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32X

VVI]

lONTRKJ

y^/^'

William and Mary.

A TALE OF

THE SrEGE OF LOIJISBURO,

1745.

By DAVID HICKEY,

Mini-sfer of the McthmliM Church.

►>*<-

TORONTO :
WILLIAM BRIGCJS, 78 & 80 KING STREET EAST.

loNTRKAL : C. VV. COATES.

Halifax: S. F, HLKSTIS,

1884.

Kutcrcd, .iiMoriliiiK to tlio Ait of tin' rarliaincnt "f Oaiiadii, in tlic yi-ar otn
tlKiMsiiiiil iMf,'lit limiclii'il aiKl t'it,'lit.v-fiiiir, liy the Kcv. WILLIAM llRItuiS, in tlio Ullii i
of the Minister of Ayriculture, at Ottawa.

nove

and

ever

ill t]

SUffi(

PREFACE.

Amox<; the few historical hjcalities in Canada, none is of
givuter interest than that of Louisburg, Cape Breton.
Altliougli tlie once redonbtable fortress lias disappeared—
little remaining to mark the spot save some heaps of
rul)bish and mounds of earth— the place I .s still a strange
charm for all who have been so fortunate as to stand
amidst its ruins.

It was long a matter of surprise to me, why the story
<»f tlie remarkable siege of 1745 had never been presented
to tlie public in popular form. The present work is an
attempt to do this ; and however imperfectly it has been
done, it has from the beginning been a labor of love.
While the historical portion of the narrative is strictly
accurate, so far at least as the authorities consulted are
accurate, the usual liberties permitted to writers of fiction
have been taken advantage of.

Of course the customary sneer towards the religious
novel is expected, yet I do not know whether " William
and Mary" is entitled to the distinction. It is, how-
ever, strictly moral. That terrible sentence which,
m the opinion of a certain class of critics, is deemed
sufficient to consign all such books to the tomb of

PREFACE,

the Capuk'ts, will, no doubt, be forthconung — " He
preaches!" To which it is here replied by way of
anticipation, "Yes, he preaches!" The author is a
preacher. He has aimed to preach in this ])ook. If he
lias failed in preaching, the book is a failure. Then let
it fail I He will have the C(»nsolation of knowing that
he is not the only preacher whose sermons have been
failures. If, however, in the estimation oi the critics
" he preaches," no matter whether the sermons preached
are good, bad, or indifi'erent in their estimation, then
he has succeeded in what he attempted to do, viz., to
preach.

DAVID HICKEY.

I'ARKSBORo', Cumberland Co.,
Nova Scotia.

i'-"He

way of
Iior is a
. If he

riiuii let

ing tliat
A'u been
e critics
^readied
)ii, tlieii
viz., to

CONTENTS.

KEY.

CHAl'TKU I. Paok

A Nkw England Sabhatii, 1735 y

CHAl'TKR II.
Dkau am> (;onk - - - - Ifi

CIIAPTEK III.

l'l!KAKIN(t TIIK COMMANDMRNTH AND VVlIAT CAMK OF It • - . o^

CHAPTER IV.
Aiii.iAii Dklivkks III8 Soul 28

CHAPTER V.
Abmaii Recants 34

• CHAPTER VI.
Thk Minister Expounds the Doctrines 38

CHAPTER VII.
Farlrv has A Talk with his Wike ----.-. 4r,

CHAPTER VIII.
Ahi.iah Charged with Heresy {-,1

CHAPTER IX.
A YouNO Heretic j^-

CHAPTER X.
The Deacon Arrives at Logical Conclusions G3

CHAPTER XI.
Some Things are Promised, Others Forgotten, and More Begun 72

CHAPTER XII.
Foreshadowing of Great Events 78

CHAPTER XIII.
William's Rash Decision yg

CHAPTER XIV.
A Militant Minister 92

vi CONTENTS.

(;uai'Ti;k xv. J'auk

My Mary! ^

CHAl'TKll XVI.
TiiK Wakninu • • ■ ^^''

CIIAl'TER XVII.
TiiK Dki-aktikk .114

CHAl'lKU XVllI.

NKW AclillAINTANCKH '-*'

CHAl'TKR XIX.
TiiK Bkoinnino ok Sorhows 1-*'

CHAPTKH XX.
TiiR March to thk Ska 1^*^

CHAFTKR XXI.
Hoi'k! ^^^

CHAPTER XXII.
Is TIIK DKI'THS ! ^10

CHAPTER XXIII.
In Dkki'kr Dri'ths • • I'^'J

CHAPTEi; XXIV.
TiiK Voyage ^'''"

CHAPTER XXV.
An Old Eskmy 1-'^'*^

CHAPTER XXVI.
Conckntration and Preparation 163

CHAPTER XXVII.
Nkwh, Startling, Strange, but True ! l(5iS

CHAPTER XXVIII.
Good Intentions 173

CHAPTER XXIX.
The Embarkation 1'''

CHAPTER XXX.
Inside the Walls 182

CHAPTER XXXI.
The Alarm - ■ l'^^

CHAPTER XXXII.
Tub Landing and the Battle 191

TiiK n

TllWAI!

TilK H
Captui
Within
TiiK Fi

r^^lB J

\ (Jooi

MVSTKH

Marry'
TiiK Hi
Dkath
I'ooii J

DiSASTB

TiiK Sa
The Ca

AKFAIRh

TiiK Be
The Sui

I'AtlK

■ lor.

, 114

■ 120

■ no

■ 134

■ 140

- 146

. 152

■ 157
. 1G3

- 168

- 173

- 178

- 182

- 187
. 191

tOA'T/'.N'rS. vii

CIIArTKn XXXIII. V.wv.

TiiK liKKKiiKNT) Mr. Fk.nwick at Homk ItXj

CH.M'TKIl XXXIV.

TllWAKTKI) I >200

CHAPTKK XXXV.

TlIK KKCONNOIHHANCK 'JOfi

CHAPTER XXXVI.

('AI'TlIiK OK TIIK ORAXI) HaTTKRY 210

CHAPTER XXXVII.
WrriiiN TiiK City - • 210

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
TiiK FiRHT Shot at tub City 'JU)

CHAPTER XXXIX.

A (iooi) Man at 1{k.st ij.jy

CHAPTER XL.
My.stkriui;8 Disappbaranck ok Willia.m 228

CHAPTER XLI.
IIarrv'.s Tragic Dkatii 032

CHAPTER XLII.

TlIK BlRIAL AND THE RkVENOK 241

CHAPTER XLIII.
Dkatu ok D'Efkiat 247

CHAPTER XLIV.
Poor Jack Fulkillino his Promisk 2r)2

CHAPTER XLV.

Dl.SASTKOI.S ReI'ULSK AT BATTKRY ISLAND 260

CHAPTER XLVI.
The Sad New.s is Heard ix Woodside 264

CHAPTER XLVII.
TiiK Candid Friend 272

CHAPTER XLVIII.
AkKAIRS IN LOUISBURO 276

CHAPTER XLIX.
The Beoinnino ok the End 279

CHAPTER L.
The Surrender - « 283

viii COiXTENTS.

CHAITKIl LI. ''^'"'

LiflllT \S l)AI!K Pl/ACKH '^^

CHAI'TKH Ml.

MORK LlOIIT IN TIIK DaRKNKHH -'•^•*

CHAI'TKH LIIl.
TiiK Dahknksh Gonk '^^

(MIAl'TKH LIV.
Brouoiit to Bay '^^

CHAPTER LV.
IIoMKWAiii) n.)t;ND! *^^'*

CHAI'TKH LVI.
IIomk! Homk ! ^<>7

rilAPTKK LVII.

(;ONSI|IKKATIUNH A.N'l) I'KKI'AII ATIONH 311

CHAPTKH LVIII.
What Ai-wayh IIai'i-knh ■^'•'

WILLIAM AND MARY.

CHAPTKII I.

A \KW i;n(;lani) sahmatii, ivur.

HE (lay was oppru.ssivcily hot. Scarcely a breath
of air. The leaves of the trees hung languidly,
a.H if shrivelled out of their vitality. The
sky was destitute of a cloud, save over yonder
against the hills which hounded the horizon a huge hank
of vapor clung gloomily enough as if bent on mischief.
A silence as of death reigned on every side. An occa-
sional splash in the stream smote the ear, when some
wanton trout, ignoring the day, made a profane leap
at the luckless insects that clustered for the coolness of
the bank. For it was the Sabbath — a New England
Sabbatli — a Sabbath in New Hampshire in the latter
jiart of July, 1735. A Sabbath afternoon among pleas-
ant fields, green glades, and purling brooks.

Everything said it was the Sabbath. The well-kept
kine, with sleek and shining coat, reposed with blinking
eyes under the trees, chewing the cud with decorous
solemnity as became the sanctity of the day. The great,
^ood-natured dog near the door-step, with head between
his paws, opened la/ily one eye and then the other to

Williain and Mary,

gazo askance tcnvards the house as if to call attention to
his good behavior. As the tiery, brazen sun swung
round upon him, he rose and tripped noiselessly under the
shadow with lollini' ton'jue, throwin-' meanwhile ludicrous
glances of self -depreciation at the windows, as nuich as to
say: " I can't help it — it's so hot, I must move --please
don't be angry !" No bird tAvittered in the shrubbery.
The very bees had l)ecome ashamed of themselves for
making a noise on the Sabbath — their booming music
was stilled. Everything was as (piiet as the grave, and
C(miposed, as became the Sabbath- a New England
Sabbath in the latter part of July, 1735.

There had been divine worship in the meeting-house
down at the cross roads in the fore part of the day ; and
if the rustic villagers had during the week permitted
their daily toils to deaden in any way their reverence for
the Sabl)ath, they must have felt pretty thoroughly
ashamed of themselves that morning as they sat under
the thunders of the law. The venerable man of God who
had gone in and out among them now nigh unto two score
years, delivered his soul with patriarchal tenderness, but
unmistakable firmness, on the awful sin of allowing
worldly cares to blind them to the solemnity of the day
of the Lord. Hence it was that a more than usual silence
brooded this afternoon over the peaceful valley among
the New Hampshire hills.

The strong, stern-faced man sitting here by the open
window, bolt upright in his hard, straight-backed chair
(he would have thought it a sin which hath no forgive-
ness liad there been on the Sabbath an inclination of a
hairbreadth in the back), Bible in hand, had for these
hours been reading over and over the nu^rning's text,
turning to the references which he had carefully marked
in the church, while making an occasional excursion to

Williain and Alary.

1 1

tlie lessons wliieli the minister had read. Seated near
him, and iipparuntly similarly engaged, was a fair,
comely woman, the love-light in whoso eyes shone with
subdued tenderness (out of deference to the Salibath) as
ever and anon she glanced from the book on her knee
down at the curly head nestling in the folds of her dress.
A h)vely boy ! Ten sum* .ers had come and gone since
she had clasped him first in her arms with the new-found
joy of a mother. Who will blame her if more than cmce
she wandered away from the text and its ponderous
divisions, to bestow a beaming smile on the upturned
face as the little head grew restless, and roguish fingers
tugged at her apron-strings ? Who will blame her, if all
thoughts of the awfulness of the day vanished from her
mind as once she caught sight of the well-thumbed
Catechism, wrong side up, on his knee % Who will l)lame
her if she was saved from the atrocious sin of profane
laughter only by plunging more deeply than ever into the
terrible denunciations hurled against the Jews for Sab-
bath desecration, and which that morning had been read
in sonorous tones by the minister ? She loved the boy —
CJod bless her — nor could she bring her strong common
sense and affectionate heart to believe that her darling
would be very much of a sinner were he out with Carlo
under the shadow, w 1th the Catechism safe on the shelf.
He had been seated there for hours, puzzling his young
head with questions she had never understood herself,
and never hoped to understand. And he but a child,
and the day so hot! And she would turn again from
the stoning of the wicked wretch who had gathered sticks
on the holy day, to fondle the curly head, and draw it
closer to her knee.

William Farley, the strong man in the straight-backed
chair had, when scarcely out of his teens, wooed and wed

William and Alary.

this the fuircst of the man}' fair daughters of the little
hamlet of Woodside, where he himself had been born and
bred. He had never in all his life been far from the
limits of the peaceful valley where his parents had lived
before him, and where they had died in peace. Their
son had but one ambition, and only one, when, to the
chagrin of many .an honest swain, he carried in triumph
to the old home out on the hill the sweetest girl in all
the country-side. That ambition was to live worthy of
her who had confided into his keeping all the wealth of
her loving, ardent heart. He knew of only one way to
do this — to walk reverently in the footsteps of his father,
who had feared the Lord all his days and lived in con-
stant dread of the judgment. His mother had died when
he was but a child — he never remembered the soft touch
of her lips upon his cheek. To cultivate the old home-
stead as he had seen his father do it before him, to go
"to meeting" with his ])lusliing brijde, and believe "the
doctrines," sunnned up the articles of his creed and the
sole object of his life. N(jr had he swerved either to the
right hand or to the left as the years rolled on, and we
tind him sitting here this Sabbath afternoon, Bible in
hand, no longer a simple member of the Church, but
Deacon Farley of Wf)odside, the most respected of the
many Avorthy men who of a Sabbath morning sat bolt up-
right in straight-backed pews in the Meeting-house down
by the cross-roads. It was noticed by some, and felt
most keenly by one, that ever since he had been made a
deacon, he had developed an austerity of manner in
striking contrast to his former manly, outspoken char-
acter. There had been born to the worthy couple tliis
only child, whom they had named William after the
father, and Fenwick out of respect to their aged pastor,
the Rev. John Fenwick. Mr. Fenwick had joined them

William and Mary.

1.1.

the

tii;,'ttlii'i' ill ]n>]y wedldck ; ;iiid when tlio little follow was
biiptizeil, what name should bo honored by the happy
man if not the name of one he loved with a devotion
second only to that which he bore his comely wife ? Ten
years had come and gone since the never-to-be-forgotten
Sabbath morning when the young parents stood up be-
fore the hushed congregation to dedicate their lirst-born
unto Ciod. He had been their first-born until nov/, and
the dimpled infant had grown and flourished without a
rival into this roguishly handsome lad at his mother's
feet, with upturned Catechism on his knee.

Not a word had been spoken for hours. The heat was
liecoming unl)earable to the restless boy and scarcely less
so to the patient woman. The solenni rustle of the
leaves of the Bible from the straight -backed chair l)roko
at intervals the oppressive silence, and then the Inish of
the grave was again ui)on them. Mrs. Farley moved ner-
vously, as with appealing eyes she at length closed her
book and glanced towards the chair. But the chair gave
no sign. The strong lines on the face spoke only of the
stoning of the man who had been put "in ward" for
gathering sticks on the 8abbath-day. A faint whispering
sound outside — so low — was it real or a phantom of the
brain evolved by the sweltering heat ? Carlo rose and
shook himself, and then, as if remembering what day it
was and the awful thing he had done, stole away in
among the shrubbery of the garden with his tail trailing
the ground. And now a far-off rum])le-grumble un-
mistakable I The chair moves. The boy springs to his
feet :

"Oh, father!"

" Take your place instantly, boy ; it is the holy — "

The voice was droAvned by the hoarse, muttering growl
which rumbled down over the valley from the hills. Carlo

IVilliajn and Mary.

set up a howl of despevation from Ins lu(Ii)ii;-pliice, as if
he woukl say : " Sal>l)ath, <»r no Sabbath, tliis is more
than any decent dog can stand !" The deacon hiid down
his liible solenndy and stepped to the door. The great
cktud that all the afterno(»n had hugged the horizon was
swollen to gigantic proportions as it went surging fast up
towards the sun. Mountains of fleecy vapor bathed in
daz/ling light were piling themselves high one upon the
other — forging ahead as if urged on by an intelligent
will — dashing against their fellows, now merging together,
and then stepping forth with defiant front as if conscious
of united power. How grandly terrible they looked,
their sombre base contrasting vividly with their golden-
crested peaks. A gust of wind swej^t down to the door
of the farmhouse, dallied with the deacon's hair, toyed
with the leaves in the garden, then off away across the
fields towards the village with a moan. The birds fluttered
from their hiding-place as, with ruffled wing, they flew
confusedly through the air. And now the giant cloud
has r(jlled over the sun. A blinding flash, and then — a
roar as if heaven and earth had crashed together. The
wind, rallying its forces on the hill-top, comes down with
the shriek of charging scjuadrons. The trees writhe and
twist, and twirl and reel. Then away to the right and
left flank to give room for the artillery of God. The
deacon closed the door and window deliberately. Not
even the warring elements without could make him forget
it was the Sabbath. He seated himself again in the
straight backed chair, musing on the (juaking of Sinai —
^ts tliunderings and lightnings strangely mixed up in his
mind with the thrusting through of man or beast that
might touch the Mount. An ominous silence. And
now, first one, then a dozen, then silence again — now a
cataract. Then the windows of heaven seemed opened

Williani and Mary,

U|ii>Ji tlit'Hi ;is the swelling torvciits jjoured (li»\vn upon
the I'liof. MiH. Failcy j^rasped her boy find clasped him
ill her anus with fear. The deac(jn's mind was hovering
Itetween Sinai and tlie breaking up of "the fountains of
the great deep," when he was ii roused by the startled
exi'laination of his wife :

" What's that ?"

Hurrying footstei)s were plainly heard ap})roachiiTg the
lioiiHe through the plunging sweep of the torrent. The
next instant the door was tlung ojien and a drij^ping
figure stood in bewilderment before the astounded family.

CHAPTER II,

DEAD AND GONE

The astonished deacon had risen to liis feet almost
simultaneously with the opening of the door. Had a thun-
der! )olt from the clouds r<jlled in upon him and lain
visibly before his eyes he could scarcely have been more
amazed. It was not that any human being sh(juld have
been out in such a tempest that astonished him. That
did not ent-r into his calculations for a moment. But
that any man would dare desecrate the holy day by
entering /m house — Deacon Farley's house — deprived
him of the power of speech, and for the nonce trans-
formed him into a moral iceberg. Had it been even
some reckles S(m of Belial (for, sooth to say, even Woodside
could boast of such) it would have been bad enough. But
that the intruder and desecrater should be no less a

1 6 Williain and Mary.

por.s( )iiii»^cj tliiui his nuarust friend and neiglibonr AT)ijah
Oliver, was past the bounds of buliuf and pussii)ility.
Possibility \ Yes, it was possiVyk; enough — tc ■ true, for
tliere in drijtpinif garments stood the veritable Abijah- a
real, tangiMo, corporeal existence, and no genius of the
storm. It '• ould ])e dilHcult to say who felt the more
oml)arrassed, the intruder or the intruded upon. Cer-
tainly, poor Abijah, as he stfjod in the middle of the floor
in a i)ool of water which trickled from his drenched
garments, presented, at least, the one most worthy of
immediate consideration. The (juick-witted woman was the
first to sec this, for with the unerring intuition of her sex
she took in the situation at a glance, though too bewil-
dered by his sutlden appearance to immediately act upon
it. Now, coming to herself, and ottering the woe-begon(i
visitant a chair, she excitedly exclaimed : —

" What's th' matter, Abijah — what's th' matter ?"

Matter? Why, that was anc^ther view of it altogether
to the deacon. Matter '. Sure enough, something might
be the matter. Why, even the Jews were permitted
to rescue the unfortunate ox on the Sabbath, and if
anything was the matter at Abijah's, duty was clear.
The stern look faded from Farley's face in an instant, as,
recalled by his wife's words from the stoning of the man
"that gathered sticks upon the Sabbath-day," he
instantly added with genuine concern : —

" Abijali, is anything wrong? Speak, man, quick — out
with it at once !"

Aroused by the deacon's voice he managed to tell them
that his wife had been taken alarmingly ill since meet-
ing, and then he was off again into the storm. No more
thoughts of desecration. It was but the work of a
moment. The deacon had grasped his coat, and though ><iKip

the rain still i^lunged in sweeping, swirling torrents, he ^^''in

// llliani and Alary,

lie, for
jiili— a
of the
! more
Cer-
je floor
Duelled
thy of

w;is (l.isliiiig iifter liis friend through the driving teiii-
l)est.

" Willijini, we nmst go tew. 'Taint no use to stay liere
Deow, tlio' 'tis tir Siil)l)atli. Doant know wliat'll turn
up. Twon't be nutaral, an' tli' poor woman p'raps a
dym :

Hurriedly grasi>ing her shawl, she gralihed at the same
time a bunch of never-failing "yarlts" from over tlio
mantelpiece, exclaiming as she did so : —

" Whar's yer hat — ({uick — th' poor woman a-dyin', an'
til" children. VVluit'll become o' 'em considerin' Lii
father? Come!"

William was wild with delight. It is a shame to have
tt) say it, but for the moment he thought less of the sick
neighbor than he did of his unlooked-for deliverance
from the Catechism. Not that he was hard-hearted, the
generous boy I A loving nature was his, but at this ptar-
ticular juncture he would have made no objections if half
the women in the neighborhood had "took a turn," if
thereby deliverance had come from his dreaded Sunday
task.

Carlo, who had been doing penance for his outragecjus
behavior at the commencement of the storm by sheep-
ishly hiding under the currant-bushes, bounded forth
with a biirk of mingled joy and surprise as the mother
and son emerged from the house. He acted as if certain
of assured absolution for his own (juestionable behavior
when he saw such extraordinary performances on the
holy day by his superiors. How he barked, and whisked,
and scampered through the blinding rain, now throwing
himself on his back with sheer wantonness in the pools of
water th;it flooded the pathway — now uj) like a Hash to
snap defiance at the sky as a more than usually terrific
thunderclap shook the ground— then away off througli

William and Mary.

tlio (lii])i)iii,!ij; grass as if his life depciulcd upon overtakin;^'
some iuijiginary foo— and now back in swoei)ing circles
round his friends, hringinj^ his erratic exi)l<»its to a grand
JitiiUe as ho closed ii[)on them, jumping ui)on his young
master to thrust his big wet nose fair into the laughing
face. Williaui was scarcely less excited than Carlo, but
deference for his mother kept him within reasonable
bounds of propriety as he staggered along by her side.
The distance between the two houses was im^onsideralde,
but Mrs. Farley thought she never should reach it, but
at last, wet to the skin and out of breath, they stundtled
in at the ojjen door where the deacon, luiving seen their
approach, stood waiting to receive them.

"She's sick unto death, 1 fear," he whispered to his
wife ; "I must oti" for the minister !"

Hastily divesting herself of her dripping shawl, Mrs.
Farley passed immediately to the suti'erer's room, leaving
William with the two children — Harry, a brave lad of
eight, and the little Mary, two years his junior. William
was thoroughly drenched, and was soon sitting with his
feet up on the rung of his chair to keej^ them out of a
veritable pool of water that flowed in continually from
his saturated garments. Harry was e({ual to the occasion,
and soon led his young friend to the attic, where, in an
incredibly short space of time, they descended in
triumph, though with suppressed titters, fearful to think
of considering the day, not to mention the poor sick
mother's groans issuing from her bedroom. William, to
do him justice, tried hard to be grave as he appeared
arrayed in a dry suit of clothes, which gave him all he
could do to sit down, and, when down, all he could do to
get up. Soon, on tiptoe, the three stole away out into
the back kitchen, where Harry presently had a blazing
fire on the hearth, while Mary stood shyly eying their

William and Mary,

«9

ortiikiiig
Ljf circles
ii ^jjnind
is youny
liiu^liiiiL;
irlo, l»ut
iisoiiiiblc
her sidi'.
idurabli',
h it, 1)ut
(tunil)le(l
tjen thuir

c)d to his

vvl, Mrs.
, leaving
'c lad of
William
with his
out of il
illy from
occasion,
fe, in an
tided in
to think
>oor sick
illiani, to
appeared
ni all ho
uld do to
out into
a blazing
ini£ their

visitor with an irresi.siibly comic expression <»n lier lovely
face. William caught si<,dir of her, and, a.i,Min ignoring
the day, dived after the little thing as she retreated into
an interminable recess l)ehind the huge lire[»lace. Then,
as if suddenly rec(dlecting himself, he came back demurely
to his chair, while a little head appeared emerging from
the gloom and two bright eyes shone ;'"d sparkled like
diamonds in the darkness. The rain still fell . mighty
torrents, l)ut the thunder-cloud hadrcdled far oil", sending
ever and anon a parting salute, which rumbled away in
sullen whispers over the hills. A sudden silence fell
upon the children, and William, as if now thoroughly
ashamed of himself for his levity, and remembering that
he was the eldest of the grcnip, after some minutes
remarked :

" Is your mother veiy bad, Hal ?"

The boy's countenance fell in an instant, and the great
tears stood in his eyes as he sobl)ed in reply :

"Oh, how wicked I've been, an' poor mother—;" but
he l)roke down as the words stuck in his throat. Little
Mary came out of her hiding-place, and, getting down on
her knees beside the brother, threw her arms around his
neck, sobbing as if her heart would break. Then Wil-
liam cried with them, and for some minutes nothing was
heard but the low sound of the weeping children as it
mingled with the pattering splash of the falling rain
against the window-panes, "William was again the hrst
to speak. Stooping down, he disengaged the tight-
clasped arms from Harry's neck and lifted the little one
to liis knee. She did not run away this time, but nestled
her head on his breast, while her heart tiuttered like a
M'ightened bird. Thus they sat in silence in the gloam-
ing sobbing together, William now and then whispering a
word of comfort in Mary's ear. The sun had gone down

Williani and Mary.

uiid till' stdiiii liiid liiinisluMl llin twilight. It was <|uite
diirk', \vlu!ii Ciirlit'.s well kiiduu l>aik was ]u;ai'(l at the
(jdur, f((ll(ivv(!(l (piickly hy the liurriud footsteps of tlie
(leaeon ami iiiiiiister. Then the children were ordered
into the sick-room. The great Hihle was taken down
from its shelf. The .^on(»rous periods of the lOIJrd Psalm
rolled out on the awestruck group. A feeling of dread—
an indescrihahle sens*; of api)roacln'ng calamity- what
they knew not-~lilled every heart. 'J'he rain dashed
against the house as if in mockery - now holding itself up
for a moment in awful suspense, and tlien plunging down
with the rush and sweep of a cataract, completely drown-
ing the reader's voice. Tlie far-off Hash of lightning
ever and anon gleamed luridly on the windcjws, paling
the dull light of the yelloAv candle on the table to a weird
and sickly glare. The psalm at length was finished and
all rose reverently to their feet, as in trenmlous tones the
aged man poured forth his soul to Him who rides upon
the storm, who maketh the clouds His chariot. The
prayer ended. They approached the bed. Little Mary
threw her arms round the mother's neck as she clambered
in by lier side. Poor Abijali fell upon his knees and
grasped the clammy hand of his wife in both his own.
The boys, with tears streaming down their faces, stood
in a corner by themselves. The others were near the
door. It had ceased raining. An unearthly stillness,
and then — she was not, for God had taken her.

]Villiaui and Mary.

was (|Uitt'
inl at tht
jps of tlio
'o oicUiiecl
kuu down
:}r(l I'salni
of dread -
lity— vvliat
ill dashed
i^ itself lip
giM<; down
i\y drown-
liglitniiig
iws, paling
to H weird
lished and
■5 tones till'
ides upon
•iot. The
it tie Mary
claiuLered
ciiees and
1 his own.
lees, stood
near the 1
stillness, i

CHATTKIl II J.

i;r{lv\KlS'<i TIIK rOM.MAXDMKNTS AND WIlAf CAMK OF IT.

Si;\ KKAi. wioiiths had rolled l>y since the events recorded
in the last chapter. Ahijah was inconsolable. All that
his brethren of the Church could do, l)acked by tlie
• ■arnest exi)ostuhitions of the minister, failed to arouse
hint from the almost lethargic stui)or into which he had
fallen on the death of his wife. Somehow or other he
had g(»t it into his head that she would not have died if
she liad remained at homo that terribly liot Sal)l)ath
morning. She liad not been feeling well for weeks.
Hard work, with considerable worry, had told on her
never robust constituti(jn. Her ]iusl>and was by nature
shiftless, and the weight of the family cares, as a conse-
(juence, fell on her. He was, however, kind and tender-
hearted. He had pleaded with her that morning not to
go to meeting, but she could not think of committing so
grievous a sin. Then Abijah would dwell on the fact
that the exercises that day had been longer than usual,
and so it got into his muddled l)rain that the Church —
ay, even the minister — was not altogether clear ivoxw
blame in the matter of his irreparable loss. It worked
upon him till he grew moody and taciturn towards his
neighbors, who, as in duty bound, shook the head and
tai)ped the forehead over the sad lapse of one who hither-
to had walked without reproach. Not that Abijah
ab.sentod himself from the sanctuary. He would as soon
have thought of joining the wild Indians of the forest as
being counted among the few in Woodside who, on one
excuse or another, absented themselves from the Meet-

Williani and Mary.

iiif^-liouHc. lint his whole! iiiitiiro iippcaivd to l>c so
I'lnltittcnd ivs t(» truuHfonn him into iinother iiiiui. Ytt
ho loved till! two niothcrk'SH children as he hud iiover
done when she whh living'. Ilis love for the liHt one cen-
tred itself Mww uiioii them, Jind Mary cHin'cially hence-
forth became the id(»l of his desolate heart. His atfectioii
for the child had in it something wild and terrihlo in its
intensity. He lived for her alone. He could not hea"
her out of his sight, and turned almost savagely upon the
kindly otl'er (»f Mrs. b'arley, when, some time after the
funeral, she one day went over to hoc him, and ventured
to hint ahout taking the little one homo with herself.

" Hum with yer ! What'll yi'W taki; 'er hum with yir
fur Td liki; ter kno' ?" And he ghired at tiie woman as if
she was a wild l)east from the woods ready to pounce on
Ilia child. " No," ho continued, " n(»t ef I kno' it. I've
lo.st 'nutf, han't 1? Listen ter me, I'vesuthin' t' say t'yo I"

Poor Mrs. Farley, amazed and taken very much aback,
nodded for him to go on, measuring at the same time
with her eye the distance from where she was seated to
the door in case ho should spring upon her,

" See a' here, I've had 'nutt" o' this. I've heerd all 1
wants t' heer aboout predestinatin' things an' sech. It
doan't coount nuthin'. Ef the're 'pinted t' die, they'll
die, an' of not, not. That's doctrine, aint it ? Jest so.
Wal, 'cording t' doctrine, ef Mary's t' go, she'll go ; ef
not, not. That's doctrine, tew, aint it ? Jest so.
Wal, Mary's not 'pinted t' go, so 'taint no use talkin'
abeout it !"

Mrs Farley was glad enough to get away so easily. So,
after this sage deliverance, she hastily bade the widower
good-day, and hurrieu home to relate her adventure to
her husband. The deacon had deep thoughts on the
subject, but kept his own counsel for the present.

William ami Mary,

!MutitliH li.id ntlliMl by Hiiicc Mrs. Farlry^* robud* with
rffiTi'iico to Miiry ; iind the shiirp uutiiiiin winds wore
hfi^'iimiiijjf to howl down oviT the hillH. Thcro hiid Ixion
litth' chan'^^i' in Abijidi t^xci'pt for the Wv»rHe. He would
not .sufl'iT Mary »»ut of his si'^ht for a niinuti' if he cM»uld
lifl|i it. ( )ftL'n ho couldn't help it. Jlc had to hi; away
in flu! UH'a(h)WH attending to his work, and alth(»ugh ho
liiid always taken tlie two children with him since tlu'ir
mother died, now it was getting altogether too cold
for his precious darling to bo ho long away from the lu»use.
He had compromised matttfrs recently by remaining as
near home as possibh', ])ut his work had suliered in con-
.se<|Uence, so this sharp morning ho must leave them.
Picking up the little girl in his arms, ho kissed her over
and over again, and then, putting her down, made for the
door. His hand was on the latch when he hesitated,
looked back at the child as she stood gazing after him
with her sweetly expressive eyes :

"(iod bless yew I" ho exclaimed, picking her up again
and folding his groat awkward arms around her, "God
bless me Mary 1"

Tlien ho put her down, and turning to Hariy : " Doan't
go from hum, doan't go a-pryin' eout on th' road, nor
inter Farley's field : its cold for Mary. Thar, mind neow
what I tell yer. I'll be deown t' th' medders till dinner
time."

He stooped down and kissed the child again and was
t>if. Left alone by themselves^he children soon began to
weary of the coniinement. It didn't look nearly so cold
as it did, Harry thought, and he made several sallies into
the open air to test the temperature. The last time he
came back greatly elated :

"Oh, Mary, the clouds are goin'an' the sun's real hot.
Let's wrap up an' go eout I"

Williaiii and Mary.

" Wliat fi)r?" (lueriod tho little one.

"Because!"

"Oh!"

" Tuhhe sure ! "

Harry had no intention of l)rL'aking liis father's coin-
niandnients, as he hastily proceeded to nuiHle liis sister in
a great sliawl, and bustled about with the importance of
one upon wlioni great responsil>ility rested. He would
just take his sister out for a run in the field, and then
back again ; J»ut just as to how the dear little mite of a
thing was to run, sweltered up as she was in the great
shawl, did not enter into his calculations. Soon the two
emerged from the house — Mary a sight to be seen, nearly
as broad us she was tall. She made the best of it, how-
ever, and waddled around bravely enough, tumbling over
only once or twice, where she lay helplessly in her wraps
till assisted to her feet by the ever-active Harry. He
was as near crazy wdtli delight at his experiment as it was
safe for a boy to be. The cool, bracing air stimulated, if
it did not intoxicate him. Suddenly he remend)ered ^
nice shaded nook Avhere he was sure there were nuts, ftjr
•> he had seen them with his own eyes growing tliere a
month or so ago. No sooner said than done. The two
started oil" immediately, Mary toiling along as best she
could, as Harry was so eager for the nuts that he rather
ungallantly left her far in the rear.

