, which however was equally true of the vicar of the parish and the Bishop of Bath and Wells, the learned and excellent Doctor Ken.

But it did not follow of course that Master Evans was in no danger during the bloody proscription which followed the battle of Sedgemoor. A great many persons as innocent as himself had been put to death by the monster Jeffreys and the almost equally wicked soldiers Kirke and Faversham. He could not go to the parish church on Sunday without seeing over the porch the ghastly head of his kind old neighbor and friend Master Oldmixon, who had been hung for no other crime than that of having been in Bridgewater bargaining for the sale of his cheese on the day before the battle, and taking off his hat to the Duke of Monmouth as he passed by. Another neighbor had sold eggs and cider to certain of the duke's officers, and for this offence he was hung in chains at his own house-door. But Master Evans had thus far escaped persecution, and as he was not rich enough to excite the covetousness of the king's officers, he began to hope he should go entirely free.

It was about two weeks after the conclusion of the Bloody Assizes, as they have ever since been called, that Jack Evans was going across the field with a basket in his hand, containing some meal, a large piece of cheese, and sundry other provisions which his mother had sent him to carry to a poor widow. Old Dame Sprat lived in a hovel on the edge of a waste, swampy plain, partly overgrown with bushes and reeds; and to reach her hut, it was necessary to pass through a certain thicket called the Black Copse, which bore no good name. Strange sounds had been heard, and strange lights seen glancing among the trees. Nay, it was solemnly declared that the place was haunted by a black horse without a head, which spoke with a human voice.

All country people were superstitious at that time, and Jack was no wiser than his neighbors in this respect, while the terrible incidents and horrible sights of the last few weeks had filled the country with ghost stories. However, his mother had commanded, and there was nothing for it but to obey. The afternoon was warm and sunny, and the hazel-nuts were ripening in the hedges. And besides, Jack, who was really a kind-hearted boy, pitied the poor lonely old woman who had no one to care for her. So he went along cheerily enough, sometimes whistling, sometimes singing an old ballad or some sea-song which he had learned from his father. He was passing through his grandfather's barley field, and had nearly reached the stile at the further end, when he noticed with surprise that two or three of the barley sheaves had fallen down, and were lying partly unbound and scattered upon the ground.

"Who has done that?" said he to himself. "I wonder if the gypsies have been turning their asses into the field again? However, the sheaves must not be left like that, for I think it is coming on to rain, and they will all be spoiled."

So saying, he put down his basket and set himself seriously to the business of restoring the fallen barley to its place. It was not an easy task to accomplish alone, but Jack was both strong and skilful for a boy of his age, and he knew how important it was that not a grain of this precious barley should be lost: so he persevered, and at last succeeded in putting matters to rights.

He was just fastening the band of the last sheaf, when he heard a sound which made him spring to his feet, with hair bristling and eyes almost starting from his head. It was a deep groan, as of a person in great distress. He listened, trembling in every limb. Presently, he heard it again, and then a faint, hollow voice, speaking, as it were, out of the ground.

"My good lad!" it said.

Jack waited to hear no more. If truth must be told, he was at all times an arrant coward, and the horrible events of the summer had made him afraid of his own shadow. He thought no more of basket, barley, or Widow Sprat. Terror lent him wings, and he never paused to look round or breathe till he burst into the kitchen, where his mother and grandfather were sitting, and fell flat on the floor. It was some time before he could speak so as to be understood, and then he told a terrible tale of groans, and voices speaking out of the ground, of clattering hoofs pursuing him, and a white spectre as tall as a chimney which waved its arms over his head. He could give no account of the basket, and he declared, in his distress, that he would not go to the Black Copse again, no, not if they killed him. Indeed it was plain enough that to send him back would be to endanger his reason if not his life.

"I cannot tell what to do!" said Dame Magdalen, very much perplexed. "Your grandfather is ill with rheumatism, and the men are all away. My ankle is so lame with the sprain I got yesterday, that I can hardly make shift to go about house, and Jenny and Priscy would either of them be as bad as Jack himself. I fear the poor old dame will suffer for want of food."

Both the maids declared that they could not and would not go near the Black Copse that night for all the world. And Jenny added, "Not for King Monmouth himself, God bless him!"

"Hush, fool!" said Master Evans, sternly. "There is more danger in one such speech as that than in all the ghosts in Somersetshire. Let me never hear the name of that unhappy man spoken under my roof!"

Jenny was careful to put the dairy door between herself and her master before she muttered that King Monmouth would come to his own yet, in spite of them all.

"As for you, Jack, you had better take your supper, and then go to bed and sleep off your fright, which I dare say has not taken away your appetite," said Master Evans. "I do not know what you will do, Magdalen. I fear the poor woman must go supperless to bed."

"I will carry the basket to Dame Sprat!" said Winifred, who had sat all this time in the chimney-corner without speaking a word.

"You, Winifred!" said her mother, surprised. "But will you not be afraid?"

"No, mother, I do not think there is any danger," replied Winifred.

"Oh, you are wondrous brave, Miss Winifred!" said Jack, not very well pleased. "Just wait till you hear the headless horse speaking to you—that's all!"

"It would be so strange to hear a horse speak at all that I do not think his not having a head would make much difference," replied Winifred, slyly. "Are you sure it was a horse which followed you, Jack, or did you only hear the clattering of your own shoes?"

Jack muttered something about girls thinking they knew more than any one else, and followed Jenny into the dairy, that he might enlarge upon his adventure to a more credulous listener.

"Then you do not believe in Jack's goblins, Winifred?"

"No, mother. I have noticed before that when Jack is frightened, he can never see anything as it really is. I suppose the ghost was the old dead tree in the copse, which he has seen a hundred times before, and the groans he heard were the creaking of the branches, or perhaps the old red cow who is always grumbling to herself. I remember when I had the fever, how the dame sat up with me and told me tales all night when I could not sleep, and how she made cool drinks for me, and baskets of rushes. I always thought I should like to do something for her in return."

"But if you should meet any of the soldiers, Winifred?"