All at once he recollected that tho coveted spot was in
Deacon Farley's field, and hadn't his father commanded
him not to go into the deacon's iield ? Of course, he
mustn't go ! Just then the sister waddled along up the
hill where he stood, crestfallen over this unexpected com-
plication of affairs. She was very tired, out of breath,
and just ready for a good cry. She sat down on a stone,
the brother looking doggedly off in the direction of the

William and Afarv.

()reci()us nuts, which ho was sure he couhl see glistening
in tlie sunshine. Well, there was nothing for it now, he
supposed, l)ut to go back, and he rather sullenly turned
to Mary, who by this time was simply waiting for a
favorable crisis to scream outright.

" I doan't think th' nuts — ,"but his voice was drowned
by a whoop that came from somewhere out of the thicket
in the deacim's field. The crisis had come, and Mary
screamed lustily. Harry sprang to her side, but before
he could say a word to calm her, the lithe form of
William Farley, preceded by Carlo, came bounding to-
wards them, while the air rang with his merry shctuts.

"Ha I ha ! ha ! Out in the cold such a day as this. I
saw you comin' an' hid. Where goin'?"

Harry explained.

"Come 'long, then. Nuts? Well, I should say so —
oceans'. Come 'long: here goes!" and diving towards
Mary he caught her in his arms, and went tearing off
down the other side of the hill, before Harry could utter
a word. It was too late t<^ expostulate n<nv, he thought,
so satisfying his conscience that he had to follow to look
after his sister, he was soon scampering after them at a
tremendous pace. Mary screamed a little at first, till she
got used to it, as she was carried forward at headlong
si)eed over the hill. Harry dashed past them, at last,
shouting: "I can run faster'n you; come on I" and
away the three went laughing and bellowing, with the
delighted Carlo fairly beside himself with all that was

gomg on.

" Here they be : hooroar !" cried Harry, as he sprang
at a nut-laden branch above his head.

William placed his charge carefully on the grass in a
, sheltered spot, and soon had her lap filled with the brown-
I coated nuts, which she attacked bravely with her teeth.

Willia})i and Mary

Thon the boys wandered oft' into the thicket, and were
presently h)st to view as tliey separated one from the
othe". Mary was too husy witli her liard-sliell (hiinties
to notice her desertion at Hrst, but slu' became conscious
after a time that slie was ah)ne, and reah/ing that an<»tlier
favorable crisis had come, began crying aloud witli a
will. Then sh.e paused to listen, but could hear nothing
save Carlo's joyous bark far otl" in the thicket. Tliorouglily
alarmed, she struggled to her feet screaming and calling
her brother at the t(»p of her voice ; l)ut the wind blew
fresh and strong from the direction her companicnis had
taken, and so drowned her cries.

The two lads had meanwhile passed through the thicket
into an open space beyond, and descrying what they be-
lieved to be a perfect paradise of nuts farther on, had
scampered off for fresh concpiests. Here they separated
ag"in, each penetrating deeper and deeper in jimong the
thickly-grown underbrush. xVll at once Harry thought
of the little Mary away off" yonder alone, and, with a
startled exclamation, made for the opening. William
was busily tilling his pockets, boy-like, thinking of no-
thing in the world but the work in hand, when he
thought he heard a shout. Listening, he heard his own
name called with frightened energy.

" Why, that's Hal ; what's up? Hullo !"'

Then another scream, and his name louder still.

"P'raps Mary's — " and he was tearing through the
brush, scratching his face and rending his clothes, as he
darted onward like a frightened deer. Emerging from
the bush he bounded across the open space in a moment,
standing face to face with Harrj^ who, holding his sisters \
shawl in his hands, was jumping up and d<jwn in a fren/.y,
as he screamed —

"Mary's gone— lost— Oh ! oh ! oh !"

.I'l'"-;;

Willicwi and Mary

Williani took in the situation at a gljiiice, iiiul decided
on action.

"She's not far off, be sure. Hi, Carh> ; ho, Curh) ;
Carlo-o-oh 1" and the dog caiue hounding towards tlieni,
nose to the ground.

" Here, Carhj — liere. She's not far ofl". Come this
way, Hal — no, you go tliat way an' I'll go this. We'll
find 'cr. Ho, Mary— hul-lo-ah ! Hero, we're comin' I"
and the air rang with her name. But no answer. Marry
was l)ewildered. His father would soon be home, miss
them, follow, Hnd Mary lost! Oh, what should ho do?
Wliat could he do? Not being aide to answer these
fearfid ([uestions, he began jumping up and down as
before, bawling with all his might. Meanwhile William,
l)reathloss with excitement and thoroughly alarmed, as a,
fearful thought Hashed upon him, rushed through the
thicket for the brook. He hadn't thought of the brook !

"Hi, Carlo-ho-here !"

What if she had wandered near the brook nigh lu-re
where it was hidden l)y the l)rush ? He had fallen in
there himself many a time ; but he was a boy. Fallen in,
"p'raps drownded I" And he the cause of it I The jjor-
.spirati(m stood in cold beads upon his forehead, as with
set teeth he bounded after Carlo towards the stream. Ha !
what's this ? And he grasped in his htjadlong speed a bit
of torn calico fluttering from a twig. Then a sjdash, a
gurgling, and then a brave boy, bearing in his arms a
dripi>ing little body, went panting madly uj) the hill
towards his home.

Wiliiaai and Alary.

CHAPTER TV.

Ain.lAlI DELIVERS TIIS BOUL.

Deacon Farley had conic in from tlio fields to his din-
ner, and, not sccnig the boy around, asked his wife where
William had gone.

" Somewhar abeout," was the cheery reply. " Sh'dn't
wonder if he'd run deown t' sec th' childer, poor things I"

The deacon sat down. He was a man of few words
unless aroused, grave, stern, if not austere in demeanor,
• but with a heart of gold all the same, if anyone knew
how to get at it. He pitied the two motherless ones most
sincerely, and took care to build no barriers that would
prevent free intercourse between them and his son. If
William could cheer them in their loneliness, they needed
it all now, especially as the father was showing his true
colors ; for it was UK^re and more fully taking possession
of Farley's mind that Abijah was outside the C(^venant of
grace.

Mrs. Farley was busily engaged in setting the table for
their frugal meal, and with the clattering of dishes added
to her usual bustling manner, there was too much noise
for her to hear the startled exclamation of the husband
as he rushed for the door. Before he reached it William
had burst into the roon with his dripping burden in his j
arms.

" In heaven's name !" but the astounded couple saw iti
all — no need for words. The lovely face of the child was
cold and clammy, the bright curls fell in loose matted
clusters on her neck and shoulders. Farley opened not
his mouth. In moments of supreme trial he was duniK
The wife, however, made up for his lack of service, as

William and Mary,

alio tore tlio wot gannciits from tho little body, sobbing
iiltnid —

" Duiid — drowudcd ! Oh my — what'll I dew. Dead,
drownded. Sweet pet, 1 know'd it, I kiiow'd it. 1
kirow d sutliin' was a-comin'. Dead, drownded. Oh !
oil! oh!"

Then coming to herself, as she always did in any great
crisis, slie cried —

" Willianv — (|uick, fetch th' bar'l — run, there's wan
eout at th' door, — no, it's tew cold. Here, this wan'll
dew ! Lift her up, neow. Tliar, neow !"

And at the last word the tiny form of the child was
l)eing pushed back and forth between the deacon and his
wife, after the manner of a cross-cut saw.

"That'll dew — neow for th' blankets an' hot stuns,"
and in an instant Mary, swathed from head to fc^ot, was
laid bef(jre the great, roaring fire on the hearth, while
again they rolled her from side to side, chafing the little
limbs briskly with their hands. Their faces scorched by
the ftames, the worthy couple intent only on the object
before them, heard not the approaching footsteps and
agonizing groans outside the house. The door was dashed
open, and Abijah, frantic with grief and rage, staggered
into the kitchen, reeling like a drunken man.

"Whar's me child? Ha, dead — drownded! Away
fends !— away divils ! — give me m' child," and the
frenzied father sprang towards the hearth.

"Stand back, Abijah, stand back," cried the deacon,
nienacingly, half -rising to his feet ; "stand back, man !"

" She's openin' on 'em, sure'syou live," screamed Mrs.
Farley hysterically, at the same moment collapsing on the
hearth in a swoon.

As the deacon sprang to the assistance of his wife,
Abijah swooped down like an eagle and clutched the child

lyilliaiii and Mary.

ill his ;inus, dancing about the Hoor liko one demented,
showering ki.sses on the cokl clieeks, while he jjoured
f'ortli volleys of al)use upon his enemies one and all,
whom lie firmly 1)elieved were in k«iguo with Satan to
rol) him of liis idol. William, who had gone in search of
Harry, here entered with the weeping boy, followed close
l)y Carlo snulHng the air, as he looked up with Iiis bright
intelligent eyes at Abijah prancing madly around the
room. The scene was a strange one. Mrs. Farley in-
seiisil)le on the hearth; her husband bending over lier;
Abijah pirouetting on the Hoor ; the two lads mute and
silent with tear-Hlled eyes ; Carlo not (piite clear, but it
was his part of the programme to take hold of Al)ijah
by the leg.

"She (»pened on 'em, sure's you live," was the first
words whispered to her husltand as Mrs. Farley regained
consciousness. "She opened on 'em," then rousing her-
self she was instantly on her feet, exclaiming : "Give 'er
t'liiel"

Mary had opened them wide enough by this time, and
was gazing in a dazed kind of a way into her father's face
as he went round and round in his crazy dance, belching
forth no very complimentary expressions regarding every
(jiie in general, and the Farleys in particular. The
deacon, relieved from further anxiety about his wife, laid
a hand on Abijah's shtnilder, and with the grip of a vice
twirled the man round till they faced each other.

"Stop this !"

Abijah st(jpped it, and Farley taking the child from
him passed her over to his wife, who immediately com-
menced capering about on her own account almost as
excitedly as Abijah himself. Mary closed her eyes
wearily, and soon went ofi' into a profound slumber as
she was tucked tenderly away amidst interminable layers

IViliiani and Mary.

(if lilimkuts iw Mis. Farley's own bed. Then, 1»y the time
the hot "stuns" were adjusted at the little one's feet, and
;i tremendous pot full (»f "yarbs" was put to steep among
the coals, explanations heijan to be in order. William
told his story, IlaiTy his, Farley his, and Mrs. Farley
liers. liefore they were half through, Abijah was pretty
tlioroughly ashamed of himself,

" Ve see, mum," he began, addressing the deacon's wife ;
"ye see, mum, I git some (jueer idees inter m' head.
N eu wanted tew hev ISfary here. Wal, when I see what's
'^oiiT on e/ I ci>ur in, I wus afeared y'd got up this 'ere
Lfauu! to get Mary 'pinted, predestinated-like, tew com'.
lUit, ez 1 wus a say in' tew yew afore, Mary's woi 'pinted

t C'OUl I

"Jest so," laconically responded the woman, with con-
.siderable irritation, as she raked the coals round tht
steaming pot of "yarbs. "

" It appears to me Abijah," put in the deacim, " that
you've acted the fool in this whole attair I" His language,
owing to Itls long association with the minister, rarely de-
generated into the vernacular of his wife and neighbors.
''We have lived together long enough," he continued,
'' for you to know we're your best friends."

"That's true 'nough," replied the now crestfallen
Abijah, " that's true 'nough, but 1 keep aturnin' an' a-
turnin' over in me mind all th' same I"

" What do you keep turning over in your mind any-
way r was Farley's sharp interrogation.

" Wal, it 'pears t' me, 1 aint ez steddy ez I was
wanst afore th' wan's dead an' gone died. I aint ez
steddy in th' faith 'beout 'lection an' 'pintin' an' sech!"

" Oho I" thought the deacon to himself, " it's coming, is
it?"

But he said nothing. He was no heresy-hunter, and

William and Mary.

! \
r

sincerely wished the nuiii wouhl hohl liis t(>iijj;ue. But
Abijiili, wlic was ushuined of his outru^'eous conduct of a
few minutes a<^o, felt it a duty he owed himself to ex-
plain what was at the bottom of it. The boys, young as
th(!y were, had their interest aroused, and shadowy
visions of banished Catechisms bei'an to float before
William's mind as the possible outcome of the conversa-
tion. His father, h(»wever, caught sight of the Ctager face,
and, very much to his disappointment, told him to take
Harry out and amuse themselves for a little while.
Farley saw clearly enough that he was in for more than
he bargained for, as sundry unearthly sounds were heard
issuing from Abijah's throat which were supposed to be
preparatory experiments of the strength of his vocal
powers in view of the unwonted exercise soon to be in-
dulged in. Mrs. Farley, who had just stepped into the
bedroom with a steaming bowl of "yarb" tea, returned
somewhat discomfited, saying that Mary was "sleepin' jest
bootiful. " Abijah's throat was by this time ready for the
ordeal, and all three sitting down to dinner, he began : —

"Ez I was asayin', 1 aint ez steddy ez I was wanst.
Howsumever, I meybbe wrong, an' then agen I mayn't.
Ez I lay me head on th' piller, ez I lay deown t' sleep,
taint sleep I git, but sech athinkin' an' athinkin' ez
comes on beout 'lection an' 'fectool callin', that I git all
in a muddle, an' — "

"Fill his cup, wife, fill his cup !" gasped the deacon
with horror, as his worst fears were being realized.
Abijah was clearly enough outside the covenant — given
over from all eternity.

" Ivery night," he went on, passing his cup, " ivery
night I lay athinkin' an' athinkin' 'beout the wan's dead
an' gone. 'Twas 'pinted, o' coorse, that she must go eout
that mornin', so 's t' die. Time'd come. So ! Wal, I've

William and Mary.

1 '^

liiy'ii wiikc lioui'H !i tliinkin', Asluit of IM 'jdnted ineself
not t' let 'ur {^o oout tliat nioruin'. Whiit then — tiino'd
nut c(»mu eh T iiiul lie looked u]j into liis friend's fuce
with ii (|nick, He.irchiny gliinee that made the deac(»n wish
he had been ai»iiointed to the North l*(»le, or some otiier
(lutlandish place l)efore lie had come there to })lague him
with such heretical (luestions.

" Pears t' me, deeken," he went on, laying down his
knife and f(jrk, "'pears t' me we've got suthin' tew dew
licre 'stead o' leavin' "tall tew 'lection an' 'fectool cailin' !"

" Have a care, Abijah. Have a care h<»w you speak!
The Church will hear of this — Mr, Fenwick will hear of it.
Yuu drive me to it. I shrink from it ; but my duty to
(Jod and the })rethreu compels me. Have a care, man —
not another word now," he thundered as a vigorous repe-
tition of the unearthly sounds gave unmistakable evidence
that the ■" thinkin' an' athinkin' " had about only com-
laenced. Al)ijah knew the deacon, however, and so very
reluctantly relapsed into silence during the remainder (jf
the meal. When they rose frt)m the table he darted
unceremoniously into the bedroom to look at IMary. He
was for cari'ying her oil' in his arms asleep as she was, but
a look from his host settled that, while Mrs. Farley,
bustling about getting the boys' dinner, could not help
exclaiming : " She's 'pinted tew stay till she's well,
tanyrate, 'Bijah !"

((

ivery
s dead

3*4

WilliaDi and A/my.

CIIAITEII V.

A in .1 A II UKCANTS,

Tt was Hovcvjil (lays beforo the cloacon's family would
admit that littlu Mary was tit to go homo, althou<^'h,
truth to toll, she was as l)right as a lark the noxt morn-
ing, and could have returned as easily as not, so far as her
health was concerned. Her father did scarcely anything,'
in the meantime })ut run back and forth between the two
liouses. He couldn't work, he said. Everything went
wrong with him now Mary was away. The day "ai)-
pointed " to let her go found him at F^arley's bright and
early, before the family had well got through with break-
fast. On entering he sat down with a ludicrous appear-
ance of mingled pleasure and perplexity. The deacon
had been very reticent with him since the awful discovery
of down-right heresy mentioned in our last. This morn-
ing he was more than usually grave. When his wife was
getting the little one ready, wrapping her round and
round in her own shawl and adding every conceiva})lo
article of clothing she could think of,- till the poor
thing could scarcely move or breathe, Abijah was rest-
lessly twisting and twirling about on his chair. The
deac(ni didn't notice him ; or at least pretended not to.

'' Neow she's abeout reddy, ef she must be agoin',''
exclaimed Mrs Farley, giving the last finishing touches to
the child's wraps.

The father i)icked her up in his arms, made for the
door, hesitated a moment, then put her down again and
resumed his seat, where a repetition of liis former per-
formances were begun anew. Farley was getting nervous.

\\'illia)n and Mary.

![(■ I'xpi'c'tiid ii(»thiiiL( ill thu world Imt more liuivsy would
W\ till! outcoiiio of Jill this uxtraviij^iiiico.

'• Will," at loii;4tli blurtifd out Abijali, as if driven to
di'.si>eratioii by Farley's iiiditlerence, " Wal, \\m lien
.itliinkiir an' atliiiikin' "

''Stop there, Abijali," thundered the ileacon, deter-
iiiiiied to have no more "if it in hi.s hoUHe. "Stop juHt
where you are. You said enou<^h, ami more than enouj^h,
the <ither day !"

Abijali looked more sheepish than ever at this unex-
pected outlmrst, and appeared uncertain what to do next ;
Imt. recovering himself, replied with considerable
wai'inth :

" Will, ef yer doan't want'er heer, no harm dun," and
i;ikiiig his child in his arms again made for the door.

"If you're not going to say anything against our holy
religion and its lilessed doctrines, say on," spoke Farley,
relenting.

" Wal, I dunno," (putthig Mary again ontlie tioor,) "I
duimo ef I'll .say it neow, seein' yer not pleased-like this
nioruin', Howsumever, I'm a poor miserable critter ez
knows nothin' I"

This was something so altogether different from what
I was expected that Farley, greatly relieved, asked him to
speak his mind freely.

"I've ben athinkin' and athinkin' as heow I did
I wrong t' other day in speakin' ez I did. Howsumever, ef
[yew'll say nothin' '})out it t' th' minister, I'll never say
, nother word agin' 'lection, an' 'pintin', an' whatsoever
I ye call it !"

The deacon didn't know about that. He would see.

I He wasn't the kind of man to say one thing and do

I another. He refused positively to give any decided

answer as to what he would do till he had time to think

William and Mary,

tlu! wlinlu jiHaii' ovur. \\ In^n tliu path nf duty was clear,
tlieii lu! Would follow it. If, afti>i' nicMlitatioii, hu waH KmI
to Huu that liiH duty waH to ho Hik-iit, thru lu; would lu;
Hilciit. Otlua'wisf not. Ahijah had to 1)C! Hati.stitul with
this jn'oiiiisi!, iiud s(», wiivx Hi-voral t'.\tra tvvitchin*,'a
and twirliui^'H, lu; .si-i/ed his child uLjain, and was oil", this
tiuK! f(»r }4(»od.

" Stran^'u huin','' exclainuMl Mrs. Karh-y as thu docjr
elosiid after him with a hang. " Strange hein' ; 'i)uar8 t'
mu he's daft!"

Nor was tho good woman very far astray. Poor Ahijah,
never intellectually a giant, had i»u//le*l his hrain so loni,'
trying to compriihend " lection and pintin'," as he called
tlunn, that, it left him in a perfect maze. As the winter
drew near, it was noticed hy the neighhors that he he-
canu! more and more dejected. He went to ''Meetin'"'
regularly as ever, never missing a service ; hut it was
ai)i)arent to all that he was little henetited hy what ho
heard. He worried himself till his p(»or V)rain became
paraly/ed with the fearful thought, " What ef th' wan's
dead an' gone wasn't 'lected ?" What he heard in Meet-
hig failed to solve this terrible ([uestion. 'I'hen, when ho
had thought it all over and had it settled that she cer-
tainly was among the favored few, ho would he sot oft' in
a new fren/y of "thinkin' an' athinkin' " about himself
and his two motherless children: "What of I'm not
'lected meself? What ef Mary's not 'looted ?" and the
last would drive him almost to madness. Nothing hut
his love for the child, and her lovo for him, saved his
reason from total collapse ; for when the little Mary would
see him in one of lus moods, she would run to him, climb
on his knee, put her chubby arms around his neck, and
in a moment the "thinkin' an' athinkin'" would be at
an end, at least for that time. He loved his Mary. His

/ / ^ I Hi am (1 ud Ml rri'

li.vt' wiw .Hi'jvrci^ly liimi.iii. It wiih tho wild fn-ii/y (»f llm
iii.-iii who, fi'flinn liimsclf I'l'olin^' on tho hrink nf ii
lidiriMi! pri'cii)ict.', flin;^s nut, his arms iiinl ^,'rnHjm tin; tiny
.siipliiij^ j^'rowiii;^ (»n tlio lu-i^'lits ubovu liiiii. \N CIl lui'^'lit
liK luv»' luT. Shr was both lovely and lovaMi'. I'lilik*'
most c'liildri'U of lu-r ai^'o, slu; was luori! of a woman than
many doulde lii'f years. Doprivi'd of tlu; tiiuder care of a
mother, she j^rew up, under the sliadokv of ii ^reat sorrow
in her homo, liko a delieato tlowcr hiddi'n away amonj^
rank weeds from the life-giving,' enerj,'y of the siui. Not,
that she was a, sickly tlower. Far from it. Hut tlieru
was a weirdnesH about her even in her playful moments,
that made the old crones of the neij^hliorhood shake the
head and tap the forehead sij^nificantly. She wasn't lont^
for this world that was clear enough -and Ahijah would
soon 1)0 alone with the ])oy. Such was the all hut unani-
mous verdict. Such wore the predictions, freely enouL,di
expressed, but which fortunately for the lu^art-broken
father never came to his ears. He had but one ambition
on (.-arth now- to make his Mary happy. Sti'anj^o
luothods did he adopt for this purpose, it is true ; but tho
motive was pure, and Ho wlio readoth tho heart no dou})t
judged from tho motive and not from tho act. Mary was
not to associate with other children. Ft was detinitel}'
settled in tho father's mind that some terril)lo evil would
befall her if she did. As a sort of comi.i-omise, however,
and fooling under a rude sense of gratitude to tho Far-
leys, she was allowed to go there occasionally ; while
William made it a .sacred duty to live fully \\\\ to his
privileges and visit her every day. Poor AbijaU came
linally to look upon all this as part of tho appointing
l)uainess that it was useless for him to interfere with, and
accordingly submitted to William's visits with as good a
grace as coukl have boon expected.

IVilliiDn and Mary

CHAPTER VI.

TIIK .MINISTKll EXPOUNDS Till': DOCTUIN KS.

Tmk Rov. John Fenwick has already lnjun casually iiih(»-
duced to the roader. Of good old Puritan stock, ho had,
after tho completion of his studies, l)een called hy tlif
Woodside Church when in the full vigor of his young,
strong manhood, and at the ojtening of <tur story had
grown grey in its service. (Jenial in disposition, kind-
hearted and amiable, generous to a fault, he went in and
out among his people, the friend of all, the enemy of no-
thing save ^■m. Fully and conscientiously persuaded that
the Westminster Standards were as the oracles of Ond,
he had in season and out of season, ]troclaime<l the eternal
decrees of "'lectin', 'pintin', an' p'redestinatin', " as Ahijjdi
would call them, with a vim and a vigor that left nothing'
to he desired. That whatsoever came to pass, came tn
pass because it had so been ordered from all eternity, ho
no more (questioned than he (piestioned what he con-
sidered the necessarj^ corollary, that "God so loved tlio
world that He gave His only begotten Son to die" for it.
The "woj'ld" here, of course, meant the elect. Yet with
a strange inconsistency, his iron-cast creed was contra-
dicted every day of his life. Wherever there was sorrow
to be comforted, mourners to be cheered, poverty to be
relieved, the dear old man would be found with u
heavenly smile upon his face, a cons(datory ])romise in
his mouth, and very often something more tangil>le in his
hand. If he saw in the ctmduct of an}^ of his parishioners
that which he judged might possibly lead to trouble in
the future^ it never entered into his calculations that tlio

WllliaiJi and J/iuy.

tluL'iituned trouble might possibly be a part of the eternally
jij»lK)iiite(l things ; l)iit he set himself to work with all his
power to prevent it if he could. Nothing could be more
out of keei»ing with its surroundings than the dignilied
figure of this veneralile saint moving calmly among his
rustic f<»llo\vers, his ])enignant countenance shining upon
them, his long white hair fallingly gracefully upon
slightly-stooped shoulders, as with stately step he went
from house to house comforting those who mourned. In
all the coinitry side round about was he known as a cul-
tured scholar, dee]>ly versed in ancient lore- a profound
thiukei' if not an elocjuent preacher. His people loved
him. Loved him i The word love does,iu»t convey their
feelings. A veneration mingled with something very
much akin to aAve would moi-e a(le<piately set forth their
regard for him. He was their friend, — a friend to wliom
at all times, day or night they had access ; a friend
ever ready tf» hear, a friend as ever ready to cheer.
"What says the minister T' was the (juestion always
first asked when anything of public interest was dis-
cussed in the store of an evening or round the
cheerful hearth in winter. When the minister had
spoken let every opposing tongue be silent. While free
witli all, candid with all, friendly with all, he found in
Deacon Farley a man after his own heart. The stern,
connnon sense of the farmer had in it something alto-
gether diti'erent from his neighbors. Deeply read in the
Scriptures, he could enter fully into the inner life
• 'f his minister, listen to his subtle, metaphysical dis-
(juisitions with reverence, and if not always able to fol-
low, always ready to assume an air of absorbed interest in
tlie "doctrines," as became a deacon of the Church W'itli
the generality of his hctarers Mr. Fenwick was as sim}»le
as a child, with Deacon Farley he threw oil" his simplicity

WilliaDi a} id Mary.

and jM)uro(l out of the vicli storehouse; of a cultured mind
nuggets of h'lirned lore. In addition to liis purely cleri-
cal duties, he conducted a school in his own house where
the higher branches were taught can arnorc to all who de-
sired it. It was the delight of his soul to get any of the
young lads of the parish to attack the intricacies of the
Greek and Latin languages. Here he was in his element.
Farley had spent several winters with him before his mar-
riage, and although never proiicient as a scholar, lie had
nevertheless iml)ibed sufKcient of his muster's si>irit to
give him a cultivated speech po.ssessed l)y few in the
neight)rhood.

Mr. Fenwick was a widower and childless. Ho had laid
away his beloved in the lone graveyard on the hill, years
ago — the mother and the l)aby — and he waited patiently
to join them where there would be no more parting.
He had found in Farley, even when a lad, that mysterious
something which binds soul to soul ; and now, wlien the
one bent with years was waiting for the sunnuons to go
higher, and the other was strong in the vigor of his lusty
manhood, there was something tenderly pat' 'itic in the
tie that bound them together.

A year had rolled by since Abijah had lost his wife.
Many a long and earnest talk liad the aged minister and
the dejected widower in the meantime, but without any
apparent results. It was therefore with rather a sorrow-
ful heart that, having paid him one of his weekly visits,
Mr. Fen wick wended his way over the hill to the Farley
homestead. He was met by the deacon at the do(jr witli
that dignified composui'e which so became him. It was
a glorious evening in the latter part of August, and the
mini.ster intimating his desire to remain in the oi)en air
and enjoy the delicious breeze which came singing u}"
from the meadows, a chair was brought by Mrs. Farley

irHliam and Mary.

fur i>acli, find tliey sat down just outside tlio door. Mr.
F'l'iiwick placed his hat beside him on the ground, and,
witli l)oth liands chisped on tlie to]) of his cane, gazed
(h( ainily ott" on the smiling tiehls stretching away in the
distance, hounded by the tir-clad hills on the horizon.
The sun was going down in a flood of light, tinging tlie
clouds with a halo of glory. Far away could be seen the
tiriid farm hands slowly returning to their homes, while
ever and anon the scjft cadence of some well-known hymn
came whispering up on the l»reeze. The two friends gazed
silently on the scene :

" ' These are Thy jflorious works, Parent of Good,
Ahiiij^hty ! Thine this uiuversal frame,
Thus wondrous fair. Thyself how wondrous then
l/'nspeakahle I'"

It was the minister's v(»ice, then silence deep as the
grave, till in tremulous accents again he spoke, (quoting
the sublime language of the Psalm : "' When I consider
Tliy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and tlie
stars which Thou hast ordained ; what is man that Thou
art mindful (»f him ? and the s(»n of man, that Thou
visitest him /' "'

They looked at the sun, as disappearing like a shield of
burnished gold behind the cloud-bank, it Hung high its
anus of light as if in adoration unto God :

" ' But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the
night, in the which the heavens shall pass away with a
groat noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent
heat, the earth also and all the works that are therein
shidl be burnt up.' "

Their eyes were still directed toward the west, where
the clouds swam in a sea of 1)illowy glory :

" 'And I saw a new heaven and a new earth ; for the
tirst heaven and the first earth were passed away. And

Williatn and Mary.

God sliJill wipu away all tears from their eyes ; and there
shall he no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither
shall there be any more pain ; for the former things are
passed away.' "

Then silence again, soon to Vje broken by the same
tremulous voice :

" Thanks be unto God — thanks be unto God I There
is a time coming when there shall be no more death, no
more tears, no more sorrow I Were it not for this hoi)e
that has buoyed me up for years my heart must break
within me,— no more death, no more sorrow, no more
tears I"

" His ways are past finding out," responded the deacon
in deei) and solemn tones, feeling it incumbent on him to
say something, as his friend i)aused and brushed his hand
rapidly .across his eyes.

" Past finding out I When I think of His majesty,
His power,— the heaven of heavens cannot contain Him
— and then try to fathom the mystery of redeeming love,
I am dumb. I can only cry, 'Unclean, unclean!'"

Then, after a pause : " 'I have loved thee with an ever-
lasting love ! ' ' He hath made with me an everlasting
covenant, (ordered in all things and sure. ' Deacon, mark
the words, ' ordered in all things and sure. ' No failure —
no possibility of failure. This world shall be destroyed,
all its beauty shall fade, and wither, and die ; the stars
shall pale and go out in darkness, but the promises of
Jehovah abide. ' He hath made with me an everlasting
covenant, ordered in all things and sure. ' "

"Yes, 'ordered and sure !' Mr. Fen wick," exclaimed
the deacon with a trill of awe in his voice. "Mr.
Fenwick, how strange that any should doubt the
doctrines ! "

* ' Doubt the doctrines ? Who doubts the doctrines ?"

ll'illicuji and Alary.

criuil tlio iiiinistor, with ;i startled look. "No oiio hero,
I ]io])e. No one in my parish can have been so led astray
l)y the enemy as to dt)ul)t the doctrines. It can't be
possible, deacon !'

" (), well, not just doubts them, sir; but — but — that
is to say, don't understand them !"

" Dont understand them I Do ijon understand them,
deacon ; do ijou understand them i I have never under-
stood them myself ; and, what is more, 1 don't want to
understand them. Why should I want to understand
them '. Is it not enough f(jr me that (Jod hath said ?"

" Enough i Ay, more than enough ; and heaven forbid
that any should be s,o led captive of Satan as to want to
understantl them I" was the awe-struck rei)ly.

" I don't understand," continued the nunister after a
nioiiient's pause, " I don't understand how He made the
worlds ; enougli for me that I am told in the Book,
' Tliou sendest forth Thy Spirit, they are created; and
Thou renewest the face of the earth.'"

"And yet there are those so perverse," jiut in the
deacon, not able to banish Abijah from his miad, do
what he would, "that they would dare (question His
dealings with man, failing to remember that He hath
ordered all things from the l)eginning I"

"Doubtless there ai'e such in the world. Satan en-
tered Paradise, and one of the twelve was the son of
perdition. What of it .'' ' He hath made with me an
everlasting covenant, ordered in all things and sure.'
Here is sob'' gr()und, deacon, here is solid ground. Look
at the problem of life from any other standpoint than
that of the decrees and all is confusion. The mind
refuses to grasp it. As 1 study this awful theme my
reason would be shattered as yonder cloudlet is shattered
by the sunnner breeiie, did 1 not know that with me He

■14

\\illia))i ami A fury.

liiith iiiiulo 'an ovurlastiiig covenant, ordered in all things
and sure.' Tliink of it I I am here. 1 did not brinu
myself here. I am thru.st into a world of sin, butteted
by Satan, assaulted by circumstances over which 1 can
exercise no control. Am, 1 then, the victim of blind and
stupid accidents, blown about like yonder thistle-down
l)y the wind — now here, now there, now up, now down,
tinally to sink in the j)utrid stream of death — no power to
save ? Such a thought would hurl reason from its throne,
could I believe it. But when 1 look upon myself in the
light of the covenant, included from all eternity among
those chosen to be heirs of salvation, I know intuitively,
even were it not written, that He who chose me to eternal
life chose also the circumstances of my surroundings,
and nothing eometh upon me by accident. 1 am in the
hands of One who hath foreordained all things whatso-
ever Cometh to pass! Hence the darkest hour of sorrow
is made radiant by the reflection of a face divine behind
the clouds. ' He hath made with me an everlasting cove-
nant, ordered in all things and sure.' "

The light had faded from the sky. Shnvly rising, the
minister grasi)ed tlie deacon's hand, and, while the great
tears trickled down his cheeks, bade his friend good-night
and turned his footsteps slowly towards his home. Farley
stood looking after him till the stately figure Avas lost in
tile gathering darkness.

IVilliam and Marx.

CHAPTKK VII.

FARLEY HAS A TALK WITH IILS WIFE.

'* It appears to me," suid the deacon to his wife one
evening at snpper, ab(nit a week snhseijuent to the
conversation witli Ihe minister mentioned in our last ;
" it appears to n»e that we shonld send VN'illiam to Mr
Fenwick's school. I am very anxious that the lad should
have the benetit of such an instructor before the Lord
takes him I" There was an unusual huskiness in his
voice as he uttered the last part of the sentence.