"There are no soldiers in the neighborhood now, mother," said Winifred. "Dame Hodges has just come from Bridgewater this morning, whither she has been to see her poor son, and she tells me the soldiers have all gone away to some other place, with the chief-justice. She went to bid poor Simeon farewell, but she was not allowed even to see him."

"Lord have mercy on him, poor creature!" said Dame Evans. "He had hardly sense to tell his right hand from his left. I do not believe he even knew upon which side he was fighting. But, daughter, if you are frightened, what will you do? It is a long way from any house."

"I will say my prayers or sing a psalm, mother," replied Winifred, simply. "I think I ought to go," she added. "I think it would be but right. None of us have been near the dame for some days, and she may be starving."

"Give her the basket and let her go, Magdalen," said the old man. "She has the spirit of thy great-grandmother the martyr. May the blessing of God go with thee, child!" he added, laying his hand upon her head. "I will trust Him to bring thee safe back again, but make no further delay, for it is waxing late, and the days are shorter than they were."

"And, Winifred, you may take this bottle of milk for the old dame, and give a look for the other basket as you pass the white elm. It will doubtless be standing somewhere about."

Winifred was soon on her way with her bottle and a second basket well filled. It may seem strange that she was so ready to undertake the task, but Winifred Evans was no common child. She came of a race of heroes and confessors, and it seemed as if she had inherited her character from them. Quiet and retiring as she ordinarily was, hardly ever speaking unless when spoken to, and preferring her book or her own thoughts to any kind of play, she was never known to show a particle of fear. Gentle, patient, and ever ready to yield to the wishes and opinions of others, in matters where right and wrong were concerned she was inflexible.

Winifred's library was not a large one. There was no Sunday-school library in those times with its weekly supply of story-books—no magazine or illustrated newspaper. Her books were few, and those of a character which I fear would hardly attract many of my young readers. Her favorite volumes were the Bible, the "Book of Martyrs," and an odd volume of Mr. Edmund Spenser's "Faerie Queene," which her father had bought for her in Bristol. Besides which she read aloud now and then to Mrs. Alwright in Hall's "Chronicle" and Sir Philip Sidney's "Arcadia." But the very fact that Winifred had access to so few books made her prize more dearly and study more attentively those she had. Over the first of these especially she pondered for hours in the intervals of her daily tasks, strengthening her spirit and feeding her imagination with the glorious truths of the one and the beautiful tales of heroism and virtue in the others.

In other circumstances she might have become a mere luxurious dreamer and castle-builder, living in a world of her own fancies, to the neglect of real duties, but no such result was possible under the sensible and energetic training of Dame Magdalen Evans. Ever since Winifred had been able to run alone, she had had a regular round of daily duties laid upon her, for the performance of which she had been held strictly accountable. The chickens must be fed, the eggs collected, the daily task of spinning and knitting duly performed. And the little girl was taught to hallow these daily and commonplace toils by a spirit of religious consecration.

Dame Magdalen early made her daughter her assistant in those works of charity and mercy which were the delight of her own heart, and Winifred was at all times a welcome-visitor in the cottages of their poor neighbors, who looked upon her as a kind of saint. She shrank from no toil, however disagreeable, which would benefit others, and she sometimes undertook tasks from which elder people shrank in dismay.

It was she who first gained access to Dame Oldmixon, as she sat alone in her darkened cottage, distracted with grief and terror after the horrible death of her husband, and at first by tears and caresses, and then by whispered prayers and verses of Scripture, had quieted the poor creature and persuaded her to take some food and try to sleep. It was she who by long and careful searching had recovered little Willie Higgins' silver sixpence, just as the child had given up the quest in despair, and was going home to the whipping he was pretty certain to receive.

It was Winifred who penetrated to the awful presence of Sir Edward Peckham himself, to beg off the herd-boy who was about to be sent to jail for robbing the heron's nest of eggs and feathers; in which enterprise she succeeded so well that she not only saved the lad from punishment, but was presented with a new silver piece by Sir Edward himself, and regaled with sweetmeats by my lady, besides obtaining the inestimate privilege of coming twice in every week, and sometimes oftener, to take lessons in fine work and confectionery of Lady Peckham's waiting gentlewoman, Mistress Alwright. Finally, it was Winifred who read the delinquent herd-boy such a lecture on the enormity of his guilt in robbing the herons, that he blubbered over it for an hour, and promised never again to take what did not belong to him.

This very day she had been to visit poor Dame Hodges in her affliction, and had thus heard the news of the departure of the soldiers from Bridgewater.

Winifred walked briskly along, now watching the rooks, which were beginning to return to their nests in Holford Avenue, and the robin redbreasts in the hedges; now musing upon something she had read, or repeating aloud her favorite verses and ballads. As she drew near the place where the dead elm stood white and gaunt in the copse, she began to look about for the basket which Jack had left behind in his terror. Presently she espied it not far from a tall, upright stone near the dead tree I have mentioned.

This stone stood close to the edge of the copse, amid a number of similar ones which had fallen across each other in wild confusion, and which were believed to have once formed part of some old heathen temple. The ruin, if such it was, was nearly overgrown with rank weeds and brambles, and was looked upon with peculiar disfavor by the country folks, as being the favorite haunt of the headless steed before mentioned.

"Why, there is the basket!" said Winifred, surprised. "I would not have believed Jack would go so near the standing stones alone for all the blackberries in Somersetshire."

She went to the place, and as she stooped to take up the basket, she heard distinctly the same sound which had scared Jack—a faint, hollow groan.

"Jack did hear something, after all!" was her first thought. "It is some poor creature who has been wounded, and is perhaps starving!" was her second thought. She looked carefully around, and seeing nobody near, she said in a low voice, "Who is here?"

Another fainter groan was the only reply. Winifred drew nearer. Stretched upon the ground, in a little hollow among the fallen stones, lay a young gentleman—so Winifred judged him to be by his dress—apparently just at the point of death. His once gay doublet was soiled and ragged, his eyes were sunken and closed, and there was a half-healed scar upon his cheek. Winifred spoke to him, but there was no answer except a deep, tremulous sigh.

Winifred was not long in deciding what to do. She put down her burden and raised the poor gentleman's head upon her lap. She then moistened his lips with milk from the bottle, and with great difficulty forced a few drops into his mouth. In a few moments, the sick man opened his eyes.