" Wal, I've no objections ; it'll dew th' boy good, tho'
as for that, he's yonng yet. Howsnmever, 1 der say it's
abeout time he tuk a turn at the high larnin' or whatever
you call it."

The dear woman, much to the scandal of her husban<l,
especially since he became a <leacon, never improved on
the vernacular of her girlhood.

Farley was silent for a moment. William had })een
absent all the afternoon at Al)iJHh's, an<l it had dawned
on the father's mind like a revelation as he was at work
in the fields, that possibly the heterodox widower might
occasionally have l)een airing his abominable heresy be-
fore the boy. He had never thought of it l)efore. So
anxious was he to comfort the two motherless children
that it was with liini a sacred duty, as before remarked,
not to interpose objections to William's regular visitations.
Now, however, he was in trouble. The mere thought of
his boy swerving by a hairbreadth from "the doctrines"
had in it something too terrible for words adet^uately to
express.

]Villiaui and Marx

*' Wife," liu iit last l)o;^iin, " I'm not s<> snie wliotlicr it
does tlio boy any good to l)t' at Aitijah's so much I"

Mrs. Farloy oi)eiio<l lior eyes very wido, as was lier won*
when anything absurd struck Ijer. If ht-r speech was un'
cultured, her heart and head were right. Possessed of
strong common sense, added to an ai-dent, afl'ectionate
nature, she was in many respects superior to litu" dignilied
partner. She opened lier eyes very wide at tlie ])are sug-
gestion of the simi>le-miuded Abijah injuring any one.
She could not i^iake out how her husband liad been led
to so })reposterous a conclusion. Before, however, she
had time to frame a suitable rej>ly, he began again : ,

"I had a long and profitable conveisation with Mr.
Fenwick on the mysteries the evening he was here, and I
have thought of scarcely anything else since. I hinted to
him the iiossibility of any one dotibting tlie doctrines, not
of coiu'se mentioning names, and the way he spoke- -so en-
ergetically, yet so grandly, ju'oves to me more than any-
thing I ever heard from him before, that to doubt is to be
damned. Yes, to doubt is to be damned I If we believe the
doctrines, it is to my mind the surest evidence we can have
in this world that we are in the covenant; while todisl)elieve,
gives as certain ii sign of a reprobate heart. Now, while
it is written, ' the promise is to you and to your chihlren,'
Mr. Fenwick reminded me — and I confess I was startled
at the way he put it — he reminded me that even one of
the chosen twelve was the son of perdition. That Abijah
doubts the <loctrines, we have heard with our own ears.
What he said afterwards just goes for nothing in my
mind. He doubts the doctrines, therefore he is clearly
outside the covenant. Now, if outsiile the covenant, of
eonrse he has V)een given over to a reprobate heart from
all eternity — passed by, so to speak, and will therefore in-
evitably be dannied. It is then a ({uesti. )n that has weighed

IVilliani ami Mary

heavily on my mind, liow fear am I justified — that is to
say, is it right for a cliild of the covenant, such as I
apprehend William t(j be according to the ])roniise just
mt'Utioned, 'to you and tt» your children,' — is it, in a
word, my duty as a father, not to mention a deacon of
the Church, to permit my boy to associate with rejjrttbates
and sinners, sons of Belial — "

" But," interrupted his wife, annoyed that her hus-
band, instead of addressing her in jdain words on the
subject, was pouring forth his sentences as if at a Chureh
iiieeting, "but, poor Abijali's not so bad arter all, an' for
my part I doan't jest make eout heow William's bein'
deown tliar makes him 'sociate with sinners, seein' Bijah
keeps no company !"

The deacon had used the i)lural nuud)er, as he often
did when speaking in his official tone, either tt) add grace
to his diction, or, as on this occasion, to soften the asperity
of liis remarks ; for, to do the man justice, he was not
(juite satisfied with his own logic. He was looking for the
path of duty. If he could find that, without harshness
to Abijah, he would be all the better pleased.

"You see," he continued, scarcely heeding the inter-
ruption, "you see we must not let our hearts get the
better of our heads. The heart is deceitful above all
things and desperately wicked, who can know it, says the
Rook, or words to that effect. I let the lad go down
there, as it appears to me now, on sober refiection, I let
him go down simply from the promptings of my heart.
How am I to know but the heart in this case played me
false ? Abijah is not a wicked man. Granted. What of
that ? Is he a child of grace \ That is the question. If
a child of grace he would believe in the mysteries with-
out questioning them. He does not. Then I conclude
he is not a child of grace. I have no right to say a man

JJ7///cim and Mary.

is a child of graco hocau.sti lie Ih not. a bad man. Finni
the roniarkH of our beloved minister adde<l to my own
inijierfect interpretation of the Word, I judge otherwise.
It is clear that no one can be included in the covenant
who doubts the doctrines. Now, Abijah doubts the doc-
trines, as we have heard with our own ears. Then what
says the Book : " Come out from among them," and more
to the same purpose. So it is clear to me that William
should not be in that man's house so often. The Apostle
tells us not even to eat with such ; his words, if I remem-
ber aright, are "

Mrs, Farley was as near being indignant as she ever
was in her life with her husband. He was one of the
best of men, but here her strong connnon sense saw that
too much love for the mysteries was fast transforming,'
him into a tyrant. " What," she exclaimed with
warmth, "what's that the blessed Saviour sez? Sez He,
forgive siventy times siven, jedge not that ye be not
jedged, in* some sech words. An' tho' 1 'low I deont
kno' ez much Scripter ez I orter, it 'pears to me that the
'postle Paul sez, sez he, faith, hope, charity, the best of
th' three's charit 1"

She had the sense if not the words, and the deacon
felt the thrust and winced under it. He loved his wife
in his own way, €and well knew that when thus aroused t(»
say anything in opposition to his own views, it was not
from a desire to contradict but from intense conviction.
Supper over, he drew his chair back to the window, re-
maining for several minutes in deej) and silent abstrac-
tion. At length he spoke :

" Well, wife, it may be I have erred in being too hasty
in my conclusions. I will meditate upon this again, but
to deny the mysteries — " Here he stopped short, and was
soon wrapped in profound meditation, from which he was
aroused by the entrance of his son.

William and Mary,

" W'illiiiin, nmiu liuro."

Tho l>oy julviUifiMl to his futlier, \vh<>, t.ikiiitf him hy tlie
liiuul, Inokod Htt'iulfii.stly into tho briglit honest oyos :

" Williiim, I want you to answer me as you have ever
done, truthfully."

"Yes, fiither."

" Hum A))ijah ever said anythinj^; to you about tiie one
that's dead and <,'oiie !' "
'."() yes, father, ((ften."

" Wiiat lias he been sayii' f '. "

" He has said a good deal one way and jinotlier."

" Do you remember his ever saying that she might not
have died if she had not gone to hear the ])lessed VV^trd
that Sal)bath morning?"

" Yes, he has said sometliing like that more than once."

"Ahem! Did he say anything against the mys that
is, did he say if he had kejjt her home that morning she
would have l)een alive to-day?"

"Yes, I often heard him say that."

" He did, eh? And what did you say, my son, to such
ill a-rible blasphemy ?

"Oil, father, I did not know it was blasphemy ; but I
said the same thing."

"You said the same thing!"

"Yes, but— oh, dear! Tm sorry if it was wrong: it
I seemed right."

" Seemed right ! What in the name of the — what does
[the boy mean ? Seemed right ! Have you had no better
training than that? Seemed right I Is this all the etiecfc
Iniy careful teaching has had ? Wife, this passes belief !
I am dumb with horror. Says it seemed right I Seemed
Irii^ht to say thjit a worm of the dust could prevent what
jluul been decreed from all eternity ! B(jy, listen to me
land answer as I question you !"

] I 'i Ilia III and Alary.

" Yes, father ; but, oh duar-

" Silunco, sir ; Hueined rij^ht <lid it > Thi.s in all I've
got in return for what I thou<j;lit was my duty. Tlu'
ru pro bate 1"

The deacon was h<» terribly aj^itatinl that for the
moment lu; ha<l no very clear idea of what lu; was sayinj,'.

"Seemed right! Boy, listen to me. Does the Cate-
chism say, or does it not say, that (Jod has foreordained
whatsoever cometh to pass T «

" It says that, father."

"Did Abijah's wife die?"

" Yes, of course, father I"

" Her death then came to pass, did it, or did it not ?"

" Yes, father, it came to pass."

"How then did it come to pass according to the teach-
ing of your Catechism, which is the teaching of (Jod?"

The boy hesitated.

"Do you refuse to answer? Wife, the lad's ruined I
Where's your Scrii)ture, now, wife? Where is it? Quoto
Scripture if you please ; we want it, heaven (mly knows !
What shall 1 do ? Did you hear my (question, boy ?"

" Yes, father ; but "

"But, sir, but I liut what? What do you mean by
your buts? Does a son of mine dare to put a but in
opposition to the eternal decrees ? But what, sir ?"

" But, father, Abijah said the minister don't believe it
himself I"

If the earth had literally oi>ened at his feet the deacon
could not have been more astounded. He hid his face in
his hands for a moment, .as if to shut out some horrible
sight ; then, looking up, he ordered the boy from the
room. The poor lad, very much confused, was on the
point of complying, when he was stopped by his father
abruptly exclaiming :

U^fl/iivu ijik/ Ma/- v.

"Stop! T ni.iy aH well lusir it all; tluTo can bo
notliiiiL; worse to hoar. What «li<l ho - what <li<l Ahijali
iiHiiii l»y Hayiiij^ the miniKtcr did not believe it himself C

" He Hjiid, father oh please don't be an^'ry with nie I"

"(to ..n :"

"Ahijiih said, if the minister believed it himself lio
wiiiildn't have eonie there praying and doctoring against
the decrees i"

" And what <lid you say '. Answer, if you please, right
(.lit. without any })ut8."

"Oh, father, I'm so sorry ; but I said that if it was any
use to doctor and i>ray after she had got sick, perhaps if
sill' hadn't gone out she wouldn't have got sick at all 1"

"There, that will do. You may go I"

The deacon rose as the door closed after the boy ami

pjiicd the floor. The sun went down and darkness tilled

the room, but he paced the floor. His wife retired to

lied, but the slow measured tread of her husband's foot-

i'^topa sounded through her sleep far into the night.

CHAPTER VIII.

Ani.TAlI CIIARCED WITH IIERE.SY.

Bricht and early the following morning the deacon
Ikiiocked at the minister's door. Mr. Fenwick was de-
jliijlited to see his friend, but was somewhat taken aback
|iit the haggard face that presented itself before him.

"Come in, come right in here — no, let us go up to the
study. You don't look well, deacon, this morning: you
seem troubled. A world of trouble, brother — a world of

William and Mary.

sill jiiul tr()ul>le ; but, for the elect's sake, (l»e days will
be shortened !"

The deacon failed to see the relevancy of the minister's
(juotation. l>ut followed (quietly up stairs into the c(jsl'}
little study, where ponderous tomes frowned down upon
them from the walls.

"Be seated, deacon; be seated and unburden your
mind. What is the trouble, my friend >. Has anything
happened at lutme /"

"A great trouble, sir ; a great trouble I (Jreater than
I ever thought would overshadow my heart. But with
the Psalmist can I yet exclaim, ' Although my house l)t
not with (xod, yet hath He made with me an everlasting j
covenant, ordered in all things and sure I' You cheered
my heart, sir, with these words the other evening ; but j
to-day they are my only hope !"'

"The last part of the ([uotation is a glorious one, dea-
con ; but how can you apply the first part of it ? Your
house is with G(kI, deacon, praise his name — your hoibr
is with (iod !"

Farley sighed deeply. "Alas, sir, it is not so !"

"What?" cried the minister in surprise, and half sus-
pecting that too much study of the mysteries had upset I
his friend's mind, "what makes you talk so? Tlu|
promise is to you and your children I"

"But one of the twelve Wijs the son of perdition !"

Mr. Fenwick winced as he recalled his own words t'
the deacon a few days previously, but silently awaited I
developments. After a slight pause Farley miburdened |
his mind in the matter of Abijah, concluding by enterin;;
a fm'mal charge against him to be regularly brought upj
at the next monthly Church meeting. Having thus
relieved his soul by the performance of what he now con.
sidered a sacred duty, he solemnly shook the minister l)y|
the hand and took his departure.

]]Hlia))i (Did ^far\.

"Tliis is bad. Tliis is verj' had," solilcxiui/ud Mr.
Kciiwick when aij^aiu alone, "this u perplexing. \N'h(»
would ever have thought it '. That a man of j)oor Abijah's
iiK'ntal calibre should doubt the doctrines I lUit there is
wliiTe the trouble comes in. He is weak, and hiiu that
i.s weak in the faith receive ye, but not to doubtful dis-
putatious. To discuss the mysteries with Abijah would
iiideed be doubtful. It will never do. 1 uuist go over
at once and put him to rights, if I can, without
doubtful dis[)utations I" and so saying he sallied forth in
the direction of the widower's cottage, but, Injwever, with-
out very sanguine hopes of success, as past experience
j,'ave hiui little encouragement.

Abijah was at home when the luinister arrived. He
|sus])ccted something was brewing in which he himself was
to l>o iucluded ; for, however dull in intellectual appre-
hension, he w< mid need to have l)een duller than he was
liad lie not connected the jtresent visit with the solenni
jstriik' of the deacon past his door a few minutes pre-
viously.

*■ Well, Abijah, I am come this morning to talk to you
as your minister and best earthly friend."

"Ye/, sur, o' coarse," was the dry remark of the wid-
ower, who never could disctjiniect the death of his wife
Ifiom the long sermon she had the hist time heard upon
learth.

"You see, I am above all things anxious that yon
|sliould l)e comforted in your affliction by a reliance on the
tliviue providence."

"Jest so."

"Deacon Farley — "

"Eh I" interrupted Abijah, with a (piick, fm-tive look
knit of his dull eyes, as much as to say : " I told you so."

"Deacon Farley," continued Mr. Fenwick, "has

Willi a 1)1 and Mary.

brought ii charjgo uijainst you for heresy. It is jui awful
charge, Al)ijali ; no les.s a charge than doubting the
doctrines 1"

"■ Dew ye mean 'pintin' an' 'lectin' V

"Yes, that is about what 1 mean — do\d>ting the de-
crees.

" Wal, I'm not so sliure but th' deekeu's abeout riglit.
Howsum<.ver, I 'lowed t' him tliat I wus ajmor, miseral)lf
critter ez knew nothin' ; but neow that he's gone an
brought me afore th' Church, I doant know but I'll staii
whar I st\id when th' wan's ded an' gone died."

"Where did you stantl then, Abijah /" asked the mini-
ster in a S(jrrowful and symi)athetic voice.

"Agin' 'pintin' an' 'lectin' and th' hull batch o' them
thar dekrees, Sur, beggin' yer i)arding fur bein' so bold,
but blow high or blow low, I'm agin' 'pint?')'. I see I've
no wan to stan' by me ; I'll stan' by meself. "

" You have some one to stand by you, Abijah — a friend
who sticketh closer than a brother ; more than that, I'll
stand by you myself, Abijah. We all wish you well ; wu
want to help to cheer and comfort you. I as your mini-
ster do not want to trouble you about those deep things.
Let them ah me."

"Thar! That's what I told William, deekeu's son.
who'll cum heer tho' no wan wants 'im lieer Se/ I:
' Them deep things air tew deep for me, William.'"

" Well, well, Abijah, I want you to give me your word.
now that you are sorry for what you said to the deacim I
and his boy. I want you to say that you believe tliej
doctrines and — "

" Yew want me tew tell a lie, do yew, Mr. Fenwick /"
cried the man with such warmth and earnestness tliai|
the amassed minister rose mechanically to his feet ; "yewj
want me to tell yew a lie ? 1 doant b'lievc in no 'pintiii'

Willicvn and Mary

iiii' 'fcctual calliii', an' I'm agoin' tow tell no lies al>oout

it :'■

" VdU iiiisiinder.stand nio altogt'tlicr, Ahijali; yon niis-
uiiderstand niu I I would not ask you to do any wrong,
much less to tell a falsehood. You know that, and you
do me a great injustice to say so. What I ask you is this:
Will vol! ]»roniise to say nothing uijaind the <loctrines to
any one- man, woman or child :"'

" Wal, that seems kinder different, beggin' yer parding
for wliat 1 sed ; that seems ditterent. But, yew see, 1
promised the deekin jest what yew fisk. But he wasn't
clar what tew dew aheout it — jooty, yew kno'. Wal, neow,
he 'it^'ii-i's t' bo clar ; I'm clar tow."

"Then you won't i)romiso ?"

" 1 didn't say that adzackly."

" Well, then, you i)romise ?"

" Ditln't say that aythur, Mr. Fenwick."

" Well, what do you say, then ? Let mo understand
you, if you please."

" Wal neow, minister, I promise of ye'll tell me what
for yew prayed and doctored th' wan's (led an' gone ? Ef
you thort she was 'i)inted to go, she'd go. Why pray an'
doctor ?"

" Why, Abijah, this is absurd. How should I know
she was appointed to die till she died ?"

" Wal, ef she was 'pinted t' go that time, she'd go ; ef
not, not. Anyway, 1 doant jest seo whar the prayin' an'
doctorin' came in — that's all ! "

" So you aro not satisfied with my answer?"

"I'm not."

"And you'll keep on sjieaking against the decrees ?"

" I didn't say that ayther."

"Then you won't?"

"Look ahoor neow, Mr. Fenwick, ef th' doekin '11

Ji^i/iinni and Alary.

leuvu nil! ttjvv inosulf, jukI kucpliis iKdhorin' Itoy U;w hum,
I uiiiy (luw Hiitliiu'. Ho sends liiiu heer tur Hiid o»»ut
myHtuiius, ({\\/. ho I Eli, Mi-. Fuiiwick ?"

" Now, Ahijjih, you wrong ])oth Mr. Furloy ii.;:;' liis
boy. Thuy firu your friends — wo are all your friends, iut
it api)ear.s to nie William will not troidile you as niiu-h as
formerly."

The promise was given on these conditions, the minis-
ter ratifying the bargain by leading in prayer, after which
he immediately took his departure for Mr. Farley's. Ar-
riving at the deacon's it was settled upon, with the consent
of all parties, that William's visits to Abijah should be
considerably curtailed, and that in the course of a couitlc
of months he should be enrolled as one of Mr. Fenwick's
students. William took kindly enough to the last part
of the arrangements, but, boy-like, could see n(^ necessity
for the restrictions imposed upon him, although, as in
duty bound, prinnising obedience. The matter was com-
promised by the mother agreeing that Harry and his sis-
ter should visit them every other day, providing their
father offered no objections. When approached on the
subject Abijah did not like it at all ; but after a great
amount of feminine generalship and tact, Mrs. Farley
carried her point, the simple-minded widower having ;i
profound respect for the woman who had always been so
kind to the " wan's ded an' gone."

J Villi a }n and Mary.

CHAPTER IX.

A YOUNf} HERETIC.

\Vii,i,iAM was duly enrolled as a student of the "high
liiniin'," as his mother persisted in calling it, early in the
iiutuiiui, and during the following winter made such pro-
gross in his studies as to surprise his dear (^Id tutor, as
well as astonish his stern but ati'ectionate father. Serious
thduglits about this time began to enter tlie deacon's
mind as to whether his boy was not clearly intended for
tliu Church. He never hinted such a thing, however, to
Mr. Fenwick. Modesty kept him silent here, for well he
know liis pastor would speak out in good time. The win-
tor wore pleasantly away with all parties. Abijah was
about the same, still dejected and worn, with a haggard
look upon his withered face. He had sacredly maintained
silence in the matter of " 'pintin' and 'lectin','' in accord-
ance with his promise to the minister. Harry and Mary
grew apace, always welcome at the deacon's, and, weather
porinitting, always ready to test their welcome. Farley
liiuiself was in his element during the hjng cold nights
sitting by the blazing fireside poring intently over his
Hiltle or diving into Matthew Henry's great Commentjiry
-a recent loan from the pastor's library. William would
sit on the opposite side of the table deeply immersed in
the intricacies of the "high larnin'," while the mother,
witli Carlo at her feet, kept knitting away for dear life as
[if the welfare of all depended on the performance. She
was very hapi)y just now, bless her heart, why shouldn't
she I William was happy and that was enough. How
she loved the boy ! A tear would get into her eye, do

- Q

] If/ nam and Mary.

what slio would, us alio sat there of an evening watching
liini at his book. Then she would drop a stitch or pro-
tend she had dropped one, which was the same thint^. It
gave her a chance to !>' ish her hand rapidly across her
face without being seen as she bent low over her stock-
ing, (iod l)leHS the dear mother, her heart was in the lad
— and who could l)lame her, who looked on the curly
head, or caught a glimpse of his frank, winsome face \

It was on one of those never-to-be-forgotten evenings,
upon which they all looked l)ack with dinnned eyes in the
after years, that as the father reluctantly closed his Cojii-
mentary, William ap])eided to him for help in the render-
ing of a certain i>aasage that had baffled him for hours,
"Alas, my son," sighed the father returning the book
thtat had been passed to him, "alas, my son, I cannot
help you. Whatever I knew of it is g(me — vanislied long
ago. But I commenced late, and to tell the truth, I had
other things on my mind at the time that sorely hindered
me in my studies." And he actually looked over roguishly
at his wife, who of course pretended never to have heard
a word. lint she did hear a word. She heard what sent
her heart thumping against her side as lie spoke ; and she
lost a stitch, or i)vetended to have lost one, which amounts
to the same thing. Long and patiently did she look for.
the stitch, her head l)cnt low down over her work. But
the husband did not see the great tears that fell thick
like rain and blinded her ; for if he had, he would have
been greatly amazed and puzzled to make it out. His
look and words had recalled sunny memories of the lond
ago. Ah, the long ago, when there was nought but love
between them talked from mom till night, and neither
mysteries nor doctrines were ever thought of, or if
thought t)f kept in their place. It was not so now. He
loved her just the same, so he imagined, for she was just

Willia m and J fa ry .

tho siune sho liad ever been. She hadn't clianged a bit,
she was certain herself. And she wouhl give the workl,
if she owned it, to go over and put her arms round his
nock, riglit tlien and tliere, as in the ohlen time when
William was a baby, and tlie doctrines were in — well, the
jiilili' or the Catechism, whichever you will. But she
hadn't been on his knee slie couldn't renuMuber when, and

oh, dear! lu^ was a deacon now I He would have
hoen shocked and scandalized had she followed the
promptings of her heart, and thrown herself in his arms
for a good old-fashioned cry. But there he was meditat-
ing already in the straight-backed chair, which, not being
the Sabl)atli, he had tipped back slightly. There he was
in all the otticial dignity of a pillar of the Church, with
half-closed eyes deep in the doctrines, nor would he have
lii'lieved it had any one told him that a minute ago he
had come precious near to cracking a joke with his wife.
Sucli a tiling as a joke had never escaped his lips since
the day he had been elevated to the diaconate.

" William, dear, put u}) th' book for th' night," said
the fond mother, lifting her head and smiling on the boy
as if such things as dropped stitches had never happened
in all the history of stocking-making ; " put up th' book,
tloar, an' go t' bed. Yer killin' on yerself with it."

William put up the book, but the father, recalled by
his wife's voice from the misty regions where he ha<l been
revelling among doctrines and decrees, let the chair down
to a i>erj)endicular ; and straightening himself to a posi-
tion all hut Sabbatic in rigidity, tiirned, towards his boy:

'' William, has Mr. Fenwick spoken to ycm much of

late al)out the (h>c that is, has he bee.i explaining the

awful mysteries of the Word more than usual ? "

He threw this out as a feeler. His mind had been
getting somewhat troubled lately over the strange reti-

JVii/iam and Mary.

concc (»f the iiiiiiister anont his son'a call to tlio li(»ly
work.

"Not iiion? than usual, fatlier. Ho says soniethin<?
every day."

"Ah, yes, t(» be sure — of course, good man, dear good
man, holy man, may he long be spared to go in and out
among us. What a glorious life, my boy; what a glorious
life is that of the ministry I Think of the dignity con-
ferred on a worm (tf the dtist to be permitted to expound
the fearful uVvsteries of the Word I"

The boy i)U8hed his book farther from him with a sigh.
He hadn't got on well to-night, and he felt consideral)ly
disgusted with himself in conse({uence. His father con-
tiinied :

" I .suppose Mr. Fenwick has frecjuently si)oken of the
great honour conferred on a worm of the <luHt in being
l)ermitted to explain the living oracles ?"

" I don't just remember his saying anything jtarticular
about it," replied the boy. His speech was becoming
quite as polished if not as pomjxms as his father's.

" No i That's strange — decidedly strange. But he has
certainly been explaining to you, from time to time,
the wondrims harmony of the Scriptures in the matter of
the decrees ?"

Mrs. Farley moved nervously in her chair, and ven-
tured to gently hint that it was time the boy was in bed;
])ut the <leacon didn't hear her, or if he did he didn't heed.

"I was remarking," he continued, with a shade nf
asperity in his voice ; " I was remarking, William, that
Mr. Fenwick has, no doubt, time and again made plain td
you and the others the wonderful harmony of the Won!
respecting the decrees. You have before this, I know,
been fully persuaded that God has foreordained all things
whatsoever cometh to pass, and that even the wicked

Mil Ham a7id Mary

hiivu beon created by Him to be damned to all eternity,
ill |>raise of Hi.s gl(»rit»ii.s jnstiee ?"

William had l»een persnailed of just nothing of the
kind, and he was too truthful to say so when he hadn't.
He saw trouble ahead, however, antl determined to avoid
it if he e(»uld without telling a lie. That he woiddn't do.

"() yes, Mr. B\'nwick often dwells on the.se points —
every day, in fact, he explains them to us."

"And you are, of course, .satisHeil with his ex-
planations i'"

The (piestion was too pointed to be avoided ; he must
lUiHwer it or lie.

"Mr. Fenwick explains those dark things in clear and
hwiutiful language."

The father turned sharjjly upon him those great, grave
eyes of his, before which so many of his neighbours had
flinched.

" William, you are evading my (piestion. I asked
nothing about the elegance of Mr. Fenwick's diction. Do
you believe — do you accept his explanations ?"

"I do not, father."

Brave boy ! There he sat calmly hooking into his
father's blanched face. He had been driven to it. Now,
cunie what would, he would stand his ground.

"You— do— not?"

"I do not, father."

"Boy, you are scarcely twelve years old, and yet you
presume to question the wisdom of the ages !"

"Father, the ages may have been wrong I It is not
a question of the ages, but of the Bible. Does the Bible
teach that God created the wicked to damn them / The
Church did not always hold those views — does not now
liokl those views throughout the world."

"Ha ! You have been reading something besides your

William and Alary

text-l)(u»kw, 1 HOC. But enough of tliiit. Am I to undui-
stiuul tlijit Mr. Fc'uwitk is iiwaiL! of your ht-ivsv '."

"Mr. Funwifk knows, futhor, that thus fur 1 hiivu not
beon ablo to bcliuvu tliat tlie all-niurciful (iod cruatt'd
men and women to damn thum to the praise of Ili.s
gh)rious justice !"

"Indeed! This is frank. 1 admire frankness I Now
that I think of it, I alway.s admired frankness I Hut
enough of that. You don't believe, then, that (lod lias
chosen a certain number in Christ unto everhisting gh»iy
before the foundation of tlio worUl, according to His im-
mutable purpose and of His free grace and love, without
the least foresight of faith, good works, or any conditions
performed by the creature, and that the re.it of mankind
He was pleased to pass ]>y and ordain them to dislutnor
and wrath for their sins, to the praise of His justice C

"Father, I'm sorry to hurt your feelings, but "

"Well?"

" I believe just nothing of the sort 1"

"That will do. Put your book on the shelf! You
will have no further use for it !"

" Oh, father, I "

"Silence, boy. Put your book on the shelf and go t(»
bed. Your education is finished — more than Hnished.
I'll see Mr. Fenwick in the morning."

"Oh, father, I "

"Silence ! Do you hear what I said I Go to bed <it
onoe — instantly !"

jie boy obeyed. The father shut his eyes and straight-
ened himself up in the straight-backed chair to a rigidity
of position as if a dozen Sabbaths had suddenly }>eeii
rolled into one. The mother dropped an innumerable
multitude of stitches as she swayed and rocked in her
seat, but she could not find them this time. She arose

// illiaui and Miiry.

und cii'pt sctftly to lier room, iind, f;illin«( on lior knees,
iMiureil forth lier heart cries to One wlio lieareth in
secret. Wlien slie opene*! lier eyes tlie next niorniag at
break of tlay she found that tlie ])hiee heside lier had
remained unoecui»ied. All throuj^h the nij^ht the deacon
had sat l>y the Hre in the straij^ht-hacked chair. The
lia;,';,'ard face which turned appealingly towards her aa
.she came out into the kitchen smote her to the heart.
Her strong connnon sense told her, however, this was a
time for silence, not words. It was a time for tears I

CHAPTER X.

THK DEACON ARRIVES AT LOfJICAL CONCLUSIONS.

" So my unhappy boy is among those that ])erish I"

It was Deac<jn Farley's voice. He stood face to face
witli his pastor in the little study up stairs, whither
ho had Leen ushered by Mr, Fenwick's housekeeper.
For some minutes after entering he had remained silently
seated staring with vacant eyes up at the great books on
the slielf, as if he helped for some glinuner «»f light to
dawn upon him from the ponderous folios. The minister
sat opposite at his writing-desk in blank amazement at
tlie dejected appearance of his friend. He had spoken
several times, but had received no answer.

" So my unhappy boy is among them that perish I"
He repeated the chilling words in a grating voice that
smote the clergyman with an undetinable dread.

"What do you mean, deacon? Your language is an
enigma to me I What is the matter, I pray you ?"

Will ia 1)1 and Mary.

'* Matter'.' Oh, I did ni>t think wljuii 1 camo liuro wo
would nued any uxplanaiioiiH. I had HiipiioHcd you wuru
merely waitin^^" for an opportunity to Hpei'k 1"

"Deacon, you HiirpriHe nie, an*. I must heg of you to
ho more explicit, if you please. Explain yourHclf I"

" C), certainly, if there is any n«ed of explanationn !
You are, of course, in perfect ignorance of the opinions
held hy my unfortunate son I"

This was said in a mocking tr>ne, that instantly
aroused the native dignity of his i»astor, who innne<li-
ately exclaimed with warmth and vigour :

"Deacon Farley, whatever else I may he ignorant of,
I am not ignorant of the respect which an otHcer of the
Church owes to his minister. You appear, however, for
once in your life, to liave forgotten it and to have left
your manners at home I"

"Pardon me, Mr. FenwicK, if I have sjxtken rudely,"
cried Farley with emotion, " the shock has b«inn more
than 1 have been able to bear. 1 have skpt none last
night, and scarcely know what I am saying this morning!
But were you a father, and your son "

The minister had risen to liis feet, crossed the room,
land here grasped his friend's hand. "I did not mean t<»
hurt your feelings, deaoon. Tell me all your trouble :
you alarm me — what has happened?"

"My unfortunate boy is given over — doomed from all
eternity I"

"Deacon!"

" He told me frankly last night that you had failed to
satisfy his mind about the decrees. He doul)ts, and -
and, of course, is lost!" and the wretched father, covering
his face with both his hands, swayed to and fro in his
seat like a reed shaken in tlie wind.

" But, deacon "

\\'illiii))i ami Mary.

" Piudun, nio HJr ; I kin»\v you will t?*y to conifoit mu,
liut it irt UHciU'Hs. I (lid imt coiiio luin f<>r fuinfdit this
iii(iniin<^, liut Hiinply to tell you, that \\ illiiiiii ciiiiiiot at-
tt'iid your scluMil lonj^ur. To j^ive him any niorr learn-
iiii,' u'ould 1h! only to add to hin r<»n(U'uinati<»n. 'To
ulinni much is given, of him much hIuiII ho rc<|uirud.'"

The minister returned to liia seat, remaining for some
iiiinuteH in j)rofound ah.straction. At length he Hpoke —

" You are right and you are wrong, deacon. 1 have
known this all along about your son's views, as you sur-
mise. I have said nothing about it, feeling assured that
he will come to see his error as he grows older, and fee'
contident that tliis is but a device of the enemy, permitted
l>y (okI as a trial of our f.-iith."

"All that you say, sir, has been didy weighed in the
balances of my mind last night and found wanting. The
b(ty is as clearly outside the covenant as was Esau I All
your preaching and all my own reading go to prove that
a child of grace never ([Utistions the doctrines."

"Not when he comes to years of maturity, but
William is yet a lad, and "

" Pardon me again. He is a hul, true ; so was Daniel
u lad, and Samuel when the Lord spako to him, and
Timothy, who knew the Scriptures from childhood. There
is no hope for me — the boy is lost — lost!" and the heart-
broken man groaned aloud.

"Send him to me again, deacon ; send him to mo to-
day: send him one day ni(jre at least. If I fail to bring
him round, then I will be led to believe that what you
say is true, and must bow reverently before Him who
maketh one vessel to honor and another to dishonor. '

" It is useless, Mr. Fenwick, useless. Besides my
word is pledged and I never can break it, nor will T try to.
The boy knows that. He is not to go to school any more

William and Mary.

Again the minister was silent, and again the deacon
spoke :

"Mr. Fenwick, there is one thing, however, you can
do for nie. It is now my principal trouble — indeed, it was
that which especially brought me here this morning.
What am I to do with the boy J"

"What do you mean? I don't understand you!"
cried the minister, in evident alarm, fearing for the man's
mind.

" I mean simply this : What is the path of duty ?"

"Duty?"