"Who is this?" he asked, faintly.

"A friend!" answered Winifred, who was now moistening some bits of bread with milk. "Try to swallow this."

The poor sufferer eagerly took the food offered him, and presently was able to sit up and feed himself.

"May God bless you, my maid!" said he. "I thought all was over with me, but I seem already to feel new strength. I believe you have saved my life. How did you find me out?"

Winifred related the story of Jack's adventure.

The gentleman smiled faintly.

"It was I who frightened your brother and robbed him of his basket as well," said he. "I had managed to crawl to the barley field in the hope of carrying off a little straw to add to my bedding, when I was surprised by his approach, and shrank behind the sheaves. At that moment I felt such a deadly faintness and hunger come over me that I could not resist the impulse to call upon him for aid—an impulse I bitterly regretted when I saw how frightened he was. I expected no less than that he would bring back a crowd with him, and crept to my hiding-place, carrying the basket with me. I was, however, too far exhausted to profit by its contents, and I believe should soon have died but for your timely aid. I have been hiding in this den for a week, in all which time I have eaten nothing but wild fruits and berries and the remains of a loaf which a poor woman gave me. But, my maid, can you tell me what has become of the Duke of Monmouth?"

"He and my Lord Grey were taken alive, and carried to London," replied Winifred. "We do not know what is become of them, but I heard my Lady Peckham say they would doubtless be put to death."

"Aye, doubtless!" said the stranger, with much bitterness. "He has fallen into hands which know not mercy. Are the soldiers of the king still in the neighborhood?"

"They have mostly gone from Bridgewater," replied Winifred; "though there are still a few scattered about the country—too many for any of the duke's men to be safe."

"I see you have guessed my secret," the stranger began, but Winifred interrupted him.

"I think, if you please, sir, you had better not tell me who you are, and then if any one questions me, I shall have nothing to say."

"You are a wise little, maid. You will never betray me, I am sure!"

"Never!" said Winifred, firmly. "They should sooner cut off my head. But I must tell my mother and grandfather. You need have no fear," she added, seeing his countenance change at her words. "They are good Christian people, and would never betray a poor wanderer. I must tell them, that we may know what to do for your relief and escape. I will leave you the cheese and part of the loaf, but I must go now, or my mother will be frightened at my stay."

As Winifred walked away, her head was fuller than ever of serious thoughts. She knew that the deed she had just done was one which might bring destruction not only upon herself but her whole family, if ever it were known that she had helped one of Monmouth's men. She had heard, like every one else, of Lady Alice Lisle, who had been put to death for no other offence than that of giving food and shelter to the two fugitives Hickes and Nelthorpe. She had heard from Mrs. Alwright of little Miss Linwood, only ten years old, who was a member of the girls' school which had presented the Duke of Monmouth with a standard at Tawton. The poor child knew nothing of what she was about, and only did as she was bid. Nevertheless she was thrown into jail, and only released to die of jail fever, after her father and uncle had paid for her a fine of twelve hundred pounds, a great part of which sum, it was said, went to fill the purses of the queen's maids of honor.

All these and many other things made Winifred shudder at the thought of what she had done, and yet she did not see how she could possibly have acted in any other way. She felt that she could no more have gone away and left the poor gentleman to die, than she could have killed him with her own hands. Nay, it would have been murder in the sight of God—Winifred was sure of it. No, she could not have done otherwise! There was no use in speculating about that. The only course which now remained was to tell her mother and grandfather, with all secrecy, what she had done, and leave them to act as they saw best.

Another thing troubled her. She had given away at least half Dame Sprat's bread and milk. True, there still remained enough for the old woman's supper and breakfast, but she would at once see that the loaf had been broken, and what would Winifred say? She had passed the dreaded Black Copse, and reached the widow's door before she had quite made up her mind.

Poor old Dame Sprat lived alone in a hovel, which in this country would hardly be thought good enough for a cow-house. Her husband and children were dead, her property had all been lost in the civil wars and the times which followed them, and she had now no dependence for her daily bread, save the kindness of her neighbors and the faithfulness of that God whom she loved. She had been the wife of an Independent preacher, who was an elderly man at the breaking out of the civil wars. Nevertheless, his age did not prevent him from acting as chaplain to one of Cromwell's regiments, and following its fortunes till just before the Restoration, when he died, full of years and honors. After his death, evil days came upon his widow. She was turned out of the farm upon which her husband's family had lived for many generations, her furniture and goods were wasted and scattered, and herself driven from one place to another till she found a refuge in her present abode. She was now a very aged woman, more than a hundred years old, having been born in the days when Queen Elizabeth sat upon the throne of England: and many a tale had she told Winifred of those stirring times of conquest and adventure, and of the sad and sorrowful days which had followed under the Stuarts.

She now sat by the little window of her hut, with her great Bible, almost the only remaining relic of her wealth, on a rude table before her. Her eyes had failed a good deal during the last few years, but she was still able to follow the sacred text by the help of her spectacles. Indeed she was so well acquainted with its contents that she hardly needed the book.

"Welcome, my child!" said she, as Winifred appeared. "It is long since you have gladdened my eyes. I began to be troubled lest some misfortune had befallen you."

"I should have been here yesterday, but my mother has sprained her ankle and needed me at home," replied Winifred. "She sends you this basket and a bottle of new milk, but, dame," she added, hesitating, "all is not there that mother sent. I have given away part of your bread and milk, but I cannot tell to whom."

"Aye, aye!" said the old dame, nodding her head, sagaciously. "I see how it is! Some poor soul fleeing as a bird from the fowlers. But oh, my dear child, be careful! These are evil times, in which he that departeth from evil maketh himself a prey."

"I know!" said Winifred. "But will you give me two or three apples, dame? I see yours are ripe."

"Yes, sweetheart, surely. Take what you please. Here, wait a moment." The old woman hobbled to the place where her bed stood, and after some searching, drew forth an old checked blanket or coverlet.

"I shall not need this, these warm nights," said she, "but if any poor body were hiding in the fields, it might be a great comfort to him."

Winifred could not help being terrified when she saw that the dame had so quickly understood her secret. What if others should penetrate it as easily? Dame Sprat saw her trouble and guessed its cause.

"Have no fear, my maid," she said. "I have lived in troublous times before, and well do I know the ways of the outcast and the wanderer. I am an old woman, and my summons may come at any hour. What then should I gain by betraying any poor creature? I would gladly give such an one shelter under my poor roof if it were thought safe for him."

"I am sure you are very good!" said Winifred. "I must tell the whole to my mother and see what she will say; and now good-night, dame. I must be going, for it grows late, but I will try to come again to-morrow."

Winifred soon reached the standing stones, and first looking carefully around to see that she was not observed, she gave a low signal. The stranger peeped out of the burrow he had made for himself among the fallen masses.

"Have you come so soon again, my little friend?" said he.

"I am on my way home," replied Winifred. "I have brought you some apples and this blanket, but I must not stay."

"Wait only one moment," said the stranger.

He searched in his bosom as he spoke, and produced a very small parcel, wrapped in soft leather, and a watch and seals, such as gentlemen wore in those days. "Do you know my Lady Peckham at the Hall?" he asked. "I think you mentioned her name."

"O yes," replied Winifred. "She has been very kind to me, and I go to the Hall twice a week, and sometimes oftener, to take lessons in fine work and other matters of Mrs. Alwright; my lady's gentlewoman."

"Ah, poor Alwright! Is she still with my lady? Many a saucy trick have I played upon her," said the strange, smiling. "Well, sweetheart, you may carry this parcel and the watch to my lady, and tell her—no, you need tell her nothing. She will understand. But as you value my life, let no one see the packet. Can you put it into Lady Peckham's hands in private?"

"I think I can," replied Winifred, after a moment's consideration. "I think I see the way to manage it. Good-night, sir."

CHAPTER II.

THE MIDNIGHT WALK.

"YOU are late, my daughter," said her mother, who stood at the door watching for her. "The sun has set and the dew is beginning to fall heavily. What has kept you so long?"

"I could not help it, mother," replied Winifred.

"I suppose you stayed to order the dame's house and cook her supper for her," continued her mother. "I like to have you do all you can for the poor body, for she is a good woman, and old and helpless withal, but it is not well to be out after sunset, now that the dews are so heavy, and besides it is not safe in these troublous times. But you were late in setting out, and it is something of a walk to the cottage. Come now and have your supper. Priscy has kept a bit of apple pie for you, and you shall have some clotted cream, for a treat. So put away your basket, and sit down by the fire, for you look pale and chilly."

Winifred ate her supper in silence, and then sat still by the fire, thinking how she should contrive to tell her mother of her adventure. She knew it was time for her to go to bed, but still she lingered, watching Dame Magdalen and the maids as they bustled about, finishing up the work and making things tidy for the night.

At last, her mother noticed her as she sat in the corner of the wide chimney.

"Come, child, why do you sit here?" said she, hastily. "You should have been in bed an hour ago."

"I should like to sit up as long as you do, to-night, mother."

"Why, what has come over the child!" said her mother. "I should think you would be ready for your bed, after such a walk: and you are looking pale still!" she added. "Did anything frighten you, Winifred?"

"No, mother, but I should like to sit up to-night."

"Well, have thy way for once!" said her mother. "It is not often you take a fancy, I will say that for you. See now, I have finished all, and the maids are gone to bed. I will take my knitting and sit down by the fire, and you shall tell me a tale from your favorite book."

Winifred had another sort of tale to tell, but she delayed it till her mother was seated at her knitting. It was nothing unusual for Dame Magdalen to sit down by the fire with her wheel or her stocking after all the rest were gone to bed. It was thus she gained time for quiet thought over the events of the day, for disentangling domestic perplexities, and for those devotional musings which were meat and drink to her thirsty soul. Winifred saw that all the doors were shut, and then drew close to her mother's side.

"Mother," said she, "I have found out what frightened Jack."

"Aye!" said her mother. "Then there really was something the matter?"

"Matter enough, though there was no ghost in the case," said Winifred, and she proceeded to relate, in the lowest tones, the history of her adventure. "I know it was dangerous, mother," she concluded, "but what else could I do? I am certain he would have died if I had gone away and left him. Was I wrong?" she asked, anxiously, as she received no answer from Dame Magdalen, who had dropped her knitting and sat looking at the fire. "Should I have gone on my way and left the poor gentleman to perish?"

"No, child! God forbid!" exclaimed the mother, hastily. "You acted like a Christian, but it is a sad shame, and I cannot tell what to do. I must waken your grandfather and tell him the story, for the barley will be carted to-morrow, and then all may be discovered."

"You do not think any of the men or maids would betray the stranger, do you, mother?" asked Winifred.

"I cannot tell, child. I trust not, but the times are evil, and terror makes people mean and treacherous. God forgive the rulers who put such temptations in the way of simple folk like us."

"I should like to go to the American colonies, where my father was last year," said Winifred. "There is no king there, they say, and the people are all of one mind."

"They have their own troubles—what with the savages and the wild beasts, the sickness, and the hard, cold winter," said her mother. "Aye, and they have their own dissensions and quarrels too, and will doubtless have more as their numbers increase. You would not like to leave my lady at the Hall, and the parish church, and all the places you have known since you were born, for those wild hills and waters. There are trials and temptations in all lands and in all stations; and since it is God who sends them or permits them, He will doubtless give us grace to bear them. But I must awaken your grandfather, and then we will take counsel together upon this poor gentleman's case."

"He is not asleep," said Winifred; "I hear him stirring."

"What is all this talking?" asked Master Evans, putting his head out of the room next the kitchen, in which he slept. "Cannot Winifred find time to tell her fairy tales by daylight? It is time for simple folks like us to be abed and asleep, and you know to-morrow will be a busy day."

"It is no fairy tale that the poor maid has to tell this time," replied Dame Magdalen. "Will you come to the fire, grandfather, that we may take counsel together?"

Master Evans closed his door, and presently came out, wrapped in the Indian gown which his son had brought him from the East. He sat down and listened with earnest attention, while Winifred again related her story.