"Yes, duty. I have thought it all over and am per-
plexed and confounded. Cain was driven forth, and
Ishmael was driven forth, and "

" Stop, sir ! Stop right where you are. This is astound-
ing !" and again ,he aged clergyman was upon his feet,
this time to pace the floor excitedly. " Stop, deacon, not
another word of this as yon value my frienclshijj or fear
my censure. This is past belief. Have I then spent my
labour here in vain ? Deacon Farley," and he stopped
short before his chair, looking him fair in the eves :
"Deacon Farley, answer mc this one thing: Have y»m
ever in those years heard from the pnlpit anything that
would lead you to harbour such barbarous thoughts — yes,
barbarous thoughts — as I surmise are now in your mind '\
Have your ever ? Answer me ! "

"I have, sir, most o'ecidedly."

"You have?"

"I have!"

" Deacon, have a care I"

"I have a care. I am not speaking at random. You
have repeatedly set forth the justice of such an act as I
now contemplate. If not directly, then by implication.
And, sir, let me say this, with all due respect for you,

]]^illiam and Mary.

even had I not drawn as much from yuur sermons, my
iiwn private reading and connnon sense would lead me to
jiivcist'ly the same conclusions,"

*' If I have ever useil language from which you could
(haw such abominable conclusions, I am humbled in the
very dust before my Maker at the thought of it, and may
He mercifully forgive me !" exclaimed the minister in
trciuulous times, as the tears gushed unbidden to his
eyes.

I'nder ordinary circumstances such an exhibition would
liave unmanned Farley completely, but he felt this morn-
ing like another Abraham going forth to slay his son. It
was not a nuitter of sentiment with him at all, but a stern
(lut'stion of duty. What was his duty ? Let Mr. Fen-
wick show him the path of duty by an ajjpeal to the law
and to the testimony, and he would gladly walk in it.
Perfectly unmoved, therefore, by his pastor's deep
eniution, he advanced to the argument with terrible com-
jHisure :

' ' Tliis is not a matter of feeling, sir. ' The heart is
deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.' I fear
1 have followed the promj^tings of my deceitful heart too
far and too faithfully in this matter. Let the Scriptures
decide this point for me, and, though my deceitful heart
break within me, I will follow the Scriptures."

" I'pon what Scriptures do you base your erroneous
conclusions, deacon ?" cried the minister, with a tinge of
asperity in his voice.

" With all due resjDect, sir, let me say again I cannot
allow that my conclusions are erroneous on the word of
any man, even though that man be my own minister !
Do the Scriptures prove them erroneous ? That is the
question."

"Goon."

WilliaDi and Mary

"The AiJ(jstlu Paul, writing to thu (lahitiai's, says;
' Jiut though wu or an angol from lieaven jtreach any otliur
gosjuil unto you than that whioli wo liave jtreaclied initn
you, let him be accursed.' This inihappy child <»f mine
has preached another gospel. What fstllows i Either
that the Holy Sjiirit has lied, or the })oy is ac "

" Sto]), stop I You are wresting Scripture to your
own destruction. The passage means nothing like what
you would have it. Be careful, sir, or you will bring oii
your own head the curse that you are trying to fasten
upon your innocent boy I"

" Innocent boy ?"

" Yes, innocent boy."

" Did — you — say — innocent — boy ?"

* ' I said innocent boy I "

The deacon rose solemnly and slowly, " If it has coi '!
to this, our interview is at an end. The matter passes
out of our hands altogether. It will take more than one
minister and one deacon to settle it."

"I understand you perfectly, sir, but regard not your
threat, no — no more than I do the idle wind which howls
this morning round my dwelling. Nor so much ! You
have gone too far, Deacon Farley, as you may yet find to
ycnir ct)st."

Farley was not prepared for this. He had never seen
his pastor exhibit such a spirit. There was something
grandly dignified in the old man's face as he stood there,
a tow^er of strength, strong in the consciousness of right.
The deacon resumed his seat mechanically, and after an
embarrassed silence of a minute or two went on —

"I beg your pardon again, Mr. Fenwick. I can only
plead the terrible blow that has fallen on me as my
excuse. I am sorry I spoke so."

"My pardon is instantly granted. Nf>w let us hear
what it is you would do to your son."

William and Mary.

"If I am right— and I think I am — the hoy has

preached to me last night a different gospel — a gospel
(litlVreiit from what you preach — a gospel different from
tliat jtreaclied hy Paul. What follows!' Only one con-
clusion, altiiough it pierces me to the heart to say it ; but
what lias my deceitful and desperately wicked heart to
d(i with it? Clearly nothing. There is, 1 say, but one
conclusion. Having preached another gospel from that
l»rcaclied l)y Paul, my boy is, according to Paul, accursed.
If n(»t accui'sed, he is a 'railer,' and what says the same
a}>i)stle about railers ? 'I have written unto you not to
keep company . . . with such an ime, no not to eat I'
Here, sir, is the position in which I am placed : my na-
tural feelings <m the one hand, and the word of (Jod on
tlie other. What am I to do \ I must obey (iod rather
than man, and— so the boy goes out from my house a
wanderer and a fugitive on the face of the earth, unless
yt)U can show me that my interpretation is wrong."

"It i& wrong, deacon — it is altogether wrong. You
are entirely astray. Scripture cannot contradict itself.
That is one of the universally recognized canons of inter,
pretation. If your interpretation would appear to lead
to the commission of a crime you may be certain it is
wrong. It so leads you. If Paul says what you ([uote,
he has also said, 'and ye fathers, provoke not your
children to wrath ; but bring them up in the nurture and
admonition of the Lord.' He also said, 'Charity suffereth
long and is kind ; charity envieth not ; charity vaunteth
not itself, is not puffed up ; doth not behave itself lui-
seenily, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked,
thinketh no evil; . . . beareth all things, believeth all
tilings, hopeth all things, endureth all things. ' The course
which you have in this matter marked out for yourself is
not only the reverse of that charity which 'suffereth

IVilliavi and Mary

long and is kind,' but it is uniiunuui, y)arl)!ir(>us, and
devilish."

" Mr. Fenwick, I just want to ask you one (luestion.'

"Ask on, if you please, I will answer you."

"Have you not repeatedly said, privately as well as
publicly, that a child of grace would not (piestion tlie
doctrines? That it is, in a word, a sure sign of one's be-
ing included in the covenant if he implicitly believes the
mysteries V

"I have said so, no doubt. But I have also said that
a child of grace may fall into grievous sin, though he can
never be utterly cast oft'. Peter denied his Master. Paul
was a persecutor, and "

" Excuse me, sir, for again interrupting you. It is
useless to proceed. Your answers do not satisfy me. 1
am convinced that I am right, and (nice so convinced
nothing can move me. The boy must go !"

"Must go?"

" Yes, though my heart brt^ak, I must obey the Scrip-
tures. With a railer, ' no not to eat !' "

" Then, deacon, I charge you with " but before lie

could finish the sentence his voice was drowned by a i\\\\
at the door, followed by the housekeeper thrusting her
head into the room, exclaiming :

"Here's William, bound tew come in !"

Before either of the surprised men could speak, the
boy brushed i)ast the woman into the study, rushed up
to his father, and, with his eyes full of te«ars, sobbed out ;

" Oh, father, I did wrong — I did wrong last night. Let
me come to school again, and Mr. Fenwick may yet
get me out of this trouble ! I don't know anything yet.
but "

"William!" cried the deac(m, the stern look on his
face evidently giving way ; "William, do you, or do you

William and Mary

^crii)-

sak,

the

shoe

(0(1 (-

mt:

rht.

Lot

lay

yet

ing

yot.

: on

L his

you

not, believe the mys tliat is, do you believe your

Catuchisin ?"

" 1 do father ! I do believe it I Some things I dou't
yt't understand ; but I hope to some day. 1 i)ron)i8e to

spend more time on it if you will let me come back to

1 I"
nol :

S(.'ll'»

"There, deacon, there; forgive the boy. Leave him
to me I He says he don't understand scjme things yet.
We're all in the same predicament ! I will bring him
round. There is no doubt in my mind but I will bring
him round. He will yet be as str^mg in the faith as
either of us. Leave him tome, deacon ; leave him to me.
Forgive the lad ! He's a brave, good lad, only wanting
careful training !"

The dear old man was so excited by this time that he
rose from his seat and grasped Farley by the hand. The
stern face began working nervously. He was giving
way in good earnest. In another moment he would be
uninauned before his boy, and never forgive himself in
coiisecpience. With a desperate effort at composure he
tinally managed to say ;

" William ! Mr. Fenwick has prevailed. You will
have another chance I See you how you will improve
it !"

Tlien the door closed after him, and the master and
pui)il were alone.

IVilliaiii and Mary.

CHAPTER XI.

SOME THINGS AKE PROMISED, OTHERS FOUCiOTTEN,
AND MORE HE(JUN.

Several luinutoa ulapsed after the (leacon's deiHirturo
l)ef<)ru tliu minister cimld sj)uak. When lie did, it was
ai»[)arent even to William what a fiery ordeal had l)eun
passed through.

"This must never hai)i)en again, my l)oy ; this must
never happen again. You have got to make up y(»ur
mind to aucei)t the doctrines, (»r the consecpienues to us
all will be dei)lorable. Y(mr father is not a man to be triHed
with. Before we go a ste]) further, you must promise nie
one thing. Unless you promise, it will ))e useless for you
to proceed with your .stiulies."

"I'll promise, sir, anything that ycm ask, because I
know you will ask nothing tliat is wrong I"

" Thank you, thank you, my dear boy, for your ci li-
dence. Now, the i)romi8e is this : You are never to say a
word against the doctrines from this time forth till, at
least, yon are a man, should the Lord spare you so lonj,'.
Will you promise that ?"

" Yes, sir. I never said anything till father questioned
me, and I had to answer. If he question me again, 1 11
have to answer again, I suiijiose ; but I'll never sjleak a
word, you may be sure, if left altme."

" There, that will do. Study the Catechism and liiblc
and your father will not be likely to troul)le you. He is
a man of stern integrity, and one, I repeat, not to lie
trifled with ;" which last was, to William, altogether an
unnecessary piece of information.

William a7id Mary.

m, iH

j)eak 11

1 liible

He is

b to Iw

Lher lui

The roniiiindcr of the winter pasacd Jiway rapidly and
]ili';v.santly with our friends, notliini^ further liaving hap-
piiied to mar the intercourse l)etween tlie minister and
the deacon. In fact, each resi)ected the other now all the
ini>re since their heated discussion. Along with this
respect was mingled a something very much akin to fear.
They were pleased to have got «mt of the delicate position
in which they had been placed with no further loss of per-
sonal jirestige ; and the feeling u]>permost in the mind of
Uiacli was not to do or say anything that might lead them
a<,'ain to cntss swords, if it could bo ctmscientionsly
avni(h;d. Nor was Farley any the more desirous to (jues-
tion his son's orthodoxy. Ho could not fail to have his
rcsiicct for the lad considerably heightened when he re-
called his truthful avowal of difticultios in the matter of
the decrees. His sol)er thoughts, too, led him to see that
he had been a little too hasty with the hoy. Had William
been disposed to eipiivocate, he might have given an
!ilii)arent assent to what he inwardly disbelieved. The
deacon made up his mind that, if his son did not force
liiQi to it, it would be a long time before he would again
yet himself into the predicament from which he had como
forth, l)y no means with tlying colours. It was, we may
he sure, with a great amount of secret satisfaction, then,
that he marked, as the winter rolled ahnig and the spring
approached, William appeared more and more to study
his Catechism and Bible. The progress made in his
other studies, too, had been something remarkable, as
Mr. Fenwick had said more than once, and again the
jfond father's heart took hope that his boy might, after all,
he a "chosen vessel" to stand in the holy place. But,
I alas ! he little knew that the deeper the young student
[plunged into the mysteries, the deeper the mysteries
appeared unto him, till at last he was in a labyrinth of

()

William and Mary.

hewildorment in wliicli produstination, ivpmhation, oft'ec-
tiial calling, and thu inipuccahility of graco struggled for
the niaHtury. Tho father, hajipily for his own pcaco of
Inind, know nothing about it, and wont on druaniing of
tho day when William should start for college to prepare
for the holy oflice.

Two years had now rolled away since Ahijah Oliver
had parted from the " wan's dead an' gone." Years of
darkness had they been to the unhappy man— a darkness
but little brightened by the consolations of religion,
Abijah had, like William, got more and more muddled
over the decrees as he kept on "athinkin' an' athinkin'."
Like the deacon's b()y he failed to see, stupid as he was,
the infinite love of God revealed in creating the wicked
for the "day of wrath," as he was constantly hearing
proclaimed from the i)ulpit. Unlike the young student,
however, he had neither the judgment nor ability to
study the subject for himself. He (quietly let go his
moorings and drifted helplessly on the current. Whither
the current was going — whither it would finally land him
he knew not, cared not. He too had promised to k^l'
his mouth shut, and shut he would keep it though lie
might be dashed upon the rocks. He felt that he had
been hardly dealt with in the loss of his partner, and he
mourned over it in silence, failing to see either mercy or
j ustice in it. Yet to no living soul would he breathe a
word of his troubles. He had long since withdrawn his
objections to W^illiam's frecjuenting his house, and the old
state of things was going on as before with no word of
complaint being raised against it. He loved his children
with a more passionate devotion, perhaps, than ever, and
he remarked, dull as he was, that the little ones apjjeared
happier in the company of their young friend than with
himself. He accepted the inevitable. Towards William,

M'illiatn and Mary.

h»»\vevor, liu boroiui iiiwuid disliko. Ho looked upon him
iirt a spy, and it Wiis not nuicli to bo wondored at that
tht'ir iiitt-rcourso was the iovoi'ho of cordial, llo would
leave the hou.se when the lad caiuo in, or send Harry and
the little (-no out into the fields, if the weather permitted,
when the hour of the cu.st( unary visit drew near. The
yuung student, on the contrary, pitied the unhappy man
from his heart, longing for the day when, relieved from
his promise to the minister, he would he able to cheer
him as ho himself had been cheered. Ho would, so
linped the sanguine lad, set forth such views of the good-
ness of Gcxl as tho old walls of the Meeting-house had
never echoed. He would do it, he thought. Ves, ho
wuuld do it without waiting till Mr. Fenwick gave him
permission; but he would do it without violating his
sacred pronn'se. He would do it and could do it with(»ut
.speaking a word against the doctrines. And so ho bided
his time, praying that the time might not be long.

Little Mary grew apace. 'Every month added to her
sweet loveliness. She was the personification of grace and
(.liiMish beauty. Timid, shy, 1)ashful, .she seemed, as
bef(jre remarked, like some rare exotic, which, by a
strange freak of nature, had been transi)lante(l from a
clime afar to blotmi luxuriantly amidst rough and rugged
surroundings. As unlike the other cliildren of tho
neighborhood as it was possible to be, she shrunk from
them instinctively, renuiining silent and abashed if for a
moment she was thrown into their jirosonco. In her
eyes Harry and William w^ore beings of a diil'erent order
from all other young people. What they did was right.
What they wouldn't do, of course it was unlawful for any
one to do. They were as superior to herself, she thought,
as to all the others. It never once entered into her con-
fiding little heart that either of them could think or do

William and Mary.

iinytliiiiLC that was imt uiitin^ly i»rn|»i!r in cvi-rv pitrf icMilar.
Many wjih a kind (tf «Uity in lior cyrH- a deiiii'^'od slio
would liavu oallofl liini had slio hueii oldor an<l know llio
nioanin;^ of tliu word. Williuui rankcMJ next to Harry.
SotiintininH sill! alnio.st, tlioii<^lit 1k' wjih oven .supurifir tu
Harry; Imt no, that wouldn't do either. W'lun she caiiif
to turn it over in her mind she saw the folly of hucIi a
HurniiHo. Harry w.'is, of course, everything. Williaiu
was <»nly older and went to school to the minister. VViiit
till Harry was oMer and went to school to the minister!
Why, whiit wonderful things ho would learn and teach
hor ! Teach her ? Aye, and teach William too ; for it
was a sacred conviction with the little thing that hor
brother would only havo to look into a book to know
everything that was in it forthwith.

Such were the crude thoughts that wore coursinj;
through her mind as she sat one evening with the two
boys out under the shadow of the great lieech-troo near
the door. William was pouring into the attentive ears of
his young friends the mysteries — not his father's mysteries
this time, by long odds — but the mysteries of what his
mother still persisted in calling the "high larnin'." He
had paused, almost out of breath, when Harry exclaimed :

" O, dear, but I'd like to know a little about them
things too !"

" You would, would you ?"

" (), I'd give anything t' learn. I can only read just a
little bit, an' Mary can read only just a little bit. I can't
write, an' Mary can't write either !"

' ' Well, I never thought of it before. How strange.
But now it's settled !"

"What's settled, William?" asked Mary, demurely
looking at him in her own sweet way, somewhat sur-
prised at the animated face of the boy.

irHiiaffi and Mary,

" NVIiiit's si'ttlu<l i* Sure i'Utiu;.;li, I liiivcn't t«ilil yoii,
lijivi- I '. NVi-'ll, si'i! liuro I Now 1 can just us well, un«l
fur tliiit iiiiittcr, far better, teach you two Hoine nf tlieHU
j^rciit tliiiijrs as not."

" VdU (Itni't mean it, \\ illiaiu, y»»u (Um't mean it, n<»w,
(In yctu r' shouted Harry, his eyes ^'lowinjj; with delii^ht;
"t>, you don't mean t(» teach Mary and nu' all tliese
1,'riUid and fearful things you have heeii atellin" on us?"

" Yes, 1 do too," sententiously renjarked their friend ;
"yes, I do too."

" When — (>, do toll us, wheJi, when will we begin T'

"When will we lft'<,'in? Well, let me see: this is
Friihiy, to-morrow's Saturday, next <lay Sunday. School
will counucnce here next Moiuhiy afternoon at4 o'clock."

"(), this is t^rand I Won't father be proud," roared
Harry, jum])ing to his feet and whisking round and
round as was his habit when very much excited.

"This is grand, Mary — hooroar! Won't father bo
l»lcased, tlutuglW" and the cra/y fellow rolled over on
the grass in the most ridiculous manner. Mary didn't
say anything, though she was wonderfully pleased her-
self, whatever her father might be when ho came to hoar
• if the arrangement. And thus in a few minutes, with-
out any previous forethought, boy-like was arranged a
schuine which was afterwards most successfully carried
Hilt, and proved of incalculable benefit to the t\vo mother-
less children.

]Villia)n and Mary.

CHAITEU Xll.

KOHKHHA1>0\VING OF (IRKAT KVKNTS.

Ik wo tiiki! tlio tiiiu!-h(iii«tri'<l lilnTty of jiassinj^ over,
with a turn of t'lo pi-n, \\ pcj-iotl of sevcnil yciirs from tin-
tivt'niii<^ when the youthful trio, un(U,'r tlu; Hhiulow of tho
bt;ucli-troe by Ahij.ih's (htor, iiniiiiLjod their ethicationul
phiiiH for tho future, who will say us nay, when tiie
shadows of f^reat events are looniin<^ u[) so |)ortent(»usly
on the horiz(»n of our story as to obscure all matters of
minor imixtrtance ? Happy have l)een those years, all in
all, to our friends. Deacon Farley is a shade graver than
when last we saw him, and sits if possil)le more stiffly of
a Sabbath in his straij^ht-backed chair. His faithfnl
wife is the same sweet-tempered body as of yore, l)nt with
a slij^ht indication of care C(tmin<^ and .ijoing — tlittinu
across her benevolent face like the light-fleckered clouds
of summer across the morning sky — now here, now tluTi',
now gone, now back again — finally to melt away in ii
beauteous bnrst of sunshine;. William is no longer a boy
— a bravo y<tnth is he with wild dreams singing through
his l)rain — a strange mingling of the student and rustic,
the thoughtfnl brow contrasting with the l)ronzed check
and sparkling eye. All those years, winters especially,
has he been with tho dear old pastor at tho " high
laniin'." And with such marvellons success that his
teacher has had, time and again, to implore his father to
send him away to college, or he wonld bo driven crazy
trying to keep ahead of his relentless pupil.

Harry and Mary ! Ah, yes, Harry and Mary, we all
want to hear abont thorn. What changes have those

ljCC(

]ViIliain ami Mary.

yciU's wroU'^lit siiici" tlirir yoiini^ iK'urtu tluoMu'd at tho
iiuTo uicntioii of Williiun's pi-opuHal to tciich thciii himiiu
i)f tlir ^'niiid tliiiii^'s \w limi liut'ii tt>llin*r tlu'iii out of liin
luMikH I To Hay that tlu'y lia<l ln-i-ii dilij^'t'iit Htuili'Ut.s,
says little. Tlu-y thank in -altHorln'tl all ni!\v itlras with
an avidity luswiltlciing to their enthusiastic teacher. It
seemed almost \\% if Marv had not (»ver-estimated tho
ihilily of her brother in this n-Hpect. lint Mary herself !
How shall wo describe her '. A rare exotic wo have called
liur as a child. Now a rose — not a rose-bud, but a roso-
laish exhalinjjf tixcjuisite fragrance. A \tdiie, mite of u
thinjjj is she yet, in sooth, standiuL; da/,ed-like on tho
iiiyatie boundary separating girlhood from w<»maidiood.
Fragile in figure is she, yet graceful as the wild roe that
liounds acrt»ss the liills, pure is she as the zephyrs that
steal forth in the evening from the tingers of Him who
holdeth tho winds in His fist.

Poor A1)ijali I He has changed least of all. He did
his " thinkin' an' athinkin'" years ago, and has simply
Itoen going over oM ground since hist we lieard fnwn him.

Mr. Fenwick lias boon getting nearer the kingdom, and
now stands bowing on tlio borderland ; l)owing to tho
iuigels on tlie further shore, whose shadowy o\itlines witli
the eye of faith lie can see ; and as ho bows he waits in
patience for the call that l)ids him cross tho stream. To
the dismay of Deacon Farley, tliero has nt>t boon an
iiverage of six sermons (»n the mysterioH for a year or
more, while the Intinito compassion has over and over
ayaiii been presented with molting fervor and subduing
power.

CJreat events, we have said, nave of late begun to loom
lip on the hori/on of this litJtlo New Hjimpshiro village
among tho hills — great shadows as yet, but e/ery day
becoming more palpable. Vague rum<»rs floating in tho

William and Mary.

ail' from Ikhiho to liouso jukI wluHpeicd iiroiiiul the blax.-
ing tiros during the early part of the winter have at
lengtli taken to themselves detinite shape and consistency.
The old tales of the fathers, heard with open-mouthed
wonder and kindling awe by listening chihlhood, of mid-
night attacks by prowling savages, and then the " moving
incidents by flood and field" which followed — all these are
now no more droned over to shivering groups clustering
closer together as the tale grows darker and bloodier, and
the hoarse shriek of the storm without seems like the
whoop of the merciless red-skin. But now are lieard
stories of coming glory ; for the whole country round
about is aglow with excitement as Hying rumors are
becoming condensed into acknowledged facts that none
dare question. The old traditional enemy, the French,
are tt» be bearded in their stronghold by the sea. A New
England army going forth to concjuer Louisburg ! Is it
any wonder that the eyes of the old men glowed with me-
mories of the olden time, as the coming conflict C(mneil
over in their hearing by the sanguine youth of the village,
visions of other days rose up out oi the grave of the past,
and former battles were fought over cind former foes
again exterminated ? A wild dream as we look at it, this
dream of the fathers to capture such a stronghold ! Raw
recruits, whose hands know more of the hoe, the axe or
the cod-line, pitted against solid masonry and trained
battalions of Franc ' Degenerate sons of noble sires
are we ? Scarcely tuat, but any way we eye askance
the heroic daring, holding our breath Avaiting for what
to us ajjpears the inevitable outcome of such reckless
temerity. In order to form anything like an intelligent
conception of the desperate nature of the enterprise
Avhich had t?ken full pos'^ession of the people of New
England at this time, the reader is respectfully solicited to

Gilbc

William and Mary

c» I

sti'i) back 11 few years to consider tho eausus wliifli cul-
minated in events so pregnant witli the interests of our
.st..ry.

The Island of Cape Breton, one hundred miles loni^'and
about nearly the same in width, lies ])eacefully slumV)erin;^
in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, between the forty-lifth and
forty-sixth degrees north latitude. It is separated from
Nova Scotia proper by a. narrow channel, only a few hun-
dred yards wide. The geographical conformation of the
island is in every sense peculiar — the great Bras d'Or Lake
thrusting itself, so to speak, right up into its heart, thus
dividing it into two irregularly uneijual divisions. In
common with other portions of the eastern shores of this
northern continent, it is claimed that Cape Breton was
visited early in the tenth century by the wild Norwegian
rovers of the sea-— those brave, adventurous voyagers of the
middle ages. Of the truthfulness of this tradition nothing
definite now can be advanced. Certainty alone becomes
evident towards the latter part of the fifteenth century,
when that bold navigator, John Cabot, whose name is im-
pc'rishal)ly connected with our continent, set out on his
daring voyage across the Atlantic. A few years subse-
(|uently, somewhere about the year 1524, the island wati
claimed for France by one Giovanni Verazano, a Florentine
ill the pay of the French king. About twelve years later,
uii Englishman named Hare is said to have visited it,
while the same year Jac(j[ues Cartier undoulitedly landed on
its shores. There is .still a faint tradition lingering among
the people that the French built a fort on the island as
early as the year 1540. An attempt was made at an
English settlement in the year 1583, under Sir Humplirey
Gilbert, but it failed in being a success. Another English-

William and Mary.

man, a Capt. Strong,', next appears on tlie scene somewliere
abont tlie year 1591, followed a little later l»y a Capt.
Lei^'h, also an English olHcer. It is said that, so far back
as the be<^innin;^ of the seventeenth century, tlie fisheries
on those coasts were so productive that over two hundred
En^dish vessels were en^a<,'ed in their prosecution. Al-
thou^di the En<;lish thus early appear desirous of its posses-
sion, Cape Breton was claimed from the first by the French,
and included in their American possessions. They named
it Isle Royale, and Louisburi^, its }.;reat stronghold, was so
called in honor of their king. The fortifications of this
town were begun in the year 1720. No more admirable a
locality could luive been decided upon on which to erect a
powerful fortress. The town was built upon a small
peninsula, with the commodious !iarl)or on the inside,
and the wild, roaring Atlantic dashing against the other.
The fortifications commanded every possible approach by
sea or land. It cannot, therefore, be a matter of surprise
that, even in those early days, Louisburg soon rose to a
position of commercial importance, and carried on a lucra-
tive trade with old France, as well as with the French
possessions in the West Indies. The oiiginal purpose of
the French in buihling and fortifying Louisburg was,
that as the island everywhere was thickly covered with
forests, it could easily be held by this one fort against any
possibility of attack. It was considered one of the imprac-
ticable things for an enemy to make a successful descent
upon it by land. As a naval station, too, it was of vast
importance so long as France hehl any possessions this side
the sea. It was, therefore, the fixed policy of the home
authorities that Louisburg should become not only a naval
and military post, but : t possible a commercial one. They
succeeded in both. The means adopted to effect this latter
object were in keeping wdth the spirit of the age. Every

William and Mary.

vessel sailing tVoiii France was peremptorily rec^uiretl to
liiiii*,' out a certain number of emigrants. In order to
establish a tixed population in the town, after their arrival
the immigrants were under bonds not to leave till the ex-
])iration of three years. They were thus slaves in all but
ill name. The success of this plan may be inferred from
tlie fact that, in 1745, Louisburg could boast of a popula-
tion of over four thousand, exclusive of the military. The
trade of the port was important. The fortifications were
on so formidable a scale that, had they been completed
previous to the siege, the position might be considered
impregnable. The city, as it was called, was small, cover-
ing an area of onlv about one hundred acres. All the
approaches by land, where it was possible for an attacking
force to effect a foothold, were supposed to be effectually
clieoked by the exceedingly marshy nature of the ground,
wliile the heights overlooking the town and harbor could
only be occupied after a long and dreary circuitous march
through dense forests and interminable labyrinths of
almost impenetrable undergrowth. Stretching across the
entrance of the harlior were three small islets, the largest,
named Battery Island, being strongly fortified, having
about thirty heavy guns in position. Between this
island and Lighthouse Point, on the mainland opposite,
lies the channel, about six hundred yards in width.
Directly facing the mouth of the harbor was the Grand
Battery, whose guns swept the narrow channel, past liat-
tery Island, clear out to the sea. This was a nu)st formid-
able outwork, mounting thirty guns of heavy calibre, and
was protected by a moat and bastions. The fortifications
proper were grimly menacing. The front of the town is
seen to be defended by a strongly constructed wall of solid
masonry, pierced by five great gates leading to as many
wharves. One hundred and forty-eight cannons glare

William and Mary.

clown uj)(iii the scene and out over the waters of tlie Uay.
The citiuh'l, or ;is the <,'arrison culled it, the Kind's Bastion,
is inside the walls, and contains apartments tor the Gover-
nor and his olHcers. In it we lind also an arsenal and u
church. The town is laid out rej_;ularly — the streets
runniii",' at ri,t,d)t aaj^'les. On many sides are handsome
buildini^s, prominent umon^i,' wiiich is a lar^^e ami beautiful
stone hospital — an imposing' structure. Seen far out upon
the heaving sea, it presents a striking? apjiearance to the
tenqtest-tosHed mariner arrivinj^' from his beloved France.
Some sli«,dit idea of the nature, extent, as well as stren<.,'tli
of the ]dace may be formed by the fact that up to
this date five millions of dollars had been expended on
the I'ortifications.

When war was declared Ijetween England and France
in the year 1744, the attention of the home authorities
was early directed to the advisability of reducing Louis-
burg. Successful marauding expeditions, sent out from
this stronghold to prey npon the English settlements in
Nova Scotia, were a matter of common occurrence. It was
therefore strongly impressed upon the people of New
England that so long as such a dangerous neighbor was
entrenched at their doors, their own safety was constantly
menaced. With an admiralde harbor, accessible to their
last-sailing ships, privateers could be despatched at an
hour's notice to pounce upon the uni)rotected English
colonists along the coasts, and, when the work of destruc-
tion was done, retreat unharmed under cover of the guns
of this giant fortress by the sea. It was such considera-
tions as these that induced Judge Auchmuty, of the Vice-
Admiralty Court of Massachusetts, not only to set forth
the feasibility, but actually to advocate the reduction of
Louisburg. To Governor Shirley, however, must be said
to belong the undisputed honor of being the first to bring

William ajid Mary.

tho luatler to the notice; of tin- Lef^'islatiiri'. The time
appeared propitifnis. The foitilications, it was well
known, were in an unfinished state — the i^farrisoii was
said to he mutinous. The j^ojvernor (Dnsipu'sni'l) had
just died, and was succeedetl hy an acknowledi^ed inferior
ill the person of Duchamhon. In a despatcli to the
British Ministry, dated Nov. 10th, 1744, Gr)V. Shirley
laid the whole ({uestion plainly before them, ui-,t,dn^' ini-
ini'diate and decisive action. The result of this ai)peal is
that Commodore Warren, then stationed in the West
Indies, ia ordered to Boston to confer with Shirley. The
Le<,'islature of Massachusetts, however, deems the whole
undertakin*,' so absurdly Quixotic that they report ad-
versely. But the ^'overnor is not to be put off. He has
set his heart upon the enterprise, and, like all men of
jn-ofound convictions, is not to be discouraged by trifles.
Petitions, inspired l»y Shirley himself, pour in upon the
Le<,'islature in favor of the expedition, so that a reconside-
ration of the matter is had, resulting in a vote favorable
to the project, but by only one of a majority. Sliirley,
having gained his point, is not the kind of man to lose
precious time in thinking it over. And it is worthy of
note just here, that when once the expedition is decided
upon, all those who have been seeing nought but disaster
and dismay, throw themselves heartily into the movement
as they fling their fears to the winds. The old warlike
spirit, we have seen, is aroused. Young and old vie with
each other. The venerable sire, unable now to buckle on
the sword, tells to throbbing hearts the deeds of the ohlen
time. The bustle of preparation is in the air. And
soon will be in the air another sound — Rachel crying for
her children, and will not be comforted because they are
not. No, will not be comforted because they are not I

William and Alary,

CHAPTER XIII.

WILLIAMS RASH DECISION.

When it Itec.ime ddinitely known in Woodside tliiit Ji call
for live luindrcd men hud been made upon New Haiiiii-
sliire to accompany the exi)edition ai^iinst Loniahur}^', tlie
excitement, wliich ibr months had only been kept within
bounds by uncertainty, now burst into a llame that spread
to every home. Fr<)m the first faint mootin^'s of the coniiii*,'
struf^'gle, William Farley was wild for the fray. His father
said little one way or the other. As usual, he was lookiii;^'
for the path of duty. Mrs. Farley ])rayed. Her stron;;ly
aft'ectionate heart, with the infallible instincts of a mother,
bej^'an to be troubled. She could not tell why ; for Wil-
liam had never intimated, by word at least, what had
taken complete possession of his Inisy brain, keeping him
awake ni^dit after ni<^ht as he revelled in prospective
scenes of glory. But the mother marked it all, althou;.;h
he tried hard to hide it from her. She noted with pain
that the "high larnin' " was at a discount. Her boy
appeared many times lost in thought. She noted, too, that
he was oftener at the village than was his wont of an
evening. He had suddenly changed from the wild, rol-
licking boy into the grave dignity of the man. William
had not inherited his father's contented ambition. An
obedient son hatl he been, as all Woodside could bear
witness ; for apart from his little ditliculty with the doc-
trines, now all but forgotten by his father, he had never
crossed his parents in anything. Yet he had longed for
something for years — he knew not what. Now he knew.
The opportunity had come. He saw it from the first ;

William and Mary,

but love for his mother drove it away only for it to romc
liiiek w'th reiloiibk'tl force. Whnt wa.s he to do J Pray \
He liiid prayed. He prayed over it as he prayed over
everythinj^ that troubled him, but he always rose from his
kiu'cs with tlu! conviction strouL^rr than when he knelt
(Inwn that he was j^'oin^s and that it was his duty to ^'o.
It' ever he came in his life very near to believini^ the
ilecrees, it was during those seasons of heart-searching.
Who will blamt' the ardent boy if more than once he
n';;retted sorely that he had ever questioned the myfiteriesJ
How conscding he thought it would l)e for him now to
look with mental eye along the line of the dead centuries
und believe that, before "the heavens were hrought forth,"
it had been decreed that he, William Farley, should be a
sdldier at Louisburg ! But he lacked this consolation, and
so would drive by desjierate effort all thought of the ex-
]H'(lition from his mind, plunging again into his books,
f»nly to find that he brought up where he had left oft" —
he would go to Louisburg ! Go he must, come what would
of it. But his mother and Mary ! Ah, to be sure, there
it was, and of course it would never do to go. Certainly
not. But the outcome of his cogitations was that he
found himself ])rofuundly convinced that it would do.
Why not ?