"The child is uneasy, lest she should have done wrong in bringing this danger upon us," said Magdalen, when the tale was finished, "but, in truth, I see not what else she could have done."

"Nor I," said Master Evans. "She did no more than her duty; I must say I wish it had chanced otherwise, but it is God's will, and doubtless for the best. Where has this gallant been ever since the battle?"

"As far as I made out, he has been hiding among the poor people—fishers and gypsies and such like—till he should find himself fit to travel, but he was too weak to talk a great deal, and I thought best not to question him."

"Right! You are sure no one saw you, Winifred?"

"Quite sure, grandfather. You know one can see far around from the standing stones, and not a creature was in sight. But Dame Sprat guessed at once that something was the matter. She gave me one of her blankets, which she said would keep some poor creature warm. She told me she should be glad to shelter such an one if it were thought safe for him: and I have been thinking, grandfather—"

"Well, say on, child," said Master Evans, as Winifred hesitated; "thy thoughts are mostly to the purpose."

"I think, grandfather, that since she is willing, Dame Sprat's cottage is the best place for the stranger. You know she has no visitors but ourselves, and it is a lonely place, where there are no passers-by. The dame has a small out-house where she keeps her turf. The gentleman might hide there during the day, and if pursuit came, he could flee into the waste, where he would have a much better chance of escape than where he is now. When I go to carry the dame's meal and milk, I would carry enough for both, and no one need be the wiser."

"The plan seems a good one," said Master Evans, after some consideration. "No place could be found more solitary, and the dame is as true as steel, and a wise woman besides. But who will be his guide to the cottage, and when? The barley must be carried to-morrow, if the day be at all fair, and I have bid the men be in the field by daylight. There seems to be no time."

"I will guide him," said Winifred, "and to-night. The moon is almost full, and there are no clouds. I will wrap myself in my gray cloak, and steal along by the hedge. No one will be abroad, and if any one should chance to see me, he will take me for a fairy," she added, smiling. "Then, to-morrow I can go up to the Hall as usual, to take my lesson of Mrs. Alwright. My lady always walks in the maze before dinner, and I can wait and speak to her there. I know the way. I have been there before to gather the rose-leaves and violets for Mrs. Alwright. And if any of the servants see me, they will think me about some such business."

"The child is too wise for her years!" said Magdalen. "But, my dear one, I cannot have thee abroad in the lonesome fields at night, and with a stranger whom no one knows."

"I think there is no danger, mother; at least not so much as in leaving the matter till to-morrow. Nobody would harm a child like me, especially when she came to do him a service."

"Alas, poor child! You know little of the wickedness of this world. I could find it in my heart to wish you should never know more than now!"

"And besides, dear mother," continued Winifred, in a low and reverent tone, "I have prayed to God to take care of me: and then I opened my Bible and read this verse: 'Yea, the darkness is no darkness to Thee, but the night is as clear as the day: the darkness and the light to Thee are both alike.' So then I thought God can take care of me as well when I am alone in the fields as when I am asleep in my bed; for all places are alike to Him: and why then should I fear, since I am abroad upon His work, and an errand of mercy?"

"True," said her grandfather; "I see where thy courage comes from. She is right, Magdalen! Whatever is to be done, must be done this night, or not at all. The harvesters will be in the fields by daylight, and some of the lads will be daring each other to gather sloes at the standing stones. Even thinking of naught but our own safety, it is the wisest course, for it will bring destruction upon us all if the poor gentleman be found there, and it becomes known, as it will, that he has had food from us. I have a shrewd guess as to who he may be, but I say nothing."

"Go then, my daughter, and may thy God and the God of thy fathers go with thee," said her mother. "Since it is His will that thou shouldst run into danger, I do trust He will bring thee safe out of it."

Winifred was soon wrapped up in her warm gray cloak, and with her basket well filled a second time, and with certain other matters tied up in a bundle, she set out on her lonely walk. Magdalen watched her from the door till she could no longer see the little gray figure, and then with a heavy heart she went back to the kitchen, and sat down to await her daughter's return, and to pray that she might be kept from all the dangers of the way.

The time passed slowly enough to the two people sitting by the fireside, and more than once did Magdalen bitterly repent having allowed her daughter to go upon such an errand. Again and again she thought of all the perils to which the child might be exposed, whether from pixies and goblins (for Magdalen was by no means above the superstitions of her time), or from the king's soldiers, or even the stranger himself. There were but few words spoken. Magdalen was never given to very much expression, and any strong emotion was apt to shut her up within herself; and Master Evans seemed wrapped up in his own meditations.

At last, the patter of the little feet was heard upon the stones of the paved court outside the kitchen door. Magdalen could hardly give the child time to tell her story, so anxious was she to put her into a warm bed, and dose her with the hot spiced elder wine which she had kept simmering among the ashes.

Winifred had succeeded perfectly. She found the gentleman asleep, and had with some difficulty aroused him, and made him understand her errand. He had objected at first, she said, for fear of bringing trouble upon them all, but when she had made him comprehend the true state of the case, he had gone with her, slowly and with a good deal of difficulty (for he was stiff and very lame), to the widow's cottage. Dame Sprat was easily aroused, and opened her door at once. She knew the stranger directly, and called him Master Arthur.

"Aye, aye, I thought as much!" said the farmer, nodding. "But least said soonest mended. Go on, my child."

"That is all," said Winifred, simply. "Dame Sprat welcomed him like a lady in her own hall. She would fain have had him take her bed, but he would not hear of that. He wrapped himself up in the dame's old duffel cloak and was asleep in a moment in her great chair. Then I left the basket and came home as fast as I could. I heard the church clock strike twelve as I came over the stile by our orchard, and oh, it was so cold!" said Winifred, shivering.

"Yes, I fear you are chilled through and through! I trust you have not caught your death!" said her mother. "Come now, and let me put you to bed at once."

The warmed bed and the hot spiced drink soon threw off the chill, and in half an hour Winifred was sleeping as sweetly as though she had gone to bed with the chickens, as usual.

CHAPTER III.

MY LADY.

"WINNIE is lazy this morning," said Jack, as he sat down to his breakfast of bread and milk in the kitchen. "It is almost six, and she is not down yet."

"No," replied his mother; "Winnie is not lazy, but tired, and not very well. She was awake late last night, and I thought she had better sleep awhile this morning."

"Yes, there is always some good reason for everything that Winnie does!" said Jack, peevishly. "I wish I could always do just right, as she does!"

"I wish you could," said his mother, "but that is not the way to begin."

Jack murmured something about favorites, which, however, he was very careful not to let his mother hear, and went on eating his breakfast with a very discontented face. The truth was, he was a good deal ashamed of his fright the evening before, and he felt vexed at Winifred for doing the errand he had been afraid to perform. Jack knew that he was a coward, and he was ashamed of his cowardice, but instead of letting his shame lead him to the amendment of his fault, he permitted it to make him jealous of every one who was braver than himself, and especially of Winnie, who, being a girl, had, he opined, no business to go where he was afraid to venture.

"I don't care!" he said to himself. "I will do something which shall show them that I am not afraid. I will climb up to the magpie's nest and bring down a pair of the young ones to tame. Winnie dare not do that, I know. I can teach the young magpies all sorts of things—even to speak, I dare say, and then I can sell one of them at the fair."

The magpie's nest which Jack intended to rob was built in the top of a very high old tree, which stood not far from the farm-house. The tree had been long dead, and the branches were as dry as tinder; a fact of which the cunning magpie was doubtless well aware when she built her nest in the highest fork. A tame magpie is fully as entertaining as a parrot, and Jack, with whom bird's-nesting was a kind of passion, often cast longing eyes upon the nest in question. His grandfather, however, had forbidden him to go near it, not from any particular tenderness to the birds, but because the tree was such dangerous climbing.

It was nearly eight o'clock when Winifred opened her eyes with a start, and saw her mother standing by her bedside.

"Did I frighten you?" asked her mother.

"No, mother—I was dreaming. I thought the soldiers had come!" replied Winifred. "Is it not very late?" she added, looking at the sun and starting up in alarm.

"Almost eight o'clock!" replied her mother. "I have let you sleep as long as I dared, but you know you have to go to the Hall to-day. You will have no more than time to dress yourself neatly and eat your breakfast. Do not forget the packet for my lady."

There was no great danger of Winifred's forgetting it. She had slept with it under her pillow, and a dozen times during the night she had gone over the matter in her dreams, with all sorts of absurd and frightful incidents attached thereto. Now she was telling the secret to Lady Peckham, at the parish church, in service time, while the vicar stopped his sermon and all the congregation turned around to listen. Now she was in the street of Bridgewater, on a market day, irresistibly impelled to tell every one she met that the Duke of Monmouth was hiding in Lady Peckham's closet. And again, she found herself at the water-side in Bristol, whither she had once gone to meet her father, and all the bells of the place were ringing at once: "Tell my Lady Peckham! Tell my Lady Peckham!"

But if Winifred's dreams had been disturbed and confused, her waking thoughts were composed and collected. She had already settled her plan of operations, by the time she was dressed. She knew that Lady Peckham was exceedingly regular in all her habits, having exactly appointed hours for her devotional reading and prayers, for attending to her household concerns, for her still-room where she and Mrs. Alwright prepared medicines and cordials for the sick, and perfumes and confections for the well; for her embroidery, and for walking in the maze or on the terrace. It was at this latter time that Winifred intended to address her. She was soon on her way to the Hall, with her little work-basket on her arm, and the precious watch and packet carefully secured in her bosom, to take her lesson in cut-work or carpet-work of Mrs. Alwright, my lady's gentlewoman.

As Winifred walked along by the hedgerow or under the orchard trees, bending to the earth with their load of fruit, she sang in a sweet voice good Bishop Ken's beautiful morning hymn:

"Awake, my soul, and with the sun,
 Thy daily course of duty run!
 Shake off dull sloth, and early rise
 To pay thy morning sacrifice."

"How beautiful it must be to be able to write such fine hymns as the good bishop!" thought Winifred. "And yet his heart must often be sad, when he sees so much evil which he cannot help. They say he shed tears when he pleaded with the chief-justice, and even with the king himself, for the poor prisoners, and all to no purpose. No, I should not like to be in his place, or in that of any other great person, especially in these sad times. I am sure my lady and Sir Edward often look troubled and distressed, and Dame Sprat says the great Queen Elizabeth died of a broken heart for all the trouble she saw coming on the country she loved so well, and which she could do nothing to hinder.

"No, I should not like to be any great person. It is as much as I can manage, and more, to do my duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call me. But then I suppose if God puts people in high places, He will give them grace to do their duty there also, if they ask Him for it, as much as to grandfather or to me. He gives to every one according to his need. Dame Sprat told me that she has often heard her mother tell how, in Queen Mary's days, even young lads like William Huntington went to their death singing and praising God; and they say when Dame Gaunt was bound the other day in London, she was calm as though she were going to her night's rest. I am afraid I never could be like that."

And Winifred shuddered at the thought of being brought before the terrible chief-justice, whose face and voice overcame even the boldest men, and had actually scared to death a young lady at the assizes in Tawton not long before. It must be remembered that this was no mere fancy on her part, such as girls sometimes like to scare themselves withal. It was an event likely enough to happen, if she were found out in helping or concealing any follower of the Duke of Monmouth.

"But why should I fear?" she continued. "If God means any such trial for me, why should I doubt that He will give me strength and grace to bear it, and take me safely through? Even if I should lose my life, the pain will be but short, and then comes heaven, which will never, never end, where I shall see all the saints and angels, the holy martyrs who have died for the truth, and our blessed Lord Himself."

Winifred's fears were gone—lost in the thoughts which now came crowding upon her. Thoughts of her heavenly home—speculations as to what it would be like, and what would be her employment there. She often dwelt upon these realities of another world, as other girls dwell upon their air-built castles, reading over and over the last chapters of the Revelation, and everything she could find in the Bible relating to her future state, till the mansions of her Father's house in heaven seemed as real to her as the gray thatched farm-house in which her days had been spent, or the old Elizabethan Hall whither she was going, and than which she had never seen anything finer. She was so absorbed in her own reflections that the mile and a half between the farm and the Hall were quickly passed over, and she almost started to find herself at the park gate.