With such conflicting thoughts as these coursing
through his brain, chasing each other with flying feet,
rendering him unfit for either physical or mental work,
he had one evening repaired to the village where now
nightly congregated young and old to talk over the
coming conflict. The die was cast ! As he walked
hurriedly along the path past Ahijah's door on his
way home, he knew the die was cast. He did not dare
look at the house, as, holding his breath, he strode along
with swinging step ; for although it was late Mary knew

]Villiam and Mary

he was at tlic villai^'o and might he at the window watch-
\w<^ fur liini, as sljo ol'ten was, nnd sd he wouUl have to
Htop and trll lici'. Sh(! was there, and saw liiin and knew
all.

"Mother!"

'• Why, William, you i'ri<^ditent;d me."

lie had found her en<,'a<^e.d in the mysteries- not his
lather's mysteries by any means, hut the mysteries of
some culinary black art or other, out in the hack kitchen
whitlier he had stolen tip-toe on entering the house and
finding his father bolt uprij,dit in the strai}.,dit-hack chair,
with closed eyes before the cheerful tire.

"Mother — I'm j^'oing."

" Goin' whar, William / What, for goodness sakis
alive, does the child mean?"

" Well, I know just how it will be, and what you and
father'll say ; but — " and he paused, looking into the lov-
ing eyes of the fond woman betbre him — "but there is not
a better boy to his mother in all Woodslde, now is there,
mother ?" And the great fellow bent low over and kissed
her till the tears gushed to her eyes. She knew all along
what was coming,

" Mother, sit down here for a moment, will you ? There.
Now, don't you look so," and he kissed her again. " I'll
tell you all about it in a minute. You're always working
and working out here till you'll kill yourself. Leave it
all till the morning, for you'll have to tell father, and
right away too — the sooner the better."

He paused for a moment, his mother's eyes, still filled
with tears, yet fixed on his face.

" Can't help it, mother — I can't indeed. I must go or
go crazy, either one ; but I do just hate myself all the
same," and he stood as if uncertain how to proceed.

" But you know I'll have to tell you somehow," and

William and Mary.

tln'M- was nil iMiiiatiiral liuskincsa in liis vnice. His
iiintliiT rosciuul snutrc'd the candle with trLMiiLliiig fin^^'ers,
ami a i^'ieat hand went (hishin^' ucvoss lii.s laeci wlien lier
hack was tnrned. She stit down uj,Min, and aj^ain William
coiiinienced hiw story : —

"You 860, I was down at the Htore and they're all j^oinj^,
and so I said I was K'ti'^K myself, and you know it would
never do to hack down after that. I said I would ^'o too,
and if I don't they'll say I'm afraid, and as fur fear, well,
I (Inn't know if there's much of that alxmt me one way or
another. 80, I'm f^oin^r, mother."

" Whar be yew ^'oin^', William V

" Well, you see, they're to raise fifty men hereahouts, and
there's well-nigh half of them pi-oniised alieady."

"(Join' t' th' woods 'pia]>s /" (jueried the poor woman,
as if she didn't comprehend only too well the meaning
of his words.

" Well now, no, not just the woods, althouf,di there may
be woods, and I believe there is woods down there ; going,
to the war, mother !"

"War!" ^

" Yes, you see I have done nothing for weeks but think
about it. I have tried my best to get rid of it, but to no
])urpose. I'm going! You will have to tell father to-
night, some way or other. I just hate myself, but it's no
use ; I've got to go ! "

Then he kissed her again, and crept silently to his room
up stairs.

"Heaven forgive me, if I have done wrong!" he mut-
tered to himself, as turning into bed he was soon wrapped
in sleep, performing prodigies of valor all night in his
dreams. He was struggling desperately with a big-bearded
Frenchman, when he awoke to find it late in the morning*
and his father standing by his bedside, with a hand on his
sli(julder, 7

IViiiiajn and Mary.

"William!"

"Father!"

Eacli f^a/('(| lit tlu! other ii nxtinciit in sih'iicc : " Vmu
nidther liastdhl iiu; tlnit — " hut he couhl ^'et no farther,

William sprang' out of hed ami, liantily (lre.>^siii;,',
Hat down in hewildeiinent, confused hy his father's un-
natural look and voice. Kver since thi^ memorahle dis-
cussion on the do(trini!.s there never had heen a moment's
miHuniU;rstandin^' hetween them. True, the hoy had been
careful to <,Mve no cause for trouhle. Now, for tht; liisl
time since tln^i, he had decided to aci wiliiout haviiii;
consulted his ])aients, and had made up his mind, conic
what would, to stand hy the decision thus made.

" 1 am sorry, fath(;r," he at last hej^an; "I'm sorry, lather,
hut I'll he hack ii^'ain hefore you'll know I've heen away,
and then— just think of it, I'll "

"William Fen wick !"

The youth staited. He had never heen so addressed in
all his life ; no, not even in the matter of the mysteries,
and he started now not more at the stran^'eness of the
name then at the stran^feness of the voice which had spoken
it.

"William Fenwick, you're named after a man of God,
and I have tried to do what was ri^dit by you. Yoii
grieved my heart years ago, Ijut I never thought you
would again try to bring trouble on your mother and nic.
William Fenwick, you are not to leave home. 1 havi
spoken ! "

He turned solemnly, and walked down stairs beforu
the young man could well realize what had taken place.
Could this be true, or was it merely a dream I Ay, sine
enough, it might be a dream ; and he rubbed his eye.-^
and pinched his arms almost half convinced he was yet
asleep.

IVil/iam ami Mary,

" I'm nwakf, suit enough, tliiit's dear. It's Imnl on Ijitlu'r
t(i have nie go. Ot'coiirse it is, lnif — I'll go all the Hanu',
N'li I wont, though : not with latlur ngainst it. I couhl
iH'Vcr do that ; it would kill nic to do that. What if he
would die when I'm away folks dir. What! — I never
tlioiight of it before. What if I die mystdf ! He kilh-d
in hattle. Strange I nt^ver thought nf this hcfore. I>ut
I'll— let me see — ye.^, Ill go all the same !"

He heard his motht^r's voice ealling him at the foot of the
stairs, and he went down to hreakfast. It was ii dull ami
dreary meal. William felt as if he liad l»een guilty <»f sonu;
fearful crime for which it was his duty to atone at once.
Tlu' parents were busy with their own thoughts. A glance
at his mother's agonized face made William UMue than once
rcsolvi! to give in and heg forgiveness tluMi and there.
Then another thought (tf Louishui'g, and he would not do
it. Xo, not he ; he wouldn't do it.

The dreary meal was over, and the father taking down
the I'ible from its place on the mantel, began the never-
(iiaitted morning's devotions. William scanned the face
with i[uick furtive glances, to see if there was any relent-
ing now. How handsome his father looked, he thought.
He was yet in the full vigor of a strong, muscular nian-
lioud. The lines on his high pale forehead smoothed
away and out as he lead. The lace gi'adually softened as
the solemn but cheering words touched his heart: "I
have been young and now am old ; yet have 1 not seen
the righteous forsaken, iu)r his seed begging bread!"
What a i)rayer folliAved. The wrestling of a mighty man
with his God. When it was over the father and son faced
each other.

" Father ! "

"William !"

And the tears would come, do what he wouhl, into the

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deacon's eyes. He turned away to liide his eiuotioii.
But it war* enough. William knew that he was i'oririveii,
and that the rest would he easy.

"Oh, inlidel ! great is thy faith," cries some one in nttei
amazement at the credulity of him who denying the super-
natural hecause, forsooth, it is contrary to his reason, yet
hy his very unhelief is forced hack to helieve the nuist
ahsurdly gr<jtesque of impossibilities: "Oh, intidel ! great
is tliy faith." Head over to this youth, with the hot blood
surging through his l>rain, with the magnetic current
tingling along every nerve — read over to him now, will you
not, a chapter from some pagan like yourself, andas«you
read it let it soothe him ! Read over to this stern father,
will you not, some precious morsel from the Koran, (n
some ex([uisite tid-bit from the Shastas, and as you read
mark how it melts his heart and draws him with the cords
of love towards his boy ! Thou focd : thou knowest thou
hal^t nothing that will touch the father or will soothe tlie
boy. Great indeed is thy faith !

CHAPTER XIV.

A MILITANT MINISTER.

A PLEASANT-SPOKEN man was the Rev. Donald McDonald,
pastor of the chuich in the village of Harmony, twelve
miles from Woodside. As his name indicates, he was a
descendant of Old Scotia, his father having come out from
Scotland and settled in the neighboring colony when
Donald was but a child. Tlie father was an honest, God-
fearing man, like most of his countrymen. If narrow in
bis^creed, he had at least that rare (juality known in our

fidini

U^llliam and Mary,

(lay as the coura<^e of conviction. To him tliere was but
out' solid suhstratuni of truth outside the Jiiljle — the
Westminster Catechism. That all things happened accord-
ing to the unalterably eternal decrees as immutable as the
hiWH oi the Medea and the Persians, was not so much an
article of his faith as it was faith crystallized. Whatever
opinion he might have secretly entertained as to the
prul»able relation borne by his neighbors to the decrees or
the decrees to his neighbors, he never had the shadow of
a doubt on his mind as to the relation existing between
the decrees and himself, including, of course, his family.
Unlike our good friend Deacon Farley, he never would
let go of the promise — " To you and to your children." Of
untiinching integrity, beneath the harsh exterior beat a
heart that was intensely hunum. Its humanity manifested
itself pre-eminently in his tender love for the little
Donald. Little Donald was to be educated for the Church.
The lad had, from a child, been remarkable for smartness.
He was indeed a smart boy, and would have carried ofl'
the })ahn in this particular in days when the smart boy is
not such a rarity. This smartness, it was true, in the
o])inion of the neighbors should have rather been called
impudence ; but then, let it be known, those neighbors
were generally jealous-minded fathers and mothers who
had no smart boys themselves. There were even whispers
that Donald would never hesitate to improve on a story
it' thereby he could gain a point ; but this again only arose
from envy, as somehow or other the lad always managed
to come out ail right in the end. His comrades, whoever
they happened to be, came out all wrong, carrying the
shame and disgrace with whatever meekness they could
muster as evil-doers. Donald always appeared on such
occasions as a very badly-used boy, whose innocent, con-
tidiiig nature had been cruelly taken advantage of by those

William and Mary.

who hud 110 innocent, conluliii<,' natures. Whatever
, scepticisiii miglit obtain ainonj^f tlie neighbors on tliis
head, witii the father and iiiotlier it was pprt of the
fumily creed, and the principal part of it at that, that
DunaUl coiihl (h) no wrong. Little Donald was a child ot
grace, bless you, included in the covenant from all
eternity. Hence little Donald was always right ! 111-
ininded people there were who would whisper that
the lad was smart enough always to appear right before
his parents, while he was at no particular pains to appear
so before the parents of other children ; but then, ill-
minded people there have always been since the world
began, and, for that matter, always will be. When little
Donald was old enough he was sent off by the proud
father to college to be educated for the Church, not how-
ever without sundry shakings of heads and such-like
manifestations of ill-inindedness on the part of his old
acrpiaintances and neighbors. If rumors occasionally
found their way back to his home that Donald was still
the object of heartless conspiracies on the part of his
fellow-students, such rumors never found their wav to the
loving father, who firmly believed that his son Avas a
" chosen vessel " after the order of Saul of Tarsus. When
the boy developed into the youth and the youth looked
hard upon the man, the only change in his general deport-
ment exhibited to his friends, as he returned from time
to time to spend his vacation among them, was that his
old misfortune still clung to him, dogged his footsteps, in
fact, with relentless persecutions. Other youths and young
men appeared inspired by some spirit foul and fell to
deceive poor Donald in one way or another on every pos-
sible occasion, so as to impose upon his innocence. Before
the young collegian got through his course he had become
as smooth and oily-tongued a youth as could delight the

William and Mary

huait of any I'oiul parent. The evil-(IUj)ose(l would, of
course, vvliiaper anion},' tlieniselves that all this was put
.)ii— feij^neil lor a purpose — but t<» the simple-minded
StMjtcliTuan it was only the logical outcome of " effectual
callinj^ and etticacious gi'uce." Donald had been at last
duly installed pastor of the church in Harmony, from
which he had received "a regular gospel call," to use his
proud lather's phraseology, shortly after the cjmpletion of
his studies. The parents soon after peacefully departed,
fiiu! following the other closely into the silent land,
having no further desire to live when they beheld in the
ordination of their son the full fruition of their earthly
hopes.

The Rev. D"nald McDonald was, it has been said, a
])lc'asant-spoken man. As a preacher, however, his old
trouble followed him. Malicious souls there were who
would say that the same evil genius that had haunted
him in school and pursued him in college, dogged
liitn even into the pulpit, going so far as to audaciously
sul)stitute other men's sermons for those the reverend
dominie had hiboriously worked out for himself in his
study. But there were croakers in all ages of the
world, even in apostolic times, and fault-finders every.
wliere, even in the Church ! The rev. Donald took
no note of these malicious reports when he heard them,
but went on the even tenor of his way, preaching what
came to hand with holy unction, asking no questions "for
conscience' sake," as became a minister. But malice did
not stop even here^ Those same evil-disposed maligners
went so far as boldly to whisper that the poor of the parish
were not nearly so often visited by the pastor as the better-
to-do class. But, here again, what was this but manifesta-
tions of the " natural man ?"

The rev. Donald, it was also said, prided himself on his

IVilliam a J id Mary.

kiu)wle(l,i,'(! of men ; and how liu niauipuliited tlie littli;
flock in the iimtter of tlie tleeco was a .sourpe of never-
failing murrinient when he unljonded liis mi^'hty intellect
in the bosom of a few choice spirits like himself. But all
this, of course, was lies. When the expedition aj^ainst
Louisbur^- was finally decided upon, the rev. Donald
naturally saw here (so they said) ^'olden fields of prospec-
tive advantage to himself, financial and otherwise. As to
the great principle involved he knew little, cared less.
As to the advancement of his own selfish ends he cared
considerably. He saw clearly enough the possibilities of
the occasion, so far at least as he himself was personally
concerned. Tlie prospect of securing an army chaplaincy
was something not to be lost sight of. Now, the rev.
Donald added to his other excellent (jualities that of
arrant coward. The whole tenor of his life, from that of
the innocent village boy, always the victim of heartless
conspiracy at the hands of his playmates, down to these
years of his i)astorate over the village church, was charac-
terized by cowardice. He would rebuke sin in the poor
with stern and patriarchal severity. He would thunder
denunciations against the errors of Rome; but it was quite
another affair when the sinner happened to be the best
paying supporter in the parish ; it was quite another
matter when error lay a little nearer home than in the
" seven-hilled city " on the Tiber. But, coward as he was,
he was a still greater hypocrite —a greater self-seeker ; so
that, early in the movement against Louisburg, he saw his
opportunity and eagerly emhraced it. His application for
the chaplaincy was successful ; and, forthwith, the rev.
Donald began to develop the most wonderful martini
qualities, to the great astonishment of sceptical young
people generally who remembered several instances uf
poltroonery in which his reverence had played no insigni-
ficant part.

IViliiam and JMcwy.

Aiiionj^' his otlior lutble virtiioa, it wms mooted tliat the
rev. Donald, in the piiviu-y of his own liiniily, Wiia the
reverse of what lie was in tlie privacy of other families.
So much was this the subject of comni)!! re]>ort that
when on a certain .Sal»l)ath he announced as his t(!xt,
"Husl)ands, love your wives," a hroad ^'rin was stteii on
tlie faces of the sceptical few, while an unmistakable
ripjile passed over the con,<,'regation. It was no secret
that Mrs. McDonald had a sorry time of it with her lord
and master. Not that ha had ever been known to have
been guilty of any overt act of cruelty. He was t(jo great
a iiypocrite for that ; but in all the arts of studied con-
tempt and neglect he was an adept. His choicest jows
and holiest smiles were not for the meek-eyed, half-
fiightened-looking little woman who cared for the chilr
dren and the house while the majestic Donald with
reverend tread and solemn air perambulated the streets.
Those were reserved to be dispensed with beco"iing
lavishness on the wives and daughters of his more
wealthy parishioners, upon whom he so frequently
called in the conscientious discharge of his pastoral duties.
So heavily lay upon the dear man's heart the responsi-
bility which rested upon him to see after the spiritual
welfare of this particular class of his ilock, that if the
weather at all permitted, the pompous form of the min-
ister might be seen every morning emerging from the door
of the parsonage, for a formal progress down the street. It
was, therefore, with more than his wonted dignity, it may
easily be imagined, he sallied forth the morning after he
had received the satisfactory assurance that his applica-
tion for the much-coveted chaplaincy had been favorably
considered at headquarters. He had proceeded but a few
rods from his dwelling (passing in oblivious indifference a
poor settler from over the hills who was a regular attend-

William atid Alary.

Milt at (liui'ch Imt iiiiiil)k! to coiitrilmte imicli to the
stipend) wlicn lie .saw approacliiii;^' his hosom I'liend,
because a wealthy I'ainier ami senior deacon of the church.

" (lood morning', reverend sir! J)o we find you in
liealth this inoriiin<,', sir T'

" My health, deacon, has never been better, for which
we <;ratefully acknowled^'e tlie goodness of One who sees
the sparrows when they fall ! How is your own healtli,
deacon, and that of your most aiiiia1)le family /"

"Toleral>ly fair, sir; tolerably fair; thank you kindly,
sir, for asking. Is Mrs. McDonald and the children well I"

"Yes, well, thank you— ahem ! Have you, by the way,
deacon, may 1 ask -have you heard anything special from
the seat of war \ Ahem, that is to say, is our contingent
yet made up 1"

" I have heard, sir, that only a few more are needed,
and that onr boys may be ordered off at any moment !"

"Just so I I suppose that you are aware, deacon, that
in the good providence of the Disposer of events, it has
seemed unto Him meet and proper that my humble
application should have been most favorably received — in
a word, granted { You will therefore be aware, as a
conseciueiice, that in all human probability I will proceed
with our troops to battle against the idolatrous Scarlet
Lady of Rome ?"

" I am pleased and sorry, reverend sir, to hear you say
so. But how we are going to get on without you I can'
not see. The house of the Lord will be as in the olden
time, I fear, deserted !"

" Deacon," interrupted the minister ; " deacon, it will
be your solemn duty during my absence — in other words,
during the absence of your unworthy servant, who goes up
to the help of the Lord against the mighty — it will be
your solemn duty, as senior deacon, to see to it that regu-

William and Mary.

liir diets of vvoislii}) are lieM. The public roadiiii,' of the
Woril iiiid prayer iiiUHt not l)e nej^lccti'd on the Sahbatli
(lay. I have moreover received a kindly answer from my
t'clldw-watchmaii on Zion's walls stationed at Woodside.
lie jirdmises to dis])ense the ordinances as occasion may
re(|uire. "

" I'll do my best, sir, you be sure ; but my best is
])eil'ect weakness !"

"Of course, of course ; * no confidence in the flesh,' as
PiUil has it ; that is (piite proper, deacon, (piite proper !
But, to change the subject slightly, I was on my way to
the smith's ; did you notice if he was in the forge /"

"He was; he's busy at work there now, for I had a
word with him jis I came along !"

■ " Deacon, I am going to have an axe nuide to carry
with me to Louisburg to hew down the images of Home
when we enter the idolatrous city," and, with the air of a
man upon whose shoulders rested the whole weight and
responsibility of the campaign, our militant minister
strode mojestically towards the forge, whence the sharp
blows on the anvil soon smote upon his ear.

CHAPTER XV.

MY MARY !

" Who loves, raves ! " shrieks from deep depths the most
cynical of poets, " Who loves, raves, 'tis youth's frenzy ! "
Ota men he was the least fitted to speak or sing ot ^ove.
Who loves not^ "raves." What is life but one iong
tragedy of which the little-winged god is hero ] Love is
coeval with life. The tiny infant in its cosy crib lifts up
its chubby hands in love towards its mother's face. The

lOO

Williaui and Mary.

little I'tiiry wlio cliiiilis iiiMtn your knee, winding' lier tiniis
urouiid your neck, liiii)tisin<,' with dewy lips your clieek, is
born to love iind lives by lnve. The birds sin^' to e;uli
other in orisons of love in the trees. The very llowers iit
your ieet Idush in love iit you as ynu pass The " ^'urisli
sun '■ itself rejoices in the majesty of its love as it kisses
our World with its life-givinj,' breath. The moon's soft
beams l)Ut speak of love. The stars twinkle their love
from afar — they hail each other in love across the trackle.ss
sky. The soft breezes of the summer eveninj,' call us forth
to love ! What a horrible charnel-house, full of dead
men's l)one8 would be our world, were it not for love !
*' Who loves raves ! ' Then all rave — for all hjve !

What mysteries deep are hidden in the heart of yundiT
blushing girl, in silent reverie with downcast eye, walkiii^,'
along the beaten path from the village to her humhle
home on the hill. Scarce sixteen summers have pas.scnl
over her young life, and so lightly have they touched her
as they lied, that she is yet as a child. Away up here anioiij,'
the hills she has breathed the pure air of heaven — drunk
freely from nature's pure fountain and read with brightening
eye its page. The outside world is to liei-a Ijlank this even-
ing ; for there is but one world for her now, and she lives
in it — the world of love. A happy joyous little thing has
she been of late till within a week or so ; but a shadow
has come down like an omen of evil on her heart, and as
she walks along the path in pensive mood, she shudders
as she thinks of it. " Oh, it cannot be — it must not be-
I only dreamt it ! "

" My Mary !" *

William Farley had been following for some distance,
having been down in the village as he always was those
evenings, and had seen her puss. He had crept up
stealthily behind her as she walked slowly towards

known

/r////

a))i am

i Mi

(fry.

lOI

homo, iin<l liivl licanl Iut f»i;>'li. TFow lio lovt d liis ISTiiiy I
He had carried tlie little tdf in liis iinns many a time since
111' liad saved lier from drowning'. So many times, ind(!(<l,
had he cauj^ht her np and went teuriiiif across titdds and
thron^di woods and over streams in their numherless e\-
IH'ilitions and exphtrations that it was a h)n<^' time Ixfore
it occurred to liini that she was no ]un,L,'er a cliiM l)Ut
ahniist a woman, lint tlie revelation came at last. ()n(!
iiever-to-be-for<,'otten afternoon dnrin;.,' the last summer
the three young people had climbed, ii.s was their custitm, to
the summit of the hill overlooking the village. What a
i;lorious evening it was I They thought they had nevi-r
known tlu! like of it. The sun mms sinking in th(! west,
tinging the sky with an aureola of ctdoi'. The lleecy fres-
cning of clouds upon a titdd of blue was wrought out with
all the ex([uisite perfection of nature's fantastic hut artis-
tic hrush. The moon wa.s high in the heavens waiting
modestly for her turn to add beauty to the scene. The
village lay at their feet, nestling close to the hillside;.
Seated upon a rock, resting from the exertion of the ascent,
Mary's eyes alternated between sky and valley in M'onder-
ing admiration.

" How beautiful ! Look — look there, William ! " and
she raised her plump, white hand as she pointcid to the
^'eorgously-tinted clouds : " Did you ever see anything
like it? Isn't itbeautifuU"

"Yes, it is beautiful!"

His voice startled her. There was a strange trill in it
she had never heard before. She turned round to where
he had thrown himself carelessly on the grass a few yards
off. Harrv had wandered away somewhere over the brow
of the hill. Their eyes met.

"Yes, it is beautiful ; but I know somethirg more
beautiful still !"

I02

Wi/liaiN and Mary.

"Wlmt in the world can it be J" shi' iiHked Htill luokinj;
coyly fvt him.

" Yon rseir, Mary."

"()li,Williiim!"

"My Mary !"

The moon had ^,'ot its turn to shim;, and had slione
away till it had j^^ot ashamed (»!' itstdf at all it was seeing;
heiore the yonn^' coui)le parted that nij^ditat Abijah's (hjor.
It shone in, too, ni»on a sweet upturned lace at the little
window in Mary's chaml)er h)n^ after the parting ut tlic
door. It is shinni},' u])on them now as, after spending the
evening together, he lingers on the <loorstep.

"My Mary!"

He had never addressed her in any other way since he
had first used the sweet words that summer afterudon
upon the hill-top. What a charm there is in the name I
There is a deej) jjathos in it that thrills the heart. We
never hear it hut we think of .Jesus in the home of Martha
and her sister ; our thoughts fly away to the resurrection
morn. The endearing salutation and its adoring reply is
in our ears :

"Mary!"

"Rabboni!"

They stood <jn the doorstep. "My Mary I Don't take
it so much to heart ! I will be liack again before ymi
know I am away ! "

"Oh, William, how can I ever live without you?"

"See you," he replied with animation. "See you;
mother and you can be together often. You must cond'ort
her. She feels so cast-down about my going. So does
father. He was a long time before he could see the path
of duty. He sees it now, and submits— foreordained Uv'Wy
all eternity, or something after that fashion, you know,"
— and the young man looked roguishly down at the little

W'llliiVii ivid Mary.

103

■^iil ii( his Hide. They liail stood here too Vwv^ already.
Tlie Jii^'lit air was cl'illinn. Tlit- moon vt-ilcd its sniiliiif^
face l)»'liiiid a |>assiiij,' cloud as the youth ccastMl sjn-akiiij,'.
Thi' stars tell no tah.-s, au<l William was oil" and away bc-
I'ure the cloudlet was j^'one.

When Mary re-entered the house and passed out to the
kitchen, sh(! t'oujul her father and brother in deep <'onsulta-
tinii. Soniethin;^' in tlu-ir manner tohl her lliat a new
troulile was C()min<» — what, she daicd not think, she eould
not think.

"Mary, nie cdiild," said the father, "conui heer a bit, an'
sit deown ; Harry an' nu; hev ben atalkin' on it over, an'
we both 'low it must ])e dun I''

Trembling with h-elings of mingled fear and hope the
yoiiug girl sank into a chair, unconsciously throwing aside
her shawl.

"Mary, me child," sj)oke the father as she sat down,
'' it'll be ez great a trial t' me ez t' yew, but t' let William
„'o alone, arter what's happened, wouldn't dew. Hairy's
j,'oiu' tew I"

"Oh, father! Hal— Itoth to leave me I Ood i)ity and
lielpme!"and giving way to a wild, passionate burst of
l^'rief, she staggered upstairs to her room, throwing herself
upon the bed, crying as if her heart must break Harry
snl'tly followed and, creeping up close to the bedside, fell
upon his knees and l)egan gently t(j stroke the mass of
,L!nl(k'U curls that had fallen in disorder upon hershouhlers.
For a time he did not speak. Mary lay upon her face,
(piivering like a wounded bird.

"'My dearest little sister," at length he began, "don't
cry .so ! 1 did it for your sakt; alone. Father and 1 have
talked it all over several times, and M'e think it is the best
that can be done since that man— Oh, dear, I can't bear to
mention the name. But, darlinj.; Mary, you know how I

I04

William a) id Mary.

love yon, how we all love v<>u ! To let William go alone
now wonld be madness I"

" Oh, Hal, — I " bnt she broke into a wild sob.

" There now, ])et, don't. You must cheer up and I wil
look after William, and bring him back aji^ain to you I"

"Harry ! Oh, it is so hard. What shall I do V

"Don't, darlinff ; if you love me, don't. There now,
my little one ; do stop, and let us talk about it 1 "

"Oh, Hal, 1 would do anything for you I could ; but —
to think of lorang you both, 1 "

"But, dear, you don't lose us. Why do you say, lose
us ] We will be Vjack before the summer is over, perhaps
in a few we(;ks."

"But, Hal, what — if — you — should — be— killed \ What
— if — William ," she shuddered in convulsive sobs.

" What if 1 should get killed I What if William should
be killed ! What, indeed ?" Why, he had never thouulil
of this. " What if I should be Idlled ?" Getting killed
had never entered into his calculations. It was a revela-
tion to him even to think of it, He knew little about the
world. He knew nothing of what was involved in the
life of a soldier. He had heard that soldiers sometimes
were killed, that was all. " What if I should be killed.
What if I should never see little Mary again T' The
thought staggered him. He rose from his knees and
crossed to the window. He gazed out over the fields
where large patches of snow yet remained sparkling in the
moonlight. It was almost as clear as dav. Down there,
right over the hillside before him, was the brook where
Mary had fallen when a child, and where they had po
often played afterwards with William in the cool sunnner
evenings. Here and there he could catch glimpses of the
dark water as it leaped and danced through openings in its
icy fetters. Yonder was the old bridge on which they had

William and Alary.

105

so otti'H stood and looked down at the shy trout that used
t(t dodge in and out under the h'gf, hiding from them.
]\I('nu)ry with busy fingers was weaving round liis lieart its
magic web. " What if I shouhl be killed, and never see
lier again!" The thought pierced him. "Be killed and
dii.', and be buried away from Mary !" He hived her so.
lie had never crossed her in anything. Her word was to
him law ; and he was going aw y from her — perchance to
1)6 killed. People got killed, soldiers especially. People
(liud, and deatli was so sad : a funeral, how gloomy. There
had been a funeral here, even from their own home. The
tender mother had been carried away, and he remembered
well the fearful pang, the desolation that had come down
oil them all, though he was but a child. " What if I
should be killed I" The wind shook the sash in his face
with a passing gust. A shudder ran through him, as the
Wdids of his heart seemed to be borne on the gale, as it
went tearing away adown over the hill and up toward
Wiliiam'shome, shrieking : "What if you sh(juld be killed
— wiiat if vo\i should be killed ! "

CHAPTER XVI.

THE WARNING.

Thk company to be raised in Woodside, and to which
(lur two young friends had connected themselves, very
soon had the reciuired number of men. So many stalwart
youths of the village and neighboring locality were long-
ing to seek "the bubble rejiutation at the cannon's
mouth," that it was no easy matter who should be chosen
and who should be left. First come, first served, ap-
peared to be the motto which' guided the gallant captain

io6

WilliaDi and Mary.

who was lionored with the command of the Woodside
vohinteers. No better selection could have been made ;
for in the opinion of all, no braver man than Captain
Allen ever buckled on a sword. A widowei", only a little
past tliirty years of age, without children, and the owner
of the snuggest farm in all the country round about, lie
was looked upon with no end of envious eyes l>y the
fond mothers of Woodside whose daughters were of mur-
riagcable age. He had attended the minister's school as a
youth, and consequently was polished of speech and
rather well read, considtuing his surroundings. Of late
he had been lavishing his attentions rather indiscrimin-
ately among the rustic belles of his accpiaintances ; and so
impartially had he conducted himself in this particular,
that no one could make make out with any degree of cer-
tainty who was the favored one. He was a handsome
man in perfect health, and were it not for an undctin-
able expression about his mouth bordering on the .sin-
ister, he would have been irresistibly captivating. A
brave man though, brave as a lion. True, he had nover
seen service, and knew nothing of the art of war, but whiit
<if that ? With a heart as true as gold, said his contidinj^
men, woe to the big-bearded "monseer " with whom he
would cross swords. The captain had interposed serious
objections to Harry's enlisting on the score of youth, he
had said, but his objections gave way before the united
pleadings of the minister and the young women, who knew
the lad went for his sister's sake.

The company met daily for drill as they waited in
hourly expectation for the order to join their comrades in
the long talked-of march to the sea. The winter had
passed away rapidly and the first breath of approaching
spring was in the air. The men had been so busy with
their drill that they had tJiken no note of the flight of

IViliiiifn and Mary.

107

tiiiiu. It is true, Ciiptuiii Allen and liis otlicers knew no

more of militjiry matters than the privates ; but tliey all

iii;i(k! up in ardor and enthusiasm what they lacked \\\

skill. The excitement grew as the days tied on with

liglituing speed and neared the time when the hrave

follows nnist go. The topic of ccmversation on every lip

was the war. Men, women and children vied with each

other as to what they could do for the comfort of the,

c(>iii]>any. The steady tramp, as they marched through

the ((uiet streets of the village, was the signal for a gen-

Liiil exodus of the popidation towards the open Held in

the rear of the Meeting-house, which had ])een trans-

fdnned into a drill ground. It was a pretty sight. No

giiy uniforms as yet added attraction to the mm, the

brave lads wearing their ordinary garments on .iuch occa-

sidus ; but no need had they for the gaudy ornamentation

(if military toggery to add to the wondering admiration of

their friends. The excitement of the last few days was at

last 1)rought toaclinuix one tine afternoon as Capt. Allen,

having exhausted his military knowledge man<euvring his

men, called out in stentorian tones —

"Eyes front ! Attention !"

Pausing, as if to gather his thoughrs, and looking
jiroudly conscious of his position, he at length proceeded
to address the men, informing them of what, like a true
soldier, he had all through the day kept to himself, viz. ,
that he had that morning received a dispatch from Col.
Mooi-e, commanding him to repair as soon as possible
with his men to Harmony, in order to join the troops
who were to rendezvous at that village preparatory to
their march for the sea-board. He knew it was not
necessary to give them earlier notice, for he was well
aware that they were all ready, and had been ready for
weeks. Addressing a few words to the crowd of civilians

io8

Willia7Ji and Mary.

vvlio cluHterud in groups around him, lie thanked them (ii
])elialf of his company for their jtast kindness, conehuliiig
by asking for tlieir prayers for the success of tlie exi)edition,
He hoped, lie said, to dismiss his men to tlieir peaceful
occupations in this very same field when victorious they
returned from the war. Then the ranks hroke silently
— tlieir feelings were too intense for a cheer — to rally
again in the morning at daybreak prepared for the
march.

"God bless yew, me boy I" sobbed his mother, as
William dashed towards the spot where she was standiiii;
along with Mary and her father, listening to the cheering
words of their pastor. Leaning on hisstatt", Mr. Fen wick
had been eagerly watching the movements of the nieii
with more than usual interest, for tlie captain had
revealed to him the contents of the coionel's letter.

" (lod bless nie boy I"

AVilliaiu could not reply. He tried to speak, but the
sound of his voice was so harsh and unnatural that lu'
stoi)ped.

Mary clung to her father, while her dearest Hal,
])oundiiig towards them, began unconsciously stroking, as
was his way, the long golden curls through which he had
so often run his fingers as a boy. A minute or two of
supreme silence and sobs, then the sound of a cheery
voice :

"Come, my children, come ! Let us to our homes.
Time is precious, and there is much to be done beftut
morning," and, so speaking, the aged ndnister moved
on towards the street, followed solemnly by the
others. The field had already been deserted by all save
themselves. It may have been an accident. Perhaps it
was not ; but as they approached the gateway by which
they were to gain the street, Mary, who was ahead vvitli

Williaui and Mary.

109

luT father Jind Mr. Fenwick, lialtcd to let tlu-iii juihs
thrniij^'li. Tlie niovuinent brcuitjlit Williiuii Ly licr sido.
Hi! i(ras]>(j(l her liaiul, and, ])c'iidinif low, whispered the
old words -'' JNly Mary I'" She made no reH]»onse, and
they walked on together, hand in luunl, out Mito the
street and on aftei- the others. Nriither spoke. W ilh'ani
kiu'W that he dared not say more than he had oi- he
would bi'eak down. His young heai't was fidl io o^•er-
tldwing. A word might unman him, an<l his love .snd
jdide forhade liim doing anything that might add t(j the
j,n'iof of liis darling.

Ila\e you ever thought, gentle reader, have you ever
tlw night of the mystery of a great trial ? The little eares
and Wfjrries of life tantalize us at times almost beyond
endurance. Wo give way to petuhint complainings and
useless repinings. Trifles transient as the nK»rning cloud,
or as the early dew, worry us. But when there comes
the heavy hand, the hand invisible, that pierces the
heart with the cold iron of a mighty sorrow, we are dundi.
Niituro has no voice for the soul's deep agony ; we are
dumb. Perchance it is the inscrutaT)le wisdoni of Tlim
who doeth all things well that permits the feelings to
bul)l)le, ferment and seethe over what after all may be
liut imaginary wrongs, thereby exhausting the outlet of
emoticm, so that when the hour of darkness comes down
upon us we can do naught but bow submissively and are
dumb. In very shame we feel the exhibition of any-
thing similar to wlmt was evoked by trifles w.uld now
be sacrilege, and we are dumb. The heart bleeds itself
away in silence, giving no sound.

Arriving at the deacon's the two families enter, ac-
conij)anied by their dearest earthly friend, Mr. Fenwick.

"My children," he immediately began as they to(dv
their seats; " mj' children, there are others to whom I

I lO

WUHlhii and Alary.

luu.st spujik bofore tlio uiorning brouks ; but I know that
you uuod 1110 most now. Deacon Farley, this is the hand
of God I Y(jur son goes forth in a rigliteous cause. Siih-
niit t(j Him wlio overruletli all tilings for good. "

"His will bo done, sir; His will bo d(jne," exclaiiia-d
the deacon m a broken voice. "I have coine to look
ui>on it as of His ordering !"

The young couple were sitting side by side. Rising
and advancing to where they sat, the aged minister placetl
a hand upon the head of each, saying as he did so, with a
voice full of tears: "The Lord bless you, my children !
May He make His face to shine upon you. May He be
to you both a comfort when you are separated the one
from the other. William, my brave boy, put your tni.st
in One who is the God of battles, One who holds the
winds in His fist and the waves iu the hollow of His
hand. When you return may it be in strength ami
triumph. Now let us lift our hearts to Him in prayer I"'

The company rose to their feet in reverence before
their Maker, while the holy man poured out his soul in
their behalf. It was such a prayer as only such a miin
Could make — tender, reverent, overflowing with love.
There was not a dry eye in the room. When all wus
over it was felt that the tension was gone, and that they
now could talk as before. A few more words of cheer, ii
parting benediction, and the old pastor was away, gone
to re])eat in many a home that night the same holy ottices
of comfort and consolation — pouring upon the trouliled
waters of other souls "the oil of joy for mourning."

"Father," and William advanced to his side. "Father.
I know this is hard for you all. I do know now that 1
did wrong to take this step without first consulting you ;
but I know that you have forgiven me long ago, and I
need not ask your forgiveness again."

WilliiDii and Mary.

I I t

"Till' t,'tt(»(l Lord he with you, my hul : it is all f»»r the
hest all for the hest. It is His (l<»in<^H. I diire not imir-
iiiiir at what He does. 1 have meditated ui»ou it lon»| ami
inayirfully, and liave found the path of duty. It '3 the
will of (Jod — foreordiined from all eternity."

William wasn't so sure of that, but he wished from his
heart it was. Harry had moved close to his sister, and
was gently stroking her hair.

" I'll look after him, darling, for his oAvn sake, but
.ilxive all for yours," he whispered, "I'll never leave
him. Trust me, Mary."

The s.id eyes brightened for a moment, then the flood-
gates were ojiened again.

"Don't, Mary, don't for his sake and f(jr mine,"
pleaded her brother ; " there."

With a desperate eflVjrt she composed herself, as Mrs-
Farley at last, mustering strength for the occasion, with
all her native energy exclaimed :

"Come, let's t' work, there's much t' be done, an' its
growin' dark. Come, Mary, with me, we must get sup-
per an' then be up an' be doin'."

Glad of any excuse to get away, Mary followed out into
the back kitchen.

"Harry, w^e'd better be agoin' neow," said Abijah,
when the women had left.

"Not without supper," exclaimed the deacon, "not
without supper. I'll not hear to it."

"Deekin, we must be agoin', neow. Come, Harry."

Farley knew his eccentric neighbor too well to argue
the point further, nor did he feel like it, so with as cheer-
ful a "good night" as he could muster, he let the father
and son go home. When Mrs. Farley came in to spread
the table she was not much surprised at finding the two
missing ; it was just like what Abijah might be expected

1 12

Mill lam and Mary

to do iiiKler tho tircuinafcnuces. Tt was ii dull iiu'.d, dn
what thuy co\dd to hri^flitcsii it. Muiy H.-it with dowiicuHt
oycs inakin<4 a j»rott!iico of (!atiii<,', whiUi William, after
tryitiii; in vain lo \w. ciilin and Hpoak naturally, finally
reliUKsed into silence. The father and mother said no-
tliing -each fearin}^ to speak. 'I'he simi>le repast over,
Mary ])repared to depart, while William, taking down his
hat from its peg, stcjod ready to accompany her.

"I'll be back, mother, shortly," he remarked, almost
like himself again, as she follt»wed them to the door.

Mary had stepped outside and William yet held the
latch with his hand. The mother whis})ered in his ear:

" Cheer her up a bit, dear ; she's nigh broken-hearted,
poor thing."

The door closed and the two were alone in the night.

"My Mary!"

"Oh, William, William!"

A long, endearing embrace and they went (m.

"My Mary: we will be back in a m<mth, })erhaps less,
and then and then, — we will be together for life."

"William, 1 feel so strange. I know something is go-
ing to happen — what, I dare not think."

" Don't, dearest one ! You must not talk so ; nothing
is going to happen. I'll "

"William!" She interrupted him with such sudden-
ness, and with so unearthly a voice, that both stood still
in the darkness trying to gaze into the other's face. Tlio
sky was over cast and the wind howled mournfully around
them.

" William !" she spoke after a moment, " I have some-
thing to tell you ! r)li, William !" and she clung hysteri-
cally to him, casting wild glances into the night, "Diiln't
you hear something ?"

' '(My — my Mary ! Nonsense, the wind down by the
brook in the trees — nothing else in the world !"

]\U/{a})} ami AArry

I I

" Xol roino oil. let us walk fastt-r. (\>iiu' (|uiek,
will you i' Till iifraiil ! ( ili. tlcar, what shall 1 do 1" Thoy
walked on hiiskly a ft-w rods, neither speak inic. it was
imt just the kind of partini^ Wi'Mani had i'\|i»t;tc(l, not the
kind h(! would wish had hi* the ehoosintj; of it. Soinethinj^
in the l;'ii'h conduct was so inexplicahlc. What could it
lilt an ^ Was her mind Lciving away:* and a [tan^C shot
tliroiii^jh him as he felt he was responsible for it all. Thuy
siHiii reached her hoiiK!. There was no lo riui^ under
the ltet?ch-tree or at the door tliis time. Tliey weni. in.
Tlify found the father and son busy at work makiiij^
|trL'parati«»ns for the morrow. Mary ])assed them without a
word into thc! inner room, her lover deliberately following.

" \\ illiiun I" as soon as they were seated ; " NN'illiam,
I have sonu;thing to tell you. You must promise mo,
though, not to ask ((uestit»ns. Will you, William ; will
you promise mo?" and she throw herself on her knees
lieside him and grasped his hands in hers. Drawing the
weeping girl tenderly towards him, and not knowing
wliat to say or how to act, amazed at the strangeness of
her tone and action, he managed at last to reply : " J will
promise you anything under the sun, my Mary ! I'll do
whatever you ask !"

"There is some one going that — " ajieavy gust of wind
swe[)t up froni the meadow, shaking the windows with a
rattling sound. "What's that? Didn't you hear some
tiiie at the window ?" and she struggled from his arms and
made for the kitchen.

"Come back, darling — my Mary, come l)ack ! Come
here, dear ; you are so frightened to-night. It was but
the wind. Come, dearest," and he drew her f(mdly
towards him.

"It sounded like some one tiying to raise the sash.
You're sure it was the wind f

William and Mary.

" Vt^s, Huri!, (larlinj^ ; nothing but the wind. Now tell
me what you were going to Hay."

She Iooki;<l aroinid at tlie windows with nervous
ghuiciis, and tlien, drawing his head down c;h»He towardH
her, whi.spered in liis ear.

" My Mary ! 1 haven't un enemy in tlie world. Who
can "

"Your promise, William; your promise. No (lues-
tions. 1 warn you, 1 dare not say more, there is some
one going that means you harm— wmn.s ynu harm !"

CHAPTER XVII.

THE DEPARTURE.

Theue was little sleep in Woodside that night. In every
cottage window gleamed the light through the darkness.
Nimble fingers were busy putting the finishing touches to
some labor of love. Longing eyes looked into longiiif;
eyes. Hearts knit together by the endearing bands of
long years of wedded life, throbbed at the prospect of a
separation which jnight be forever. Young, jubilant
lads and lassies even were subdued beneath the deep
solemnity of the hour. A night that in after vears would
be spoken of in low tones and trembling whispers was
upon them, and was fast ebbing into day.

The home of the Parleys was one ot supreme sadness.
Alone by themselves, after the departure of the young
folks, the father and mother gave vent to an uncon-
trollable outburst of grief. They had borne up for the
sake of their loved ones ; now that they were gone, both
gave way to their feelings.

William ami Mary,

115

'•oil, it's liiird ; it's so liaitl t»nv jiiiit with hiiu, ho liuid,"
!iii<l the; motlier solibtMl in 11 j)uroxy8m of ^riel, us nhe
8\vav('<l to jin<l IVo in her weat.

The t'iitlier answered not. With l)owe(l head, his urni.s
resting' njton the back (jf a chair, the tears lell like rain-
drops. Strange sij^ht ! Tlie .strong,', stern man was bowed
at hist, " tt reed sljaken in the wind." Their home liad
been so happy till now. The little dillicnlty abont the
iloctrines, what was it ? The deacon was ashamed to think
of it now. No sorrow had darkened their home. "The
shadow of death " had never entered here. Twenty years
or more of happiness had been theirs since, in the blush
of their youth, they commenced life toj^'ether. Their
hoy had been the light of their eyes, the joy of their
hearts. How could they ever live without him I Why
it was but as yesterday they had tossed him, the one to
the other, as the chubby little fellow screamed and laughed
with glee : and now — he is going away from them, perhaps
never to return. The thought pierced the deacon's heart
afresh, like a barbed arrow, till he shook convulsively in
his chair. Then the mother sobbed aloud, and they both
wept together like children. When he had shed tears
before, Farley could not remember. No, not even when
be had laid his dear father in the grave. The firm con-
viction that all this present trouble was ordered l)y God
from all eternity would not keep back the tears.

"Hush ! hush, he's acomin'.'"'

It was the mother who spoke. With true womanly
instinct, her quick ear detected the well-known footsteps
long before the father. " Hush ! let's not dishearten
him ! "

It was with a great effort that the strong man recovered
himself, and appeared comparatively calm as William
entered. It was evident to the three that each had now a

Ii6

]V{lliin)i (iN(/ .Uirrj'.

p.irt t(» act, iitid if was »M|iially fviMrnf that • adi n-ail tlit-
otlier'H th'»u;,'lits. William was C(»iii]k>himI to an imnatmal
<l(V4ifi«', t!veij i^uiiij,' so jar as to imhilLje in one ol" lii>
innocent jokes at tin* expense ol' liis nmtlier's vernacular.
It soundetl sa'lly enon^'h, it was true ; l»ut she ea^'erly
cau;,'lit at if, ami thus with cheery words the itreparalions
ft)r tho morrow went on. It had been decided th.;t the
company wen- to march lo Harmony, while their ha^^'aj^e
WUH to l)u conveyed thither hy teams kindly furnished hy
the nei^lihoriii}^ farmers. William looked, wifh a sndle
li^difin;^' up his handsome faiM', as his eye.s fell (»n the well-
jilled chest on the kifchen floor.

" Why, mother, you huv(! pies enoni^h hen- for a whole
re;-;iment. Who is ever f^'oiiej; to eat all flies*', 1 would
like to know /"

•* Doan't know 'bout that. I hain't put wan t<Mnenny
in 1" she rejdied with constrained and unnatural j^'aiety,
as emerj^'inf^ fiom her hedroom, with an ai'uil'ul of shirts,
stockiuj^'s and underclothes, she commenced vigorously
tuckiu!.,' them away in a corner of the chest.

William looked on in silcMit amusement. " ^^otlu'r,
why you must think I am going to he an otlicer hefore I
get batik. See what she's got liere, father," and he Htooi)ed
down and ])icked up his best Sunthiy coat. *' It is of no
use, mother dear, I'll never want it. We'll have uniforms,
you know, so the cajjtain tells us," and he insiste<l that the
coat shouldn't go.

"Well, well, dear, ef I'd aknown that, 1 wouldn't put it
in ; ef yew doant want tew take it, yew needn't. I'm not
a sojer, yew know," and she bent down low over the box,
and went on witli her packing. William hurriedly crossed
the room to the window, and pretended to !;" looking for
something. He was looking for something. He was
looking for power over himself ; for mastery over his

Ui/liiun and Mary,

»I7

feeling's, luf had liu not caught, .sij^lit of thu i^rcut teuiK
(Irnppiii},' oiiu l»y one IVoni his mother's fact' into tliu chest?
lie ntiirniil, liowever, in ii inonu-Jit, uti<l was ahoiit to
address soniu remark to the latlier wlien the nimhlin^' of
wheels iij) the liill can^lit liis ear.

"Here is the waj^'Ljon alieaily, nintln'j'. They are goinj,'
to start hm^' Itefdic us, y(»u know, the mads are so had.
There is snow in many phiees yet, tlicy tell me; so they
are K"'"K t,o ^'et a ^ooil start of us."

"William !"

"What. niMtherr'

"Look ! Ileer's me own lUlde ; yew'U read it, woan't
yew, William dear, every tlay /"

"Why should you ask nie, mother? To 1>e sure 1 will,
e/erv dav. You know it without askiu''."

"Yes, dear, 1 know'd it; hut I thort IM kinder like
t' heer yew say it all th' 8ame."

She ])ut the little hook fondly and carefully in a corner
(»f the che.st hy itself, and tlien the lid was closed, the key
turned, and she sat down uj)on the hox to recover her
hreath. The father, arou.sed hy Ins wife's reference to the
I'ihle, had f,'ot up to get the Catechism, hut, changing liis
mind, sat down again. They lieard the voices of the
teamsters at the door. The agonizing look on his mother's
face was too much for the lad : he bent low and kissed her,
while the tears flowed in torrents. It was all over in an
instant, for as the door opened he was able to turn com-
posedly toward the good-natured fellows that stood awk-
wardly on the threshold. They knew l)y the sad experi-
ence of the night that there were sore hearts here as well
as elsewhere. The big box was shouldered and carried
out. The creaking of the wheels down the hill towards
Abijah's told that they were gone.

"William, dear, woan't yew sleep a little bit. It'll

ii8

IVilliani and Mary.

make yew atroiig agen. That's niore'n yew be neow, I'm
af'eard."

" Oh, no, mother, it's no use in my trying. I couldn't
sleep if 1 tried ; but you could and should."

He stretched him.selt", however, on the old settee by tlic
tire, where he had so often laid pondering the " higli
larnin'.'' tSomehow or other, he knew not how it could
have come about, but Mary came in and got down on her
knees betiide him. How she got there he couldn't for the
life of him tell, for he hadn't heard the door open, or his
mother speak to her. But there she was, sure enough, and
after a while he came to think it the nu)st natural thing in
the world that she should be there. Where else should she
be but there 1 To be sure, where else ? And he was just
about to clasp her in his arms, when he heard an awful
whisper in his ear : " Some one is going that means you
harm, William ; that means yon harm ! " Springing up, he
found to his amazement that he had been asleep, and his
mother had just spoken to him.

"I hated t' dew it, William," she whispered softly, " but
th' sky's gettin' bright. I've jest ben tew th' door alookin',
an' I kuow'd yew wudlike t' be amovin'."

"Oh, mother, I never once thought of going to sleep.
I'm ashamed of myself, and this the last night too, and
you alone here by youself. Where's father ?"

"Heer he is acomin'," she replied as footsteps were
heard outside. " He's ben deown to'ards 'Bijah's seein' ef
eny wan's abeout."

The lather at this entered sayingthat he thought he could
hear the boys stirring in the village, but lie wasn't sure.

They sat down to breakfast, which the fond woman had
silently prepared on tiptoe, fearing to wake her sleeping
boy. Then the never-forgotten prayers. But as the words
were sticking in the deacon's throat, and he could find no

William and Mary.

119

voice for his thoughts, the sharp, piercing Hast of the
tninipet (the only one in the whole country round about,
and highly prized by the company in conse([uence) was
lieard wailing forth its pleading call on the morning
iiir. A few minutes later and the three were on
the road i'or the village. Ahijah's house was dark and
silent as they passed, showing they were already oft".
Arriving at the drill-ground the Farleys found nearly the
whole community present. The volunteers were standing
around singly or in groups, their loved ones clinging to
tlioni. It was now (juite clear, and William's quick eye
swL'iit from group to group for his Mary. He soon saw her
with her father and Harry, all by themselves.

"My Mary!" and regardless of curious eyes, he clasped
her in his arms.

"Let me go, for Heaven's sake!" she gasped, "for
Heaven's sake and your own ! "

He released her in amazement.

"Fall in! Fall in, boys !"

It was the sonorous voice of Capt. Allen.

Taking advantage of the general movement and con-
fusion which followed, William clasped her again in a last
farewell, hearing as he sprang away to his father and
mother : " Some one is going that means you harm, Wil-
liam — iliai means rjou harm!"

" The Lord bless me boy," sobbed his mother clinging
to him. The father held him in his arms. Then, as he
tore away and dashed into the ranks, with a smothered
cry the mother swayed backwards and fell senseless to the
ground.

"Right face — march !" and the steady tramp of the men
filing past aroused her in time to see her darling wave his
hand in a last adieu.

I20

William and Mary,

CHAPTER XVIII.

NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

The Rov. Donald McDonald had his hatchet duly made
to ofdcr at the forge to hew down the images of irlome in
the pajKd city of Louisburg."'' It had been sent home to
the jtarsonage by the hands of the smith's ap[)rentice, one
Ned Gilchrist, a great lund)ering good-natured fellow, but
full of no small share of native wit and drollery. Ned
was not going to the war. Not he. It was his opinion
that there was war enough at home every day of the
weeK, and tliat folks should stay where they were and
tight their own battles. Let soldiers whose trade it was
to kill and be killed look after Louisburg if it needed
looking after. It was his opinion that it didn't need
looking after at all. He had never been half a dozen
miles from his native village in all his life, and now when
an opportunity was attbrded the young men round about
to see the world, Ned presistently resolved to stick to
the anvil. He didn't "want'r see no world," he would
sententiously remark to the loungers in the forge as he
rested. for a moment from slinging the great sledge for
his master. Then after a few more terrific blows on the
red-hot iron that W(juld have killed an elephant, he would
add : "For ye see I'd a heap sooner live here abeout an'
never see nothiii' nor t' go ter Looisburg and see lots,
then be killed soon'cr 'n wink."

No one insinuated to the six-foot apprentice that he

* It is an historical faot that one of the chaplains of the New Engrlaiid
army carried a hatchet to Louisburg to cut down the iniaj,'es in the
churches.

iVilliain and Mary.

121

wiis afraid of tho Froiicli. Every one wlio know him
knew better than to say that. The party who wouhl say
it iiiiglit ^'ivu up hopes of Louisburg. Ned was a regul.ar
iitteiidaut on the ministrations of the Rev. Donahl Mc-
Donakl ; but it was no secret to any that tlie young son of
Vulcan was an out-and-out sceptic on the (juestion of tlio
uiiiiister's bravery. He couldn't see wduit business minis-
ters had running off to wars. He knew there was (mo
uiiuister (he would menticm no names) wlio shied off to.
the op])osite side of the street when his rheumatic old cow
sliiiok lier horns on the other side of the fence. Out of
respect to the cow? O certainly, what else but out of ro-
s[)oct to the cow. Not a doubt of it. Ned's scepticism
(lev('li)i)ed into (jpen ridicule in the matter of the hatchet.
"The ijee," he would say to the young men who droi)[)ed
in fre(]uently to talk of the war, "the ijee : a goin' to
ch<([> deown them thar imajess in Looisburg!" and ho
would pick up the little weapon with such a ludicrous
leer on his smoke-begrimed face, that j' general roar in-
variably folloAved. In the presence of his master, how-
ever, he had to be careful about expressing opinions as to
tile miuister's warlike propensities. " INIak it sharp,
luiister," he would say, Avith a wink at the boys, as over
and anon a hnishing touch would be given to the hatchet ;
"mak it sharp, mebbe them thar imajess will bo tuff
clioppin'. "

Wlicn the axe was finished, Ned, as has been said, car-
ried it to the parsonage.. His indignation almost bo-
tniyed itself before he got well out the hearing of tho
smith " See a heer, boys," he shouted, holding it up to
view as he strode along the street ; " W(je tor Babby-lun
neuw, shure 'nuff !" (quoting the text of the rev. Donald's
last sermon with a most ludicrcjus imitatit)n of the min-
ister's solenui tones. Then the ridiculous fellow would
9

122

William and Maiy.

make ferocious passes in the air at imaginary images,
while the boys shook with laughter. Arriving at the
parsonage he was met at the door by the redoubtable
dominie himself.

"Well, Ned, my man, got the hatchet, J see. Have
you made it sharp and of good metal to l)e used against
the mighty ?"

"It's th' best o' steel, sir, an' I'll risk th' aig bein'
turned by them thar imajess !"

" They are abominations, my son, abominations; and
they will be hewn down in the name of the Lord — they
will be brought low I"

"Jest so, sir ; jest so !" and, making his (tbeisance, the
ai)prentice abruptly walked off, leaving his reverence in
the midst of fresh denunciations of the Scarlet Lady.

"I dee-clar, it's jest tew bad ! I spose I must be wan
o' them thar we heer abeout so much on th' Sunday ;
given over tew a repperbate hart, or sum sech wurds. 1
dew b'lieve tho' he'd a heap sooner use th' ax on liis
poor wife. Yes, (^uicker'n he'll ever use it on them tliur
imajess," and Ned strode off home to his dinner, his
blackened face lighted up with the most comical of
smiles.

"Hal-lo-ah! What'n th' world's that?" as a blaring
noise came up the street from far down the road, ' ' Mure
sojers, shure's youre born ! Heer they be," and, forget-
ting his dinner, he ran off witji tremendous bounds and
warlike whoops after the crowds that came pouring out of
their lnjmes at the sovuid of the trumpet. It proved to
be Capt. Allen's company from Woodside. They were
quickly surrounded on all sides as they marched up the
street.

"I dew dee-clar !" muttered Ned to himself in disgust
as the men were halted in front of the parsonage and the

IVilliam and Mary.

\2X

minister appeared with the liatcliot conHpicuously paraded.
Sliaking hands with the captain and speaking a few
words in an undertone, t<t wliich the 'utHcer nrxhled as-
sent, the rev, Donakl straightened himself up as became
a soldier, and, with a most solunudy impressive voice,
iiddressed the company :

"Fellow-soldiers! I welcome you to tliis village of
Harmony. Its name indicates the character of its inhahi-
t.ints. 'Behold,' I may say without irreverence, ' ))e-
hdld, how good and pleasant a thing it is for hrethren to
dwell together in /ianmm// .' ' You will find it so. Our
j)coi»le are waiting to receive you. We go fi»rth to
glorious war. We go forth against liahylon, the mother
(if harlots ! In tlie hour of victory you will see these
mine hands" — here the hatchet was slowly raised in the
air liigh ahove his head — "you will see these mine hands
smiting down the images of idolatrous Rome !"

"Doant ye b'lieve wan wurd of it, boys," muttered
Ned to the soldiers near him; " doan't ye b'lieve wan
wurd of it. Them thar imajess'll be safe 'nutlef he's got
t" liev th' hewin' on 'em !"

Tlie company now broke ranks, and the tired men were
soon surrounded by the eager crowd, each one of wliich
vied with his neighbor in trying to carry oft' as many as
possible to dinner. William and Harry fell to Ihe lot of
the Huuth, and, as they trudged along down the street, were
pounced upon by Ned. Harry dropped behind, somewhat
iuimsed at the strange grimaces of the apprentice.

"I helped mak -yon hatchet yew heerd on. It's th'
cluer grit, that is— th' hatchet, 1 mean, not th' minister.
Look eout for them thar ijols o' Rome I" he whispered
in a low tone not to be overheard by his master.

" What hatchet ?" asked Harry curiously.

"What hatchet? Why, didn't yew see th' minister

124

IVl/liaiu and Mary.

an' hucr him? lie's goiu' to Lo(jisl)urg t' chop duown
them thai" imajess o' Rome," and the l)egrimed face
t<jok on so comical a look that Harry hurst into a roar
of la»ij,'liter.

" LT[) t' yer tricks a'reddy, Ned," cried tlie smitli
turning- round. " Doan't yew be amindin' on him, my
man — (hjan't be amindin' on liim !"

"No, doan't yew be amindin' on th' minister either,"
replied the a])prentice, but low enough ordy to be heard
by his companion, and he gave Harry a nudge in the
ribs; " he's a strong wan on them thar imajess, is the
unnister I"

They liad by this time reached the smith's liouse, and
were s«»on all seated round the table. The two young
soldiers were hungry enough after their early breakfast
and wretched tramp over the most abominable of roadsi
in many phices slush and mud to their ankles.

"An' so yer off t' the wars, me lads?" said the smith"^
kind wife, as she replenished both their plates.

"War," suggested the apprentice; "war. There's
only wan ez I've heerd on ! "

A look from his master, however, caused him to re-
lapse into silence during the remainder of the meal.

" Th' Lord be good tew ye, boys," continued the
woman ; " th' Lord be good tew ye. Ye'll hev wan tew
comfort ye, howsumover — our minister's goin' tew !"

Ned turned on his seat, but said nothing.

" Yez," put in her husband ; " yez, ye'll hev him tew
remind ye of yer jooty !" *

Ned moved uneasily.

"I've med him an ax tew hew deown them thar ijols
o' Rome," continued the smith.

" Yez," chimed in his wife, "an' day afore yesterday
when I was cout seein' the pour widder I met him on th'

Wil!ia7)i and Mary,

125

.street, an' sez he, is it reddy ? Is wliat reddy, sir? se/.
I. The ax, aez lie. 1 d«)airt kiKjvv, se/ I. Tell yeiliUH-
liaiid tew niak' it o' good eiittin' (|ualities, an', se/. he, Til
bring home sum <>' th' pieces. What pieces? se/ I. ^\'llat
l)ieoes !* sez lie. Why, pieces o' them thar imajess, so ez
t' show th' 'bominations o' Rome, or sum sech high-tlowin'
wurds."

This was too much for Ned, who darted for the street,
the door closing behind hnn with a hang. " Nivcr mind
him, boys ; nivor mind him, he's ([ueerl" apologized the
woman. Refusing her kind otier to rest and sleej* after
their hjng march, the two youths after dinner strolled
out to see the village. They had not proceeded far till
they met their captain walking arm-in-aini with the min-
ister. Making their salute they were passing on, when
the rev. Donald stopped, saying to his comi)anion :
"These are two brave lads, caj^tain, you have here."

" Yes," was the reply, " two bravo fellows."

"I am happy to see you, young men. I like to see
those so y<nmg early imbued with the spirit that ani-
mated the worthies of old when they went up against the
idolater. In the hour of danger 'be strong, ({uit you
like men,' my lads, '(juit you like men.'"

" We will, sir ; we will try," exchiimed Ixjth in chorus
as the minister and othcer moved on.

"A brave minister, Hal."

"Yes, but (lid you hear that (pieer apprentice? He
has no faitli ; doesn't believe in the hatchet I"

"No?"

"Not he!"

They strolled along till they came to the Meeting-
liouse, where they sat down upon the steps. Neither
spoke for some minutes. William's thoughts were away
back in Wotjdside, alternating between Mary and his

126

William and Mary.

inotliur. Tlioii his cyos lillod witli tciirH. Ho tunuil
away to hide tliein from lluny. But it was not iiuces-
sary. Harry's own oyus were blinded, and ho was doini<
his best to hide tliein from William.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE BEGINNING OF SORROWS.

It was late in the afternoon of the day of the departure,
when Mary awoke from the feverish sleep into which slu;
had fallen in William's room, whither she had ginie with
his mother on their return from the village. They had
lain down together in bed, and Mary had cried herself to
sleep in Mrs. Farley's arm. When she awoke, the sinking,'
. un was streaming in upon her, touching her hair into
more than its golden hue. She had been dreaming of her
lover, as in the olden days before this great trial had coine
upon them. But as she opened her eyes, the dread reality of
the last few hours smote her to the heart, with all its
bitterness intensified by her dreams. Could she look upon
his going even as his mother did, could she look upon it as
did the other young girls of the village whose lovers had
departed that morning, her agony would have been borne
patiently ; but, — and then the remembrance of what she
alone and her family knew pierced her afresh, wringing
from her a tortured cry which rang through the house like
a wail from the lost. Mrs. Farley was beside her in a
moment, followed quickly by her father, who was yet in
the house, and the deacon. They found her unconscious

IVilliam and Mary.

127

oil till' bed. Yieldiii;^' iit length to the simple restoratives
at liaiid, whe opened here eyes slowly and stared with a
bcw ildered look around the room.

" Where is William ?" she at last cried wildly. " Where
is William ]"

"Oh, Mary, doant yer know ?" gasped her father almost
beside himself with fear. Then he groaned, and was on
the ])oint of repeating his freaks enacted long ago when as
a child she came near death from drowning, hut he was
stopped by Mrs. Farley's hoarse whisper:

"Hush! 'Bijah, hush! Run for the minister —
quick!" •

She saw that the overstrained nerves had given way at
last, and that the child was now in the wild delirium of
fever. Dazed and bewildered Aljijah crept down stairs,
blinded with this new and unexpected trouble. The dear
old pastor was quietly dozing in his study, resting after
tlie trying hours through which he had passed when, aroused
by a sharp knock at the street door, he threw on his coat
and tottered downstairs, cheerily muttering aloud : " Oh
well, well, these weary limbs of mine are not what they
once were. I do feel tired and shakey enough to-day ;
but there is a time coming when I will be myself again."
0[)ening the door, the pained face of Abijah startled him,
accustomed as he was to such sights.

"Oh, sur, cum right over t' th' deeken's, Mary's tuk
a turn, sir, jest like th' wan's ded an' gone."

"Ah, poor child, dear child, she is young and this trial
is hard for her to bear ; it is hard, but she will be all
right shortly. She will be right in a short time, never
fear."

"Oh, sur, its worse nor that ; she's took a turn, sir, jest
like th' wan's ded an' gone — lost her mind, an' raves for
th' deeken's boy. "

128

Williaiu and Mary.

Mr. Ftuwiiik, wli(» possessed tlie only iiii'difiil skill in
the villa^'i', now took in the situation at once. Jlastenini^'
Imck to the study and thrusting into his ])oekets the lew
simple remedies always kept on hand, he rejoined the all
hut crazed father at the door, and was soon hy tlie side ol
the sufl'orer. She knew no one. At one monuMit she
would cry in horror, "Go away— go away! I cannot!" an<l
then she would call so plaintively for William that the tears
would start in every eye, the kind old minister stru^'f,dinj,'
in vain to compose himself for the sake «/f the others.