Holford Hall was a quaint old red brick pile, all angles, and gables, and projecting turrets, and clustered chimneys, with a stately terrace and a long elm-tree avenue where the rooks built, year after year. Sir Edward had often called it barbarous and antiquated, and wished he could build it over in more modern style, but fortunately he had never been able to command money enough for such an undertaking, and so the old Hall remained as it had come down from the days of Elizabeth.

Sir Edward was a man of more cultivation and reading than many country gentlemen of his day. He read the "Sylvia," and corresponded with its accomplished author, Mr. Evelyn, and he took great pride in the stately evergreens, formal clipped yews, and brilliant flower-gardens which surrounded the Hall. And not without reason, for in those days it was no uncommon thing for a gentleman's country house to have all the litter of farm and stable-yard directly under its windows, while the only garden consisted of a few gooseberry bushes and pot-herbs, and perhaps some knots of common flowers, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, and growing as best they could.

Winifred tripped along the terrace and across the paved court, stopping for a moment to caress the old blood-hound, who knocked his tail against the flagstones at her approach, too lazy for any more active greeting; and entered the little ground-floor parlor which was Mrs. Alwright's peculiar sanctuary.

Mrs. Alwright received her little friend with her usual dignified kindness. She was a tall, thin, rather severe-looking person, very neat and prim in her dress, and more stately in her manners than my lady herself. You must not think she was at all like an ordinary waiting-woman of these days, though she dressed her lady's hair and took care of her clothes. She was of a good family and respectfully educated for those times, and her brother was vicar of the parish of Holford. Such persons in those days thought it no disgrace to take service with ladies of higher rank, and were often treated with a great deal of consideration. Mrs. Alwright was older than her lady, and had been brought up by her mother, the old Lady Carew, who was a famous manager and housekeeper. She understood all sorts of work, plain and ornamental, and every kind of household duty, from pickling beef and pork to making the most delicate confectionery. She had taken a great fancy to Winifred from the first of their acquaintance, and she intended that the child should be thoroughly taught everything she herself knew.

Winifred usually enjoyed very much the hours she passed by Mrs. Alwright's side in the housekeeper's room, working at her embroidery or her knitting, as the case might be. She knew that the privilege was a very great one, such as few girls in her station enjoyed. And she was anxious to make the most of her time, lest something should happen to interrupt these precious hours. Moreover, she was very fond of good Mrs. Alwright, and loved to please her; and she usually gained great commendation for her industry and attention. To-day, however, she was so absent-minded and set so many stitches awry in the fine cut-work band she was making, that Mrs. Alwright thought it necessary to give her a little lecture on her carelessness.

"But I am sure you are not well!" was the sudden conclusion of her discourse. "You are as white as a lily, and have dark marks under your eyes. You shall lay aside your work for the present, and have a glass of my rose cordial or a dose of my lady's sovereign balm, and a piece of gingerbread or saffron cake, and when you have rested, you shall read to me out of Hall's 'Chronicle.' I have kept the mark in the book where you left off last time."

Winifred had no objection to the cordial, fragrant with rose-leaves and spices, but she could not help an inward shudder at the thought of my lady's balm, even if it were to be followed by a liberal slice of Mrs. Alwright's excellent gingerbread, stuffed with citron and almonds. She had helped at the distilling of that balm, and had a lively recollection of the double handful of rod earthworms and the six woodlice which went into the still, along with the herbs and drugs, the flour of coral and amber, the spice and flowers, which went to make up the medicine. She earnestly assured Mrs. Alwright that she was not at all ill, only somewhat tired from having taken a long walk the day before, and added that she was sure the rose cordial would do her good, especially if she might go and walk in the garden awhile.

Mrs. Alwright bustled about to procure these refreshments, and looked on with great satisfaction while Winifred sipped the fragrant medicine, declaring that she looked better already.

"And, Winifred, as you say, it will do you good to be in the air; so you may take my little basket, and gather all the rose-hips which you can find in the maze. I am going to make some conserve for my brother's cough, and you shall help me prepare it. 'Tis a most sovereign thing for a cold and cough, as you will do well to remember."

Winifred could not repress an expression of thankfulness when she found her way so smoothed before her. She had half filled her basket with the red shining rose-berries, or hips, as they are called, and began to fear that Lady Peckham was not coming out to-day, when she saw her patroness approaching, and stood still, dropping her little courtesy as she drew near.

Lady Peckham was a woman past fifty years old, but still possessing the remains of great beauty, though she was thin and worn, and her face wore an expression of sadness—that kind of sadness which has grown so habitual as to become a par of the character itself. She had been first married at seventeen, to a distant cousin of her own. It was a marriage of affection, and one not altogether favored by her parents, for they were stanch loyalists, and had suffered greatly in the royal cause, while Captain Winthrop was a rising young officer in the army of the Commonwealth. But Lord Carew was "out at elbows" in money matters, and not in good odor with the dominant party, and the countenance and assistance of the young Colonel of Ironsides were not to be despised.

For a few years Margaret Winthrop's life had been a happy dream checkered only by fears for her husband, and by the hardly concealed displeasure of her parents, whom, however, she seldom saw; for Lord Carew had found it expedient to leave his estates in Devonshire and reside in a remote corner of Wales, where his wife possessed a small property. Then the dream was rudely broken! Margaret's young husband died suddenly, leaving his still younger wife penniless. The great Protector passed away, and was succeeded by his feeble son, who soon gave way to Charles the Second. The royal party came into power, and used their power with an unsparing hand. Lord Carew came back to his estates, and was able to offer his widowed daughter a refuge, which she had no choice but to accept.

Lady Carew, Margaret's mother, was a bustling, active woman, a wonderful manager and housekeeper, a famous disciplinarian, and a violent churchwoman of the political stamp. Withal she was kind-hearted and charitable, and benevolently anxious to make people happy, provided always that they were willing to be made happy exactly in her way, but exceedingly averse to allowing them any choice in the matter. Above all, she was a strenuous and successful match-maker, and was reputed to have brought together more couples than any one else in the county; albeit it was said that her matrimonial mixtures, unlike her home-made wines and preserves, sometimes soured and fermented in a very unpleasant manner. She had been twice married, and both times had bettered her condition; and she could see no earthly reason why her daughter Margaret should live single all her days because her first marriage had not turned out well.