" When did this come on i" he whispered t'^Mrs Farley.

" A few minutes ;if,'o we heerd her acryin' eont. She'd
ben aslee]). Hush !" as the young girl commenced m<jan-
ing and mutti-ring : "William, oh, William! Some (»nc
is going that means you Jiarm — that means you harm.
William !"

Comi»rehending the full gravity of the case, Mr. Fenwick
realized, as he had never done in his life before, his own utter
insufficiency to meet the re({uirements of the hour. Lifting'
his heart to the Giver of all wisdom to be directed aright
in what he should do, he was soon busily engaged in doiii<,'
all in his power for the suffering girl. It was but little lie
could do, and he knew it. "I can't do much," he said in
a whisper to the noble woman who was assisting him, " 1
can't do much, and it is not much any human being can
do now. We must i)ray to Him * who saith and it is
done,' and trust Ilim for the rest." When all they could
do had been done, JMr. Fenwick refpiestcd the two men to
go downstairs, saying, in low tones, that he would remain
in the room with Mrs. Farle3^ As soon as they wen-
alone, he motioned the woman to a chair and, seating'
himself beside her, asked in a low voice, "Have yon
noticed wdiat the poor child has been saying in her
delirium?"

William ami Alary.

129

"Oli.yi's indi'i'd, I licv Itcii iuiolicin' on it."

" Hiivi' you iiiiy itlt'ii il' tlit'ie liiis bofu troiililc on lier
iiiin<l lic'side tlic (le])artnre of the lioys I"

"Oil, (Uiir nic, I've never tliort of tliat. Wliat trouble T'

" There are many thin<^'.s wliich "

"William!" and the two watcliers were at tlie Ixidside
ill a moment ; "A\'illiani, sonu' one is K<'inf; that nieaiiH
von liarm !"

Mrs. Farley shook convulsively as the minister turned
to her with a ])erplexe(l look on his face. A nt'W and
tenihle dread l)e«,fan to dawn upon her. Aa the ^'irl's
lips ceased moving the two sti'p})e(l lightly hack to their
seats.

" 1 allers thort e/ he(nv they talked al)eout things e/ never
liap])ened," the pained woman at last managed to say.
"Dew yi; think thar's anythin' in what she's ben sayinT
and the full depths of her loving heart were mirrorecl
in tlie intensified look of agony raised to her pastor's
liu'c.

" I would not give you unnecessary alarm," was the
reply, after a moment's hesitation, "but I cannot well un-
derstand her continual rei)eatingof this strange expression.
But, Come, come," he added in the same bi-eath, "don't
be. cast down ; it is hard telling what fancies may ]i!iss
tlnongli a fevered brain. Let us liope, and have faith

iu(i(Ki;'

"Oh, me l)oy, me poor William !"

He led the alarmed and bewildered aiother to the foot
(if the stair, and then crept back to the side of his patient —
"This is strange ; this is very strange. What can she
moan ] Can there be anything in it? Let me see. Who
would harbor evil designs against the lad \ I know them
all, every one — have known them ever since they were
babes, in fact, William has always been a Javorite

^3o

M^illiam aud Mary.

TluMt! is not one unioii^' ilieni, oMiciTH or men, that I
wouldn't trust. No, it can only be ii wild Ireuk ot
<U'liriuiii."

Mary here moved uuea.sily in the l)ed and nioaiud
wearily. She was niutterini; u^ain and, as tlje n»iniHt( r
hent low over to catch the word.s, he heard : " I can't. I
love William. Oh, mercy !"

Tapping his forehead, the old man crept back to his
«eat, and fell into deep and prolonged thought.

CHAPTER XX.

THE MARCH TO THE SEA.

The wailing, pleading cry of the trumpet burst forth on
the quiet air of the early morning, rousing many a weary
youth from his slumbers, and accelerating the movementa
of those who were already astir. In a few minutes the
streets of the little village of Harmony were alive with the
boys turning out for roll-call. They came from every
quarter of the compass, and, although rubbing their eyts
and yawning, many of them, as if they felt their sleep had
been somewhat rudely broken, each one looked as if he
were able for anottler day's dreary march.
" How are you, William ? Feeling tired 1"
It was a cheery voice that called out* to him as he and
Harry ran up the street to where the company was mus-
tering.

" Tired ? No ; I feel grand. How are you ?"
" I feel like a sojer !" was the laughing reply.

WilUani and Mary.

131

" Why yo8, HO <l(» wi* all, I liitpc," said Willmni.

" We lire huviiij,' a little taste olsoKlieiiiig ulretuly, sure
luough."

" Neow, Imys, (loaii't yer think this heer iw Hutliin' we
didn't hiirgiiin l'ui?"calle<l ont 11 jtrivute who luiiled from
overtlie hills lieyond Woodside, and who wus a compara-
tive stranj^'er to the otherH.

" What is ]" asked William, rather sharply.

" Why, this turnin* eout when yer want ter be abed
asleep, an' all fur nuthin'."

"For nothing, is it I You will find it is for something.
It is the sort ol' thing nx bargained tor ; but it" //o(( bargained
to have a g(jod time, it is more than likely you will be
di.sttppointed."

"Oho ! Beg yer parding for speakin' e/ I did. Didn't
know yer ! Beg yer parding, general, or p'raps corperlur]
Wliich is it r

" I'm a soldier, sir, and intend to do my duty, which it
is clear you don't intend to do."

" Wait till ye'U see a bagnot acomin' at yew in front
of a big monseer. Ye'U not be ez brave then, I'll warrant
yer."

" What do you mean, fellow ?" and the hot blood surged
to William's face, as with Hashing eyes and clenched fists
he turned full upon the man.

"Fall in— fall in!"

The sharp command of the sergeant put an end to the
altercation. After the roll-call was over they were dis-
missed with the caution to be ready to fall in again at a
moment's notice.

"Heow's th' genera^ or corperlur?" sneered William's
antagonist as soon as the ranks were broken ; " when dew
we march, general — I axes parding, I mean corperlur ?"

With a bound William was upon him. A dexterous

^32

William and Mary.

iiiovenu'ul of liiiinl imd loot, ([nick as a flash, neiit the
cowardly I'ellow spruwiii^dy lull lci]jj,th in tiie, iiiiul.
Clut(liiii;4 liiiii l)y the thi'oat with the lel't hand, tlie other
poised, Harry darted forward just in time to catch liis
comrade's arm and so prevented the blow. " I'll ^'ive you
j^eneral or corporal whichever you like, my tine fellow—
I'll teach you civility, you rullinn ! "

"Let him up, William, let him up; he is not worth
mindin<;."

The man struffj^led desperately to j^et free, l)ut h(! was
held like a child in the '^x\]) of the enraged youth. " I'll
•feneral or corporal you," as the lingers ti,L,ditened on the
throat till the wretch turned livid with ra.ii;e and foamed
at the mouth Avith madness to find himself so complftely
mastered. "Now s^et up!" and William sprang to his
feet, bringing his man with him, but with his grasp jhiu
on the throat.

" I'll teach vou manners," and the vouth drew oil' and
made a^? if he would strike the coward in the face, who,
now fren/ied with rage and fear, struggled more des-
perately than ever to be free. A crowd of the boys had hy
this time gathered around them.

" What's the matter, William— what's up ?"

" This cha]) is up now, but he was down a moment a^o.
I'm now putting the brave soldier through his facings,
that's all !" and the fellow was hustled up against the
fence — then, with a last vigorous shake, was sent sprawliiii,'
headlong into the; gutter. The boys set up a shout,
for William was a general favorite, and his opponent.
if known at all, was known but to l)e des})ised. Rising to
his feet, like a wild beast brought to bay, the discomfited
rullian shook his fists in the air, only however thereby
calling forth more derisive cheers from the crowd. Then,
turning on his heel, he strode oft" with an oath and a
muttered threat of vengeance.

IVilliaui and Mary

'• what was he cIoiii;4, William I" asked a lialf-ddzeii at
once when he was gone-

'' He was doing enouj^li to receive more than he |j;()t,"
was the rejjly.

"Oh, well," said one, "Jacolj Waterman don't amount to
iiiueli any way. I'm sorry he's one of us, that's all I"

"You know him, then?" ])Ut in Harry.

" I know enough of him not to care to know more."

The crowd now dispersed and se})arated for breakfast.
As they entered the smith's house the two young soldiers
fmuul a hearty meal awaiting them to wliich, not at all
ilistuihed by the exciting episode on the street, they |)io-
ceeiled forthwith to do ample Justice. They had scarcely
tiiiislied when the hlare of the trumi)et called them all to
tlicir feet.

•' Tlie Lord hless ye, Ixtys^ an' he reound aht'out ye ez ye
^'o inter th' battle," exclaimed the honest blacksmith, with
a touch of huskiness in his throat, and he shooic each by
the hand at the door ; " I'll walk up t' see ye off, tho' I
'sposo there'll be no time thar to talk much."

The men were now gathering from all quartert>. The
Harmony company had fallen into line , :uid soon the
Woodside boya had taken up their position beside them.
The otlicers were gathered together in front, and among
tlieni, conspicut)Us for pomposity, was noticed the redoubt-
iilih; chaplain, if possible more conseipiential than ever.
The roll having been called, the reverend soldiei' proceeded
to harangue the troops. Stepping forward from liis com-
;':nii()ns, and holding up the ubi(piit(nis hatchet in his
rinliL hand, he exclaimed in his most sonorous tones ;

" Fellow-soldiers ! We are going forth and going up to
the help of the Lord against the mighty ! When the
city of abominations falls, as fall it will, having been
loie(jrdained from a,ll eternity to fall, with these mine

134

IVilliam and Mary,

hands, you will behold nie, hewiiij::; down the idols ot
Rome ! "

A movement in the crowd of civiliana in the rear was
at this time noticeahle, and the irrepressible apprentice
was seen emer^^'ing from the midst, running off with liis
head beut down, and his face covered with liis hamls.
As he crossed the Hank of the men. Harry caught sight of
the outrageous fellow, and forgetting everything burst into
a roar of laughter.

"Silence — silence in the ranks," thundered Capt. Alk'ii
as he strode down the line. " Were it not for the
occasion, I would place you under immediate arrest!"

Poor Harry felt badly enough to have all eyes thus
directed u])on him, but he was soon relieved l»y the
sonorous tones of the chaplain leading in ])rayer. It was
such a prayer as such a man might be expected t(j make,
the burden of it being that he himself might have streui^tli
given him to smite down the graven images of the idolater.
A few words from each of the chief oihcers, and the com-
mand was given. In the midst of tears and of cheers, the
battalion tiled off and out of the village l»y the mat!
leading to the sea.

CHAPTER XXI.

HOPE !

Leaving William and Harry on the dreary march, wo
must return to her who is dearer to both than life, and
whom we left in the wild tossings of delirium. Day
followed day, night followed night, and the idol of so
many hearts hovered nigh unto the grave.

Williain and Alary,

What a fearful mystciy is that with which wc are
encompassed ! We do not know, perhaps we never shall
know, perchance the white light of eternity even may
iiover reveal it to us, how our destiny has been made to
liinye, as it were, upon an accident, our whole future
ijuivering for the moment in the trembling balances of
tritlcs. Have you ever thought, gentle reader, as sitting
down you conununed with your own heart- have you even
thought as you have looked backward along the way you
have come — have you ever thought, and trembled as you
tlidught it, that there have been times in your life's
history when you walked within the dark shadow of
(loath, so near the mystic partiti(»n that sei)arates the
tangi])le from the intangible, that had you but ears to
hear then; might have l)een heard u]»on the other side
the rustling of a wing in tlie gloom— had you but eyes to
see you might have seen the glories of those spiritual
realities which to our holden sight is now invisible ? We
are so near to death at times ! So much ajipears to our
imperfect comprehension to rest upon the capricious
accidents of the moment. Our whole future has been
cliauged for weal or woe by what to us was but a trifle
lighter than air. In the full sunshine of the hey-day of
prosperity we may have arisen in the morning, and in
the evening lain down in sorrow. Surrounded by mys-
tery, we live, and move, and have our being in mystery.
Who is he that, with the eye of the seer, shall tell us
what to avoid, so that unbroken peace shall flow gently
as a river adown the green meadows of the years ^ We
strive, in the blindness of our mortal state, after that
which eludes us, mocks us as it lures us on. Bo this and
thou shalt succeed ! We do it and are undone. Here
we walk in the gloaming of the grave. The backward
shadows of death throw their dread presence down upon

13^

Willi am and Alary

our joys, and uliilu grasping tlu^ buh))lus that dauco ol'-
fore our gaze, lo, in (nir hand are ashes and the dust uf
the dead. Tlie i)atli\vay ah)ng which we walk is stnuvii
thick witli pitfalls. When trying to avoid this one, into
that we stund)le ; while here, in the slough of despond,
we crawl out upon the green turf, only to tind it a deceit-
ful (juagniiw), through whose treacherous sands we must
wallow, till at length, with bespattered garments and
weary lind)s, we tind rest for our feet perchance wheru
we least expected it. Then we stagger on again ovir
stony places, marking the path with our blood. We cry
out of the deep dei)ths for deliverance from the hardness
of the way ; and when, as if in answer to the cry, tho
way grows smoother, lo, here beneath us is an abyss uf
sorrow, to which we never should have come had we con-
tentedly walked where we were. Humaidy speaking.',
life is a gr<)tes(|ue medley of comedy and tragedy, ai)[>ar-
ently without i)lan or j)urpose. But down upon tlic
mystery of our being — when ready to give up in desjiair
— down over the (hirkness streams the bright light of a
Father's face, and lo, in the gloom see we, by the eye of
faith, " One like unto the appearance of a man"— hear
wo by the ear of faith the echoes of a voice divine, '' Let
not your heart be troubled" — " What I do now ye know
not, but ye shall know liercafter I" . . . .

On the results of a moment hang tragedies. Had little
Mary died our tale would here have ended -it never
would have begun.

Day followed day, and night night, yet the tender-
hearted old pastor could with difficulty V»e coaxed from the
bedside. He felt that more dei)ended on the outcome of
this fearful struggle than the mere fact of a single life or
death. Tho incoherent muttering of the sufferer told
him all that he wanted to know, more than he cared t(»

William and Mary.

^37

know. With a deep and abiding faith in (Jod he bent
his energies tt) the task before him, hoping wlien all else
had ceased to hope, trusting when all others were but
waiting for the end. No thought of the doctrines or the
decrees entered into his calculations. He watched and
prayed as if eveiything depended on his watching and
praying, and whatever he might have preached ab(jut the
eternal fixedness of all human destiny, he did not appear
to count it now as a factor at all to be considered in the
case before him. For nights he had never returntid to
his home, but snatched a few hours' sleep as best ho
could — sometimes in the sick room, sometimes stretched
on the old settee in the kitchen below where the absent
one had so often rested after the labors of the day were
over. For the last two nights and days he was almost
constantly by the bedside. The sun has sunk to rest ;
but here there is no rest. The birds have hushed their
ringing notes of praise beneath the window, but there is
no hushing of the heart-throbs of the watchers. Dark-
ness descends and wraps the landscape w itli gloom, but it
is light comj)ared with the dreariness of those troubled
souls. The silence of the grave itself has settled down
on the watching group as the hours drag themselves
slowly, broken only by the suppressed sob or the weirdly
muttered phantasies of the sufferer's brain. 'Tis mid-
night — strange, mysterious hour, when the tide of life
at best runs low, when the muffled oar of the dread
boatman oftenest smites on the ear, and the silver cord
that moors the fragile barque grows weak w ith backward
tossings c the receding wave. Hush ! The old man
nodding in his chair is on his feet and bends down over
the bed. The breathing grows softer^softer, and the
little form that for those awful nights has writhed in
suffering agony grows calm. Like a tired cliild in its
10

<38

Willia^n and Mary.

mothor's arms she sinks into a peaceful slumber, while
hope, thrice-blessed hope, breathes down upon the
watcher its benediction of peace.

"Thanks be unto God !"

It was all he said as, stealing softly down stairs, the
minister sank upon the settee and was soon wrapped in
profound and refreshing sleep. How beautiful he looked
as the lines smoothed out one by one from liis forehead,
over which the long, white hair fell in graceful careless-
ness. More like a little child than a man he looked — like
the babe smiling sweetly in its dreams when the angela
fan its face with their wings as they pass. Let him
sleep !

It was late next morning when Mary awoke. The
minister would not leave till he could speak to her.
They were all Avaiting in her room, and at last the tired
eyes slowly opened .and she looked at the group wearily,
but with an intelligent enquiry on her face. The father
bent down and kissed her tenderly. Then they all fol-
lowed before she ventured to say a word. At length :

"What has been the matter? Oh, I've had such a
frightful dream ! "

" Yewhev ben sick, darlin','' said Mrs. Farley softly, as
the tears poured down her cheeks.

"Yes," added Mr. Fenwick quickly, "but you are
better now. Take this, and you must sleep again. "

Mrs. Farley advanced with a bowl of steaming broth,
duly tinctured with a strong decoction of her own precious
"yarbs" put in unbeknown to the minister. The sick
girl took a spoonful or two, then closed her eyes languidly
and was soon fast asleep again.

"It is better for her than food ; let her sleep all she
can. Now I must away. I fear there are many others
who have been waiting for me, and I must oft". I will be

William and Mary.

'39

over cagain to-night," aiul, witli a wliispered blessing, the
holy man was gono.

Mary's recovery after this was rapid. In the course of
a few days she was strong euoiigli to sit for a while, well
wrajjped, in a chair hy the window. Mrs. Farley, with
the instincts of a trne woman, never referred (»nce t(j the
strange mntterings that had been heard in delirium.
But she pondered them all in her own heart nevertheless.
It was some days before the y<tung invalid was considered
strong enough to be removed to her home. Before this,
several letters had arrived from the boys, full of hope and
love. They were all written, however, previous to the
embarkation, and now for a long time nothing had been
heard from them.

Sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Farley, the evening
before she was to go home, Mary looked even more lovely
than ever. She bore the marks of the fearful ordeal
through which she had passed, it is true, but this only
added to her charms, giving a stjft refinement to her
features impossible to describe;.

"Mary!"

The girl started from her reverie and turned her beau-
tiful eyes on the si)eaker.

" What's makin' (m yew look so sad like ?"

" Oh, why do you ask i I have enough — have we not
all enough to make us look sad ?"

"Yes, darlin', but yew seems t' me tew liev more'n yer
mind nor th' rest on us, an' "

Mary started again and scrutinized her friend's face
with an alarmed look.

"Yes," she replied wearily, after a moment's pause, "I
/tare more on my mind than the rest and — and it is killing
me. It has already nigh killed me I"

The tears flowed copiously as she hid her face in her

140

William and Mary.

hands. Mrs. Farloy moved close to lier and drew the
weepinj^ girl to her breast, folding her motherly arms
round about her. VVlien tlie sobbing had ceaseil the
mother spoke :

"I kno' all abeout it, Mary dear ; all abeuut it I 1
<loan't know what's it abeout, but 1 kno' yer frightened
abeout William more'n any on us. Couldn't yew V)e a
tellin' on me what's it abeout ? I'll help yew t' bear it
like."

"Oh, don't; don't ask me, for heaven's sake ! I cannot
tell ytm — I dare," but she broke down again. When she
became a little calmer Mrs. Farley ventured to ask, but
with considerable misgiving as to the wisdom of the
question: "Be yew afeard that William hez an enemy
among th' boys ?"

The girl started this time like a frightened bird. " Who
told you that?" and she trembled with fear. " Who told
you that ?"

Footsteps were here heard at the door, and, before the
amazed woman could reply, her hus})and entered, followed
by Abijah.

CHAPTER XXII.

IX THE DEPTHS !

The alarmed l(»ok of his wife arrested the deacon's
attention immediately upon entering. He wanted to
know what had happened, but received no reply, Marj'
rising and going up stairs to her room.

" What's th' matter neow ?" querulously asked her
father as she disappeared.

William and Mary.

141

" Wc'vi! hc'ii jitiilkin' 'beout wluit she used t' liu asiiyin'
in her sickness abeout William."

" Hez she bon atellin' on ye V he hastily interrupted.
"She's ben atellin' on nie nothin'."

" No r'

" Not a word. 'IJijali, seeaheer. Yew've allers ben a
friend ; dew ye kno' what's th' matter!*"

He \\\\\v^ his head a few moments in silence : '' Yez, I
dew!"

"What is it, then?" exclaimed the deacon , and his
wife together. " What is it, tlien, Abijali ? '

•' Yew nuistn't ax me !"

They both knew that after that further (juestioning
for the present at least was useless. For some minutes
no one broke the silence that followed. It was a sore
trial enough for them to have their darling boy exposed
to the perils of the deep, and the still more fearful perils
of war ; but now to realize that perhaps at that very
moment lie was at the mercy of some cowardly ruttian,
who, they could not for t!»eir lives imagine, — oh, it was
too much for their already bleeding hearts to bear. No
outward emotion was however manifested by either. The
poor mother felt her tears could not How sufHciently in
view of the new and dread calamity, all the more terrible
on account of the mystery wliich obscured it. She arose
and busied herself with her household duties, and in a
short time Abijah went home, saying as he closed the
door that he would come up for Mary on the morrow.

Wlien her work was done, Mrs. Farley sat down beside
her husband. He had become intensely human during
those last few weeks. The doctrines just at this time
seemed to have lost their power over him. He was now
not nearly so much the deacon as the man. He seemed
doubly dear to his wife. He was to her fond heart what

142

IViiliam and Mary.

sht! liiul f^o lon^ uiul tiiinutstly pniyuil fur in tho past -just
the samo loving einbodiinent of hunianity ho ha«l been
before ])ec()niin^ petrified by the niyHteries. Sitting here
in the flickerinj^ liglit of the sniouhlering embers on the
heurtli, witli the lintjs of care on his handsome face
brouglit into alternate distinctness and 8ha(h)W, it vvonUl
be hard to find a nobler-looking man. His thoughts were
now too deep for utterance, his soul was moved by the
significant words he had heard. His wife sat down .and
leant her head upon his shoulder, just as she used to do
years ago when their darling was asleep in the cradle.
She did not weep ; her grief <lried up her tears. In a
half dreamy state she waited for him to break the silence;
but he only drew her tenderly towards him till she
nestled close to his heart, fie did not speak. It was no
time for words.

Why is it that when a great trouble comes suddenly
upon us the tongue that ceaselessly complains of little
worries is stilled I Is it the rising up within us of the
latent forces hitherto inactive, the rising into life of un-
developed reserve powers that all ahmg h.ave been dor-
mant ? Is it the instillation of a mysterious but felt
energy from without that then enables us to stand erect
in silent majesty beneath the load that would otherwise
crush \is to the e.arth ? How often have we seen the
querulous man and the worrying woman fretting over the
light bubbles on life's stream ; but when the great waves
of sorrow rose as if to submerge them in a common ruin,
they walked unmoved in deep waters with a serenity not
of this world ? Have we not seen the mother bowed to
the ground in an agony of grief as the pet of the household
lay "in the valley of the shadow," but when the shadow
closed around her in blackness, settling down to the dread
reality of death ; when the little one floated away out

William and Mary.

143

into the silence of nn])r(>kon dreams, no baptism of tears
has (Hscovered the bleeding heart of the mother to the
gaze of the world ! She bows silently beneath the rod.
Tiiere comes here a never-failing source of consolation to
those who walk wearily along the dark i)athway of life
fearing the yawning grave which one day may claim their
loved. He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb will
not forget us then, Ho will never leave nor forsake those
who trust Him.

Trust Him and do our work ! Herein is hope. Not
the blind fatalism ( the "doctrines" that leads its
votaries to float listlessly amidst seething billows awaiting
a miracle that will never come ; but the hope of faith that
with a biirning heart of love throws up its arms to God
and clings with the tenacity of death to the promises.
What a horrible phantasy would be life divorced from
the infinitude of the divine compassicm ! There is in
every heart so much of sorrow, the checkered web of our
being is so often woven in colors of blood — the way of
our pilgrimage is so often baptized with our tears, the
hollow echoes of our groaning cries so often reverberate
from the dark, dank walls of our prison, that to him who
looks not above and beyond awaiting with patience the
great day of revealing, when apparent cruelties shall be
made radiant in the light of redeeming love— when the
record of our years shall be squared by the discriminations
of an eternal justice — what a grim, ghastly mockery is
it all! We never may entirely understand the secret
motives which guided our destinies in this sphere of
action ; but reasoning from analogy, it is certain we may
assume that He who doeth all things well shall ultimately
vindicate Himself to every man's heart and conscience.
To those who believe that we are the victims of blind
fortuitous circumstances or inexorable fate, life has no

'44

William and Alary

chiiriiiH, uxiatcnce no joyH. 'Vu thoHu wlu», thnmgh bewil-
dering sorrow, look away unto tho IhIIh wlionce conieth
thuir holp, thoro is no aspect of this wijrld's experience,
however hitter, but tho vision of faith sees hidden in the
ch^uds tho sunbeams. The subdiiing thought that we
are never so far gone out of tho way as to be lieyond the
roach of tho "eteriuil goodness" when we cry, conies to the
oft-times weary spirit like dew upon tho parched ground.
Tho " peace-lio-still " of Him who spake as never man
spake, wliispers to us tlion with a new and unutterable
meaning. What tf) him are tho dark places of a cursed
world who knows that (m the other side tho effulgent
light of a Father's face doth shine ? Wo weep at the
grave of buried hopes! It is but human. It is the out-
flowing of our humanity voiced in sobs. Point you to
him whoso cynical stoicism prohibits this manifestation
of our humanness, and you point to one whose heart has
never felt tho cleansing luxury of tears. There was One
so "touched with the feeling of our infirmities" that at
tho grave of a friend Ho wept. "He groaned in the
Spirit and was troubled." The spectacle of the weeping
Christ at the tomb of Lazarus has been the consolation
of the ages. "Behold how He loved him!" This bond
of sympathy for our kind is " the touch of nature that
makes us all akin." It is so sweet to know that our
griefs are not to be bonie alone — that tender souls yearn
over us in love ! But whilst our sympathy proves the
humanity of our manhood and is a bond of brotherhood
for us all, if we could but pierce the cloud which lowers
above and around us, lo light, and ' ' the hiding of H is
power!" We grope in "the valley of the shadow " as
with feet sore and crimsoned at times with blood we
stumble. Oh, how many children of affliction there
are throughout our wide world, bowing low with heavy

William and Mary

145

huniciis upon l)cii(l«;<l sliuiiMi'is, fuutHnrc, vvuiiry, aiul
sail uro thuy cryinj^ : -

"Tired- soUred!

Heart tiiiil soul and Ijiuiii
Uttur the Maine M:id jilaint,

Feel the name d\dl pain ; ^

Tired of living and Morrovvini^,

Striving' and Jiopinj; in vain,
Tire<i of tJie ceaseless strlN inif

For that whieW wc never Hhall j{ain I"

Blest tliouglit I All thiw hIuiII oikI ; f«»r 011 tho other
Hide the inountaiii of sorrow the billowy j^lory of the yet
to be is l)ut waitinj^ to lave them in its liealing Hood.
Then shall they know and say —

"Hedoeth all things well!"

Clasped in eaeh other's arms, tliis father and mother,
sitting here in the back-thrown shadow of an on-coming
trouble, felt as they had never felt before the precions-
ness of such an abiding faith in God. The deacon's
theology was wrong, but just now his heart was right.
His c<msolation was now not that the decrees were
propitious to the boy, but that in answer to the cries of
his heart, the Almighty Parent would not desert the lad.
We shall see him ere long crushed and b»)wed beneath
the merciless logic of his creed.

1^6

William and Mary,

CHAPTER XXIII.

IN DEEPER DEPTHS.

Mary had been home nigh about a week, and was now
almost completely restored to health, when one evening
her father came back from the village with the news
that the boys h.ad safely landed in Cape Breton, a cruiser
having innnediately returned.

"Why, then, are there no letters, father: they ought to
have got here by this? Do you fear anything?" And
the frightened look of his child pierced him to the heart.

" No, th' lad's all right so far ; he'll hev nothin' t' fear
till they get tew Looisburg."

He had not got over his old dislike to William, but now
that his Mary loved the youth, he had learned, obstinate
as he was, to make the best of it.

"Do you mean," she gasped with a ray of hope, "do
you mean that he will have nothing to fear but the
battle ?"

" No, I didn't mean jest that."

Her spirits sank again within her, and as the father
said nothing more, she rose and went to her little cham-
ber to weep and pray. That was now her only solace —
weeping and praying. She felt as if her prayers were
answered in her tears ; for they were always followed by
rest and consolation. She had been reared in innocent
simplicity, amidst pure surroundings. Her unsophisti-
cated heart knew nought of the dark ways of the world.
Never having known much of the sweet love of a mother,
she had found in soul-communion with God that strength
for life's battles which otherwise would have been denied

William arid Mary,

her. >5ho had never, like her father and others, been
troubled about either doctrines or mysteries, hut had
learned by the studj of the Book that "God is love."
Her i)raytrs were, as a consociuence, the jdeadings of a
child with u fond parent. In her confiding heart never
lurked the shadow of a suspicion that He to whom she
talked in pleading supplication was not near to help
ill time of need. H;.il the minister or deaccm been
acipiainted with her theology, they would have been
grievously shocked and pained to find her a greater here-
tic than her father; but they knew nothing about it, nor
dill she know it herself. All she knew was that no iron
fetters locked up the infinite com]),assion of God from His
trusting child. She read that in the Book, and with all
the serin(»ns that she had heard, never dreamed that her
beloved pastor would restrict its meaning in the slightest
degree. She believed God to be a father who loved His
children and wanted them all to h>ve Him in return. She
little thought that the kindly old man who had shed so
many tears during these troublous times, believed from
the depths of his heart that God had created myriads of
human beings that He neither loved, nor woidd He give
them the power to love Him. She read in the Book that
God would have all men to be saved. She little imagined,
the dear child, m the simplicity of her soul, that the loved
pastor would explain the "all" as not meaning all, but
only the elect ; and that for her to believe differently
would, at least in the opinion of her darling William's
father, reduce her own chances of belonging to the "all"
to a minimum. Blessed child ! In her ignorance she was
happily oblivious to the niceties and subtleties of the
doctrines which reigned all but supreme around her.

As she entered her little chamber this evening, the
weight that pressed her to the earth appeared so heavy

148

William and Mary.

that she loali/AMl as never before the precious coiiaohitiim
of communion with her heavenly Father. The hot tears
guslied out through tlie tiny lingers chisped over her eyes.
Her sciul was lieavy ; but in the baptism of sorrow there
came tlie bahn of hope. Slie remained upon her knees
by the bedside alternating between weeping and praying,
till aroused by a strange voice below in earnest conversa-
tion with her father. A stranger in those parts was of
ao rare occurrence that she crept stealthily to the head of
the stairs and listened.

" I'll talc' it meself," she heard her father say ; " give it
t' me !"

"No sech thing," responded a grutf voice, "no sech
thing, I tell ye ! I want ter give it inter own hand I"

She did not wait for more, but was in the kitchen in a
moment, confronting as she entered a rough-looking man
in sailor's garb.

"Be yew Mary Oliver, neow ?" he asked rather dubi-
ously, evidently taken aback l)y the striking beauty of
the little woman before him.

"I am. What do you want V

"I've got sutliin' tew give yew. I've got a letter fur
yew from — halloa, what wuz I goin' t' say? I got a let-
ter fur yew ennyway," and he commenced fumbling in
his pocket. It was plain enough that the unexpected
loveliness of the girl had so surprised the man that fi ^
the time he did not (juite know either what he was doing
or saying. At last he drew forth a dirty crumjiled letter,
and, eying her askance and half abashed, held it out to
the trembling girl ready to grasp it. One glance at the
address and she staggered back and would have fallen to
the floor had not her father caught her in his arms.

That a manly heart was concealed under the sailor's
forbidding exterior was plain enough, for he no sooner

William and Mary,

149

saw that she had recovered than he stoi)ped towards the
ilitor, saying he would remain outside till the letter was
read.

"Read it, Mary," gasped the father with alarm as
soon as they were alone ; " read it. What's in it?"

She tore the letter open, and with a glance took in its
contents.

"Read it, Mary. Eout with it. What's in it. Who's
it fruni \ "

She began reading and then stopped, amazed at her
own cabnness and fearing lest her mind might be giving
way. Then she commenced again, going on to the end
without a ({uiver in her voice :

"Canso, April Gth, 1745.
"To Mis.s Mary Oliver :

" This will be handed you by a man who will receive your
reply and carry it to me. Copy the enclosed and send with
it a lock of your hair. AV/j<.w, and your brave Williain will
all the aooner meet his doom.

Folded inside was another paper, which the girl
perused pale with horror.

"What's it, Mary? Speak, child. What's in t'other
wan ?"

She read it over to him as calndy as she did the first.

"Wurld's alive 1" exclaimed her father, not knowing
what he was saying, "seems t' me queer I What ken he
want of yer har, child ?"

" Can't you see ?" she asked in the same calm tone. '>.

"No, I'm a thinkin' on it over ez hard ez I ken, but I
low I kent mak' it eout ! "

" A plot to ruin me, father ; to betray me to William !"

"Not that bad, oh no, not so bad ez that! No man
could be ez bad ez that ! "

" No, father, no man, but he can, and will .'"

^50

William and Mary.

There was a silence for a minute.

" What'll ye dew, Mary?"

"Nothing!"

"Nothin'?"

"Just nothing!"

She spoke so decidedly and calmly that her father looked
at her in amazement.

"Nothin'?"

"No, nothing!"

"Then — William's dun fur!" was the slow but solemn
response.

A shuddering paroxysm smote the girl and she stag-
gered to her feet. The father caught her again in his
arms and drew her on his knee.

" If I give him this letter then I am doomed, while it
won't save William." Her calmness was gone, and she
gasped hysterically.

"Heow's that, Mary?"

"Why, don't you see, he will show it to William to
make him think I am faise ! "

The dull father hadn't thought of that, but now it
struck conviction to his mind in an instant. He held his
child close to his heart. He spoke slowly :

" Mary, ef yew doan't send it, th' lad's dun fur ; ef yew
dew send it an' trust in God, it may cum eout all right!"

She had never heard her father speak like that in all
her life. It sounded more like the minister than like her
poor stupid father.

Hailing it as an omen of good she slipped down out of
his arms upon the floor to her knees. Almost instantly
rising she crossed the room to the window, caught up a
pair of scissors and with the utmost deliberation cut oflf
one of the luxuriantly beautiful curls that hung upon her
shoulders. Then, with her former calmness strong upon

wJ"!!

William and Mary.

\^\

her, she lighted a candle and ascended to her own room
to write the droaded letter.

When she returned the father admitted the sailor.
Advancing towards him with the sealed letter in her hand,
she said with a composure that again astounded herself,
" Here is my answer ; give it to ."

"I'll dew that, Miss, yew mebbe shure."

" Did you sail with the men for Louisburg ?"

"I did that, yew mebbe shure."

" Why did you come back so soon ?"

*' Oho ! Neow yew've got me. I dunno ! "

"When do you sail?"

" When I gets back, I 'spose."

"Were the boys well when you left?" and her calm-
ness deserting her she blushed to the eyes as she asked it.

"Oho! neow you're axin' tew much agen ! There
wuz tew meny of them thar fur me to ax abeout each
wan's helth!" and he squinted at her in a good-natured,
roguish way as if he would say, "Oho, I see what's the
matter!"

"Would you take a letter to my brother and give it
into his own hands ? His name is Harry Oliver, in Capt.
Allen's company."

"See aheer neow, I'm paid fur this air job, an' I'm
thinkin' th' way yew tuk on that everything aint jest
right ; howsumever, I'll tak' yourn seein' its yew ez axes,"
and with that chivalric devotion towards women which in
every clime characterizes men of the st this awkward
but kindly fellow stood respectfully, cap in hand, before
the girl awaiting further orders. It was a hurriedly
written note, in sooth, she held out to him addressed to
her brother, the purport of which was the demand that
had been made upon her, her compliance therewith, con-
cluding with an agonizing appeal to see that William was

152

William and Mary.

warned of tho conspiracy in some way or other without
viohitiii!^ their enforceil i)roniiHe of secrecy,

"See alieer, ne(»w," exclaimed the Haih)r taking the
letter, "I kant read. This wan's th' brother's, an'
t'other wan's th'- at) ! I^eow 1 knc>w them — small wan's
til' brother's."

With an ai)i»ealing reiiuest to give Harry's into his
own hand, and to none else, the sailor departed.

The situation in which the affectionate girl was now
placed was a trying one. Whichever way she looked she
saw ruin staring her full in the face. Lifting her heart
to (fod, she kissed her dejected father good-night, crept
up stairs, and cried herself to sleep.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE VOYA(JE.

The incidents on the march and immediately previous to
embarkation were many — some ludicrous, others laugh-
able, more tragic. The Rev. Donald McDonald made a
speech from the deck of his ship to the assembled citizens
on the wharves, flourishing his hatchet and breathing out
threatenings and slaughter against the images of Rome.
There were not a few in the crowd who thought the
chaplain more zeahms than wise, while more than one
was bold enough to develoj) a scepticism anent the
hnages worthy of our ac(|uaintance, Ned (.Jilchrist him-
self. William an<l Harry, had already begun to form
an opinion of his reverence not much more exalted.
They had never seen it after this fashion. All their lives

William and Mary.

'53

had they been accustomed to look upon their own dear
old pastor as the personification of everything that was
true, pure, and of good report. Towards his person
there WiS entertained a profound respect by all classes in
the village. He was their friend. He loved everyone,
and everyone loved him. For any to doubt the minis-
ter's sincerity would have been deemed by all as border-
ing on downright blasphemy. To William and Harry it
was no wonder that the mere thought of Mr. Fen wick 'a
flourishing a battle-axe had in it something so absurdly
ludicrous that it created in their minds a revulsion of
feeling not by any means flattering to the reverend
Chaplain McDonald. Neither were they slow in noticing
that those from his own village, who ought to know him
best, were scarcely respectful in their remarks when the
"idols of Rome" happened to mentioned. The boys
soon made friends among the strange volunteers from the
other colonies ; and it was not much to be wondered at
if the exciting scenes through which they were passing
made them for a time almost forget the sad hearts at
home. But for a very, very short time.

The first night at sea the two lads elected to remain on
deck in preference to going below.

"I say, Hal, this is grand !" remarked William to his
comrade as the two leant over the taffrail watching the
trail of light left by their ship on the plunging waves. "I
say, Hal, this is grand. We would never have been at
sea in all our lives but for this war ! "

"I suppose not," said the other, but not quite so en-
thusiastically.

" Look at that wave !" cried William with animation
as a mountain billow over which the ship had dashed
piled itself high above them.

"How bright it is to-night, Hal," and the speaker
11

154

William and Mary.

turiiud liis eyes from tho sparkling waters to tliu iiioon
sailing on in tho heavens, and the thought that loved
ones in tlie far-off home might perhaps be gazing in .the
same direction cast a momentary gloom njjon his spirits.

"Do you think, Hal," ho continued after some mo-
ments' silence, "do you think when we die we shall see
the mo<m and tho stars as they are — perhaps visit them?"

"What a strange (juestion, William," replied the other
with a shudder ; " what put such a (pieer thought in
your head ?"

" (), I don't know ; but everything has been so different
from what wo have been used to up there at home that
my mind is fidl of strange thoughts. But, now, what do
you think ; do you suppose wo shall visit them ?"

" Do I think we shall see the moon and the stars just
as they are ? Why, William, you are older than 1, and
my teacher besides. It is not fair to ask me such a
question. I have never thought of .anything like this
before."

"I think we will see them and know all about them. I
have been thinking that some of those stars maybe heaven;
in a word, that each star is a mansion in the Father's
house ! Do you remember the blessed words, ' In my
Father's house are many mansions ?' I do believe that
those glorious stars are the niansions to which the Lord
refers. Look there, look at that one," and he pointed to
a peculiarly brilliant orb that twinkled and shone vividly
in spite of the moonlight ; "if I could choose one, I would
like to go there when I die. I could look down and per-
haps — who knows ? — see all that is going on I "

" Oh, William, you make me feel so with all this talk !
I never thought of such things in all my life. I wish I
were home again with Mary," and the boy brushed away
a tear that trickled down his cheek.

William and Mary.

155

noon
loved
i\ .the
)irit8.
) mo-
ll see

luni

; other
^\i in

fferent
le that
hat do

rs just
I, and
such a
ke this

em. I

Iheaven;
ather'a
In my
ve that
le Lord
inted to
vividly
1 would

,nd per-
ns talk !
wish I
led away

" Yes, 1 would that we were both tliere if tlie war were
over, not before. How sweet our homes will he to us in
the future, Hal ? What is that that Cicero says about
one's home ? Can you recall it, for really I can't V"

"You can't? Ho says, ^ Nnllux est locua domestica sede
jui'undior.^ Why, you quoted that to me long before 1
knew anything about it myself."

"Did I? No <loubt I did; but while it is true
enough, it is not for us just now. However, our own
Hre.side will be all the ' more delightful ' when we get
l)ack again !"

" William, what was making you talk about death just
now? We are but boys, you know."

" Yes, but boys die as well as men, don't they ?"

His companion shuddered. "Oh, William, don't talk
so, please. It is late now ; had we not better go U)
sleep ? "

" Sleep ? * Alticiant snnnws fewpus viotusqne mnumque^''
as Ovid has it. Well, neither one has so caused me to bo
sleepy yet, although I admit we have had motion enough.
You go and lie down yourself, Hal ; I want to stop here
a while longer to talk to the moon and the stars I"

"And quote Latin to them ?"

" No, I promise yo\i, not another wor<l, English or
Latin, to disturb your slumbers. Lie down, Hal."

As the youths turned toward the deck the crouching
figure of a man, hiding in the shadow df the great sail,
glided off and was lost to view. Harry sprang after it,
but stumbled over a sleeping soldier and fell upon his
face. Coming back somewhat crestfallen, William asked
him with a smile :

" Have you seen a ghost, Hal ?"

"I wish I had," was the reply as, spreading his
blanket at William's feet, the young man stretched him-

156

William and Mary

solf on tho deck. Hut not to slotip ! It wuh nearly
midnight before William took liis place beside him, and
waa soon wrapped in prof<»und slumbor. Harry was so
confidant that the retreating figure he had seen had been
listening to thefr conversation and meant them net good,
that sleep was l)anished from his eyes. Sleep I How
could he think of such a thing with danger hovering so
near \ How strange was his lot ! He was a mere boy,
yet he felt that not only the safety of his companion was
committed to his care, but the future weal or wcje of her
he loved dearer than his own life. His own life ? Why
that counted just nothing in his estimate of the situation.
Could he send William Ijack to her alive and well by the
sacrifice of his own life, it would l)e done willingly — gladly.
But what could he do ? He dare not break his promise —
a promise sacredly made t(» his sister for the last time the
night before they had left. And yet to say nothing might
mean death, ruin to them all. He would not keep it I
Mary had promised secrecy under comi>ulsion. There
was no moral obligation to keep any such promise.
Why shouldn't he warn William and put him on his
guard ? Yes, he would do it the first thing in the morning.
But why wait till the morning I If his fears were well-
grounded, the man he had seen was an enemy ; and he
knew only too well that the warning William had received
from Mary had been treated lightly — in fact, waa not
thought of at all. He had attributed it to fenunine tinii-
di '', nor did he grasp any other meaning from her words
than that some of the boys might have a grudge against
him for winning the dear little girl's heart. What did he
csire for the boys? They would have enough to think
about and more than enough without recalling boyish
disappointments like that. Brave as a lion himaelf he
feared nothing, and like every brave man he suspected

The

of tl

the

sky,

finge

diani

selve

]\Hlia)n and Mary.

>57

iiutliin^'. Wliiit wiiH Harry's duty/ NVjih i< iiut pliiiiily
to hroiik !i pronuHK {^ivi'ii witlmut th»tu<,'lit, uikI cravo
Marys foijrivnu'.sH afturwardw, than Hi-t' liis fiiund run
into tilt' aniiH of danger unwarnod I It was clearly his
duty. H«j would do it. He would warn hiiu whenever
he opened his eyes in the nu)rnin{j;. Rut why wait till
the morning i Why n(»t now l Why not waken him at
once ; an<l he grasped the arm of his sleejjing friend and
shcjok him till he awoke. W^illiam sat up and rubbed his
eyes : " What is it, Hal ; another ghost, eh V

"Oh, i«y dear William!"

" Why, what in the w(»rld is the matter with the boy?"
and he turned his eyes njyon the poor lad as he continued,
laughing, "Oh, 1 see how it is; J have frightened you
with my nonsense I Never mind it, Hal ; never mind it!
Go to sleej) now ; take your rest, as Ovid would say,
^ Da requiem; requiitus aycr hene credita rcihlit. !''' and he
stretched himself back on his blanket again, and with a
yawn was soon oli' into the land of forgetfulness.

CHAPTER XXV.

AN OLD ENEMY

The following morning poor Harry found his resolution
of the previous night had vanished with the light. With
the bright March sun streaming down from an unclouded
sky, touching the wide expanse of waters with its golden
fingers till the sea sparkled like a pavement set with
diamonds, his youthful spirits once more asserted them-
selves, and he laughed at William's sallies of wit and

'5«

iri/liaifi and Mary.

Ijjitiii t|un(iitiouH, iMiy-likc, hh if iio iliiiiKcr w.'ih tiHiigiiii;
likr a tliirk chxi'l iilxtvc \\>v\\\ Ixtih.

Thit hiHNikfiiHi •<ii <l;ck thiit iiioi'iiing wuh a hoiHteroUH,
rollicking allair. TIiohi' who, <luring ilie first few hours
out, had i»ai(l unwilling tribute to Neptune, were now on
their feet again, enjoying the chaH' at their own expense
with the utuioHt good nature.

There is Hoini'thing in tin; wild freedom (>f the waves
that liftH a man ahove an<l out of himHelf. It was a
remark of a French renegade, that the bewildering sense
of absolute abandon which came over him as, mounted on
his fiery Arab steed, he flew on the wings of the wind
across the desert, hail such an intoxicating efl'oct upon
his spirits that he could only maintain reason on its
throne by venting the mad frenzy of his soul in cheers,
and shouts, and screams. So is it upon the sea where
deep calleth inito dee]). The wailing moaning as of
countless voices the ri]>[>ling music of the waves bai)tiz-
ing the gallant ship the lonely stretch of the billowy
l»avement around and on every hand — the sighing song
of the breeze through the rigging the screaming of the
storm-birds a])ove the waters, all these have in them a
something so unlike the experience of the land that we
are carried captive with the exuberance of our spirits.

The boys ate their brea<l and meat this morning with a
relish no landsman ever knows, while jijkes, cheers and
snatches of song were heard on all sides.

" Come, old fellow, what's work on the farm to thisT'
cried a great honest-looking man to William, who,
stretched full length upon the deck, was munching away
at his food.

"Why, you are right there," was the reply, "sure
enough, what is work on the farm to this, and as for
Greek and Latin, well, they are about the next best,
I suppose."

William and Mary.

150

"(), yew'U liii.l cout tliiit Ml' farm 'ill Iks liottoi'n tli'
trunchuB tit LooiHhiirg," HHiig out iiMoihur.

"You, go away," Hhoutud tho hr»t Hpuuker, " wliat
trencht'8 /"

" W'lmt tronchuH '\ Why, <loan't yow know we'll liev
tew tlig all areound the old place, an' in under it tew, fur
nil I know."

" Who tole yon that stuft', enyway ?"

"Stuff! O, well, its true 'nough, call it what y(m
like."

" Wal, s'posin' its true, what of it? Haven't I dug
before neow ?"

" Dug ! What's <liggin on th' farn» like diggin'
trenches with canoni balls an' bagnots conun' bang, bang,
every minute an' knockin' yer head ofiT'

" Knockin' yer head off' eveiy minute I Thati^s good !
Ha! ha! ha I Canorn balls an' bagnots knockin' yer
head off every minute ! Ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!

"Canorn ball, o' coorse. What <rye think we're goin'
(leown thar fur, enyway? Deon't yew kno' thar's
thousans an' thoiisans of canonis deown thar ? "

"Wal, what of it? We'll hev no canorn balls at all, I
s'pose ; O no, we'll hev no canorn balls nor bagnots I Not
U8. See aheer, boys, this chap thinks were goin' deown
tew Looisburg jest to let them thar French moonseers
hev th' fun of knockin' off our heads with canorn balls
an' bagnots every minute, while all we've got t' dew is
tew look on ez thar bein' knocked off. "

"O, wal," replied the other, "I didn't mean jest that
yew know ; but we'll find it'll be pretty hard work deown
thar."

"Of course, it'll be pretty hard work," retorted William;
"hot work! What do you suppose we are going for but
for hot w«)rk?"

i6o

William and Mary.

'* Be keerful lieow yew speak to the general or corper-
lur," s(|ueaked out a voice behind him. William turned
sharply, and saw for the first time since coming on board
his old enemy, Jacob Waterman.

"O! you'te there, are you? You didn't have enough
of it at Harmony, I see," an(?. our hero sprang to his feet.
" Take some more of the general again, then, or corporal,
whichever you will."

" Stan' back !" cried the ruffian with an oath, un-
sheathing his knife.

'* Look eout !" shouted a dozen voices in chorus. It
was too Late. Waterman, like a flash, buried his knife
in William's side, at the same instant falling senseless to
the deck from a blow on the head from Harry, who saw
what was coming, but too late to prevent it. The boys
clustered»around William.

" Are yew hurt ?" screamed a score at once.

" Yes, I think I must be," was the calm reply as he
unbuttoned his coat. Harry rushed to his assistance
just as, swaying from side to side, he tried wildly to
recover himself, then sank upon the deck in his blood.

The men were mad with rage. William was a general
favorite. His cowardly assailant no sooner recovered
from Harry's blow than he ran off and hid himself in the
hold. The wounded youth was carried below, followed
by the surgeon. Harry would not leave him.

'* O, doctor," cried the boy in such a pained voice that it
touched every heart ; '^ O, doctor, is he much hurt?"

** Not so badly as I at 5rst thought. It is only a slight
flesh wound — a mere scratch, in fact. He will be all
right in a few days."

"Thank God!" ejaculated Harry, falling on his
knees beside the berth and tenderly stroking the suf-
ferer's hair as he had so often done his sister's at home.

William and Mary.

i6i

William almost immediately rallied and lie^aii (luieting
his comrade's fears, telling him it was just nothing at all,
Harry wouldn't leave him, however, and, taking one of
William's hands in both his own, exclaimed as soon as
they were ahme : " (^h, this is worse than I feared last
night. The villain must be — Oh, <lear, what am I say-
ing? I don't know what to do I"

The surgecm, who Imd not yet left the gangway, hear-
ing the sobbing, returned, sternly exclaiming : " You
will have to be quiet and not disturb the patient, or I
will have you removed ! "

"Oh, sir, don't do that, i)lease ; don't make me leave
him, sir ; I will be quiet !"'

"All right, then!"

A guard had been detailed hastily to secure Waterman,
^ who, after considerable search, was found stowed away
behind a pile of baggage. He was immediately secured
and placed in irons.

William soon fell into a liroken slumber, and, as the
day wore on and night ai»j)roached, he showed unmis-
takable signs of fever. The surgeon looked grave as he
came round about dark, but said nothing. By-and-bye
Harry could tell that his mind was wandering. lie
would mutter incoherently to himself, stmietimes calling
his mother, but oftener Mary. Then dozing uneasily his
lips would move again, and it was apparent to the in-
tensely anxious heart of the watcher that his mind was
off among the loved scenes of W^oodside. Towards mid-
night these symptoms became so aggravateil that Harry,
acting upon the orders of the surgeon, gave the alarm,
and the doctor was soon by the ))edside. Harry was
nearly beside himself with fear and anxiety. "I knew
it, I knew it," he kept on muttering, wringing his hands.

"You knew what?" at length retorted the surgeon,

b¥t4

162

William and Mary.

turniiiju; on the hoy with anger. "Uo on deck, sir,
instantly !"

The doctor's lieart smote liini as soon as he spoke
when he noticed the lad's pallid face. "O, well, never
mind, you may stay ; but do keep quiet, will you, if you
love your friend."

After administering a cooling potion another watcher
was detailed iuv the remainder of the night, and ere long
Harry was fast asleep with his head resting close to
William's.

When morning broke he was wild with joy to find his
comrade's mind again clear, although he was much too
weak to converse to any extent.

"All right now, my lad; he is all right now," ex-
claimed the surgeon cheerily, as he entered and glanced
at his patient. " Your friend will be out of this in a daj
or two if you behave yourself. Off with you now and *
get some sleep yourself."

The surgeon's words proved true, for in a couple of
days William could sit up in his berth, to the great joy
of all his companions. The two youths were alone to-
gether the first evening he had got bolstered to a sitting
posture. Harry, with the impulsiveness of his years,
judged that now was the time of all times to warn him of
the coming danger.

"William!"

"Well, Hal!"

"Oh, William, you're in danger! Heaven help us
both, and those at home !"

*' What do you mean V" feebly asked the other. " I'm
doing pretty well, don't you think ?"

" Oh, it's not this at all — it's something else !"

"W^ell, then, what else ?"

*' Oh, William, remember Mary's warning — some one is
going tJiat means you harm ! That some one is here ! "

William and Mary.

163

"Do you nuijin the fool tliat HtiildnMl mo? Bah I D(»ii't
trouble y(jur head alxtut him, Hal !"

"But I don't mean him at all— at least, nut him
al(»ne !"

" You don't ? Theii wlio is it ?" asked the other with
considerable interest for him.

Harry faltered. His heart failed him. His opportunity
was gone, never to ])e recalled.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CONCENTRATION AND PREPARATION.

What a thrilling sight greete<l the convalescent young
soldier as he once more came on deok, leaning on Harry's
arm. During the time he had been below a succession of
baffling winds had hindered the voyage, the ships making
but indifferent progress. William was still weak, but the
boys clustered around him, while expressions of joy and
8ynii)athy were heard on all sides. But his eyes were not
on them, but on the sea. The fleet, which during the
tirst part of the voyage had become considerably scattered,
was now sailing close together. The land was looming up
before them. It was a beautiful day. The sun poured
down its genial warmth on the deck as the two young
men seating themselves on a box sheltered from the wind,
gazed alternately from the ships which, like things of
beauty, clove the waves, to the snow-capped hills towards
which they were plunging.
"OHal, this is grand ! "

164

William and Mary.

Harry'.s f.-ict; liglitod up with joy. "Yes," lie replied,
*' it is giuiul • it is l)e!Hitiful : we will soon lie lasliore."

*' J feel strong ulrejuly ! 1 do believe I could shoulder
a musket now if I luul one!"

Harry luuglied.

" See there, Hal, look at that ! " and he pointed towards
the precipitous clitt's yet white with snow ; " did you evfr
see anytiiing like that?"

"(irandl" responded his friend with enthusiasm,
"why, grand is no word for it. Look where the snow is
curled over ycMider point ! We never saw^ anything like
that in Woodside, did we V

"1 should think not, nor are we ever likely to."

The two friends kept up a running connnentary on the
scene until the ships rounding the cape dropped anchor
close to the lantl. Then was the wild frenzy of the hour.
Every ship was alive with men. The excitement of the
moment was so bewildering that William, weak as he was
from his wound, staggered to his feet as, amidst deafening
shouts, the anchors plunged into the sea, while the white
canvas, as by magic, disappeared under the manipulations
of the sailors. The landing of the troops was begun
almost immediately. The New Ham))shire volunteers,
numbering three hundre<l men, led by Cohmels Moore
and Vaughan, were soon safe up<m the bleak shores of
Isl Royale. How grandly they looked as they formed
there (m the beach, their banner flung gaily to the breeze
with the inspiring legend inscribed on its silken folds :

^^ Nil despcrandiim, Chrinto duceV^*

It was a great trial to William that he had to remain
on board ship, as he was considered as yet too weak to
land with his comrades. Harry was permitted, by per-

* This motto v.as given to Oeu. Pepperell by the celebrated preacher,
^ GTeorge Whitefijld.

William and Mary

■65

sonally appealing to Colonel Moore, to remain with him,
and so the time passed as pleasantly as could he expected,
the tw(j friends, eagerly watching their companions on
shore busily engaged in erecting temporary ijuarters or dril-
ling in 8(|uads here and there on the hare si)aces of ground.

William had, as might be exi)ected from his nature,
paid but little attention to Harry's agonized caution as to
the danger hovering over him. He had, however, some-
how been thinking of it a good deal this afternoon as
they sat together muffled up on deck. A detachment
was drilling right before their eyes, so close that they
could hear every word of connnand.

The young men wore so intent on watching the ma-
nceuvres of their comrades as to prevent much conver-
sation, till at last William startled hi.s friend by abruptly
asking, "Is mine enemy in that s(piad, Hall? My other
enemy, you know, not the general or ct)rp(jral fellow."

Taken aback by the suddenness of the (piestion, Harry
replied without thought, " Yes, he is there, right before
you."

The squad was small, and William could see there was
not a Woodside man among them. ' ' Then 1 am glad
this mysterious wretch, wlujever he is, does not belong to
our own company. The fact is, Hal, the more I think
of this affair, the more convinced I am that both you and
dear little Mary are unduly alarmed over nothing."

" Would to heaven we were," was the solemn reply.

"Look here, now, Hal, who in that squad can have
anything against me? I don't think I have spoken a
dozen words to one of them. If I have an enemy among
the boys it must only be the coward who has laid me
aside here."

"Did I say he was in that squad? Well, I didn't
mean just that. T said he Wtas right before your eyes."

1 66

William and Mary

William was about to reply when the appealinu; Mast
of the bugle burst out upon the air, and the men caniu
rushing together, till the whole of the brave little army
was in line before them, William had no more thoughts
for his enemy.

" O Hal, how grand! I can't stand this ; I'll go ashore
to-morrow, say what they will." He had his wish grati-
fied on the next day easier than he had expected. His
cowardly assailant, who had ever since the attack been
kept in close confinement on board the ship, was to bo
tried by court-martial on shore. The surgeon judged
William to be out of danger, and he was accordingly or-
dered with Harry into the boat. The trial was soon over,
and, to the surprise of all, and the indignation of many.
Waterman was discharged. It was whispered among the
men that the decision was arrived at through the earnest
entreaty of one of the ofticers — which one it was not
known. William cared little, if .anything, about it. He
was getting strong rapidly, and in the eyes of his co v-
rades he was the first hero of the war. He was accord-
ingly considerably lionized, while his assailant was greeted
with jeers whenever he appeared among them.

On the first day of April, the Massachusetts troops
arrived, numbering three thousand two hundred and
fifty men, and were followed in a few days by those of
Connecticut to the number of five hundred. The Mas-
sachusetts division was made up of eight regiments, under
the commands respectively of Colonels Bradstreet, Waldo,
Dwight, Moulton, Willard, Hall, Richmond, and Gorham.
The entire force now on the enemy's soil was nigh unto
five thousand men all told. It was expected that the fleet
under Commodore Warren would be waiting for them at
Canso, but upon his arrival Pepperell, to his dismay,
found himself alone and without the expected co-opera-
tion. Nothing daunted, however, he entered with energ}'

William and Alary.

167

upon the important task of drilling his army, liaving de-
terminud to entrench himself here and await develop-
ments. For this purpose the men were set to work
felling timVier, which they well knew how to do, so that
by the middle of April a blockhouse mounting eight guns
was completed.

In the meantime the armed cruisers which had been
despatched to reconnoitre in the neighV)orhood of the
great stronghold returned, reporting that not only the
harbour of Louisburg but the entire surrounding sea coast
was so completely blocked with ice as to render any
ninvement against the position for the present impossible.
But the men were not idle. A detatchment under Col.
Moulton penetrated into the country to St. Peters, where
the settlement was ravished, the fort destroyed, and a
few prisoners taken. Harry, to his great delight, was de-
tailed for this marauding expedition, but had to go with-
out William, whose protestations that he was as strong as
ever went unheeded.

On the morning of the 23rd, cheer after cheer brought
every man to the shore, where, to the inexpressible joy
(tf all, the ships of Warren's squadron dropped anchor in
the harbor. Almost simultaneously with their arrival a
cruiser sailed in with the welcome news that the ice- jam
had broken, and the entrance to Louisburg was clear.
The army was intoxicated with excitement. Rumors of
every description were in the air. The men knew all
about it, so each one thought, as he eagerly retailed the
latest bit of camp gossip. All these flying reports, how-
ever, at length took definite shape when, on the follow-
ing Sunday morning, the 29th day of April, every man
found himself on board, and the mighty fleet with
majestic sweep sailed out upon the heaving sea, each ship
with prow defiantly pointed in the direction of the doomed
city.

1 68

Will taut and Mary.

CHAPTER XXVII.

NEWS, STAKTLINC;, STHANOK, HUT TUUE !

*' How uro you tliis ni(jrnin«{, Mrs. Farley ; how are you
this morning /"

It was the clieery voice of lier dear old p.astor.

*' Middliii', tliank yew, sir, an' tliank th' Lord. I've
no feelin' but tlianks in me heart t' him ! Yer well yer-
self, sir, air yew !*"

"Yes, thank you kindly, I too am full of thankful-
ness to the Giver of all good I"

He took the proffered chair, and, seating himself, asked
her if she had heard from the boys l Yes, Harry had
written to her saying that William wasn't well ; but it
was a short letter. She didn't know what could be the
matter with the boy, he was always so healthy at home ;
but she supposed them parts were different.

The good old minister listened to her uneasily as she
thus rattled along. A cruiser had returned from Canso
bringing a great many letters, among them one from
Chaplain McDonald to liimself, and, as it contained some
news about William, he had come over to tell her about
it. Then, in gentle tones, he gradually broke to the
astounded mother what our readers already know, not
forgetting, however, to speak particularly about the boy's
rapid recovery, which last he especially dwelt upon as an
evidence of the favor of God, who had foreordained all
things whatsoever cometh to pass. Mrs. Farley sat
motionless and dumb through it all.

She felt as if her tears were dried up, and to speak,
what could she say ? The minister drew the letter out of

IViiliai/i and Alary.

169

,s slie
anao
from
some
about
o the
not
boy's
as an
d all
y sat

his pockot, and, after a fow words of ctMnf(»rt, procooded
to read it aloud. It ran as followH :

"(.'amp at Canho, April 18tii, 1745.

••Rkvkrkm) ANi» Uklovki) Mk. Fknwkjk :

"Thinking that you would wish to be informed of the pro-
grt'HH of the Lord's army ah it goes up agaiunt tlie idolater, I
Hit down this nu)rning and take pen in hand. After a rather
boisterous voyage we arrived here about a week ago, He
who holdetii the winds in His tist and the waves in the
hollow of His hand, liaving been, as of old, with His own
people, as they go fortli to His help against the Mighty. My
neart longs for the hour when mine eyes shall behold His
victory over the idolatrous city, and when with these mine
hands I may be permitted to hew, after the manner of Agag,
the graven images which are an abonunation in His sight.
Pray for me that in the day of battle I may, like the one
of old, hew them to pieces.

" Nothing worthy of special mention has occurred since we
left home, save an accident (if such it may be called speaking
after the manner of men, seeing that He foreordains whatso-
ever cometh to pass) that befell one of our young men, the
noV)le William Farley of your own village. A son of Belial,
evidently a child of wrath given over from all eternity to a
reprobate mind, made a violent assault on our young
friend, wounding him with a knife in the side. But the
Disposer of all events so ordered it tliat the wound
should be slight, so that the lad is in a fair way of recovery.
Indeed, I may say he has already recovered. There is little
open wickedness among the men, as becometh the Lord's
chosen, so this sad atfair has caused no small stir among us.
* * * I commend unto you as unto a father in the gospel
the beloved flock I left behind me in Harmony. Truly thty
are as sheep without a shepherd. * * *

" Yours in the bonds of peace,

" Donald McDonald,

"Chaplain."
"Mr. Fenwick!"
The niinLster started. **

"Mr. Fenwick, me btty'll nevor cum back t' mo alive 1
I'vefelt it furdays!"
12

170

William and Mary.

"If it is the purpose of God that the lad should not
return, he will not return ! But if in the eternal councils
it was decreed otherwise, have no fears ! Not a hair of
his head will be hurt if it has been foreordained to tho
contrary !"

" Yew kno', sir, wliat we heerd Mary a-sayin', in her
sickness ?"

"Yes."

*' Well, she told me more'n she told eny wan."

" What did she tell you ?" was the eager enquiry.

" 'Nough t' show that she knows more'n she'll tell ! "

*' What can it all mean?" mused the aged man, speak-
ing aloud to himself. " What can it all mean ?"

" It meens jest this : Sum wan's in th' army ez is in
love with Mary, an' hez threatened William afore her ! "

Mr. Fenwick rose to his feet in blank amazement.
*' Mrs. Farley, Mrs. Farley, don't say that ! Impos-
sible ! Absurd ! It can't be so ; no, it can't be so !
Who could it be ? No one hero ; not a man of them, old
or young, but I have known since their infancy. Not one
of them would lay a finger on the boy — not one of them I"

"An' yet yew see it's ben dun !"

He hadn't thought of that. How strange he hadn't
thought of that ? How strange the chaplain hadn't men-
tioned the man's name ? He would write immediately ;
but no, he would go and see Mary herself, tell her all,
and peremptorily — yes, peremptorily demand her secret ;
and, grasping his hat, he was making for the door when
stopped by Mrs. Farley :

" Heer's Mary herself an' her father, neow ! "

The same instant the door opened and both entered.
One look told all. She had heard the news as well as them-
selves. They all sat down in silence. Poor Abijah looked
more heart-broken than ever, as casting his eyes upon

Will

mill if.

lent

William and Mary,

171

the Hr»or ho sat liku one in a <lreani. Hn had ))eon at his
(»1(1 " thinkin' an' athinkin"' that niorninj^ alxmt tho
(U-crues, and it had done him aH UHual no <;(>(id.

Tho niinistor roso and advanco<l towards them. Not a
word liad hoon Hpokon. Tho ombarraHHmont was growing
awkward wlion at hiat Mr. Fonwick si)(»ke :

"Wo aro all friends hero — brothers and sistors in
troul)lo. Lot there bo no secrets between us I"

Nothing was srid in reply, when, determined to bring
matters to an issue, ho exclaimed almost in dos[>eration :

"Mary Oliver, who is it that is William's enemy in tho
iu'iiiy ? Wo have a right to know. His hoart-brokon
mother has a right to know !"

"Oh, sir, why do you ask such a question? Who
could have told y«>u this I "

" Why do 1 ask l Haven't you heard tho news ?"

"Alas, yes!"

"Is this ruthan, whoever ho may bo, tho enemy ?"

"Ho is not!"

"No?"

"No!"

" How do you know that ?"

" Harry has written to me ; I have his letter in my
pocket."

" Has this murderous man any acquaintance with
William's enemy ?"

" I don't know, sir."

"You don't know? Will you at least toll me, your
minister, who this mysterious enemy is ?"

" Oh, sir, I cannot ; indeed, I cannot. I dare not !
Spare me, Mr. Fenwick, spare me ! " and the girl burst
into a tit of hysterical weeping.

"One word at least," persisted tho minister