Accordingly Margaret had not left off her first weeds, before her mother began to look about for a match for her. She soon pitched upon a suitable bridegroom in the person of Sir Edward Peckham, a Somersetshire baronet of old family, who, having been a Parliament man when that party was uppermost, had changed sides with great dexterity and just at the right moment, contriving to keep not only all his own large property, but, report said, not a little which had belonged to other people before the civil war.

Margaret resisted for a long time with all the force of a not very strong will, but her suitor was persevering and her mother determined. Parents in those days had large authority in such matters, and children little freedom of choice. Lady Carew well knew when and where to apply the screws, and apply them she did with an unrelenting hand, comforting herself all the time with the reflection that she was acting for her daughter's good, and that Margaret would live to thank her some day.

But that day never came. Margaret, indeed, yielded at last, from sheer want of strength to resist any longer. She married Sir Edward, but she went to her wedding as an unwilling nun might take the vows in her convent. Even her mother had some misgivings as she noticed her daughter's white cheek and sunken eye, and saw the mechanical and lifeless manner in which she went through the marriage ceremony and received the congratulations of her friends, especially as she could not but perceive that the same things were noticed and remarked upon by the company.

"But it will be all right when she has once a family about her," said she to her husband. "She will busy herself with the duties and the pleasures of her station, and forget all about that idle young Winthrop."

Lord Carew had his doubts about things ever being again all right with Margaret, but he was a man who loved peace and quiet at home, so he only replied to his wife's predictions with a vague shake of the head, which might mean anything or nothing.

Margaret was never to hold in her arms a child of her own. Her first and only infant came into the world only to receive a name and a place in the family vault of the Peckhams under Holford Church, while its mother was unconscious of its existence. For many days she lay between life and death, and for weeks and months she was confined to the darkened chamber, which it was feared she would never leave again. At last, however, she recovered and resumed the duties of her station, performing them all with anxious, punctilious accuracy, as if she would thus make up to her husband for that love which she was unable to give him.

For years she lived under a heavy cloud of religious depression which nothing could remove. She felt that she had sinned against herself and her husband in taking upon herself vows which she could not perform, and she thought she had thus shut herself quite out of God's mercy. Thus she was deprived of the only thing which could have been any comfort to her.

This persuasion had finally given way under the judicious counsel of some of those religious teachers who in the midst of a faithless and perverse generation inculcated a pure and exalted spirituality, such as has never been surpassed. She learned to seek in faithful and earnest self-consecration that peace which the world can neither give nor take away. And her long-troubled heart found rest in God. Thenceforward her life was one long waiting till that change should come which would restore her to all she loved best. And she was content to wait, doing all in her power to promote the welfare and happiness of those about her, to make up for or to conceal all that was wanting in her husband, and to perfect holiness in the fear of God.

Sir Edward did not pretend to understand his wife's religion, but he saw that it had the sanction of such men as Jeremy Taylor and his friends Mr. and Mrs. Evelyn, which satisfied all his scruples as to its orthodoxy. And he rejoiced to see that it made his wife happy, for he loved her with all the force of which his somewhat small and narrow nature was capable. To Sir Edward, as to Lady Carew, religion was an affair of state and policy. The sermons which suited him best were discourses upon the divine right of kings, the duty of passive obedience under all conceivable provocations, and the heinous nature of dissent and republicanism. And he sometimes was tempted to entertain serious doubts of the orthodoxy of the vicar of Holford because he dispensed his charities to churchman and dissenter alike, and seldom preached mere than once a quarter upon his favorite topics.

Time-server and worldling as he undoubtedly was, Sir Edward was not deficient in generosity. Though the dearest wish of his heart was disappointed by the fact of his having no children, he never by word or look reproached his wife. The only way in which his mortification showed itself was in a great dislike to children in general, and a special hatred towards those of his heir-at-law. Lady Peckham had once ventured to propose that one or two of these young people should be invited to the Hall for a visit, but the request was met with such an angry refusal that it was never repeated.

For the rest, Sir Edward was a good landlord and master, a tolerably efficient justice of the peace, and a keen sportsman, and enjoyed the pleasure of being greatly looked up to by the yeomanry and smaller gentry in the neighborhood, towards whom he was at all times gracious and condescending.

Lady Peckham had frequently noticed Winifred in church and at the village school, founded by Dame Peckham in days long gone by, and was so attracted by her appearance that she asked the vicar whose child she was.

"She is a granddaughter of old Master Evans at the Stonehill farm," was the reply. "Her father married in Devonshire somewhere about Plymouth, and it is said quite above his own rank; and indeed Dame Evans is very different from most of the farmers' wives hereabout."

"Do you know what her name was before she was married?" asked Lady Peckham. "I fancy this little girl reminds me of some one I have known."

"It was a very grave name, being nothing less than Coffin!" replied the vicar, who sometimes ventured upon a very mild little joke. "I have heard that many of the family emigrated to the American plantations, at the accession of his late gracious majesty. But you are ill, my lady!"

"It is nothing," said Lady Peckham, rising; "I sat too long in the close school-room. And so her mother's name was Coffin, and she came from Devonshire!" she murmured. "Strange that I should not have seen at once where the resemblance lay!"

The vicar waited for an explanation, but none came, and he was obliged to wait still longer till he could mention the matter to his sister.

Mrs. Alwright nodded, and screwed up her month mysteriously.

"I understand it all!" said she. "Mrs. Winthrop, the mother of my lady's first husband, was a Coffin. I have often seen her, and certainly this young maid hath a look both of her and of Colonel Winthrop. The poor young gentleman had just such deep gray eyes, always looking as if they saw more than other folks could see, and just such regular eyebrows. No wonder my poor dear lady was drawn to her. I must have a gossip with Dame Evans, and find out whether there was really any kinship between them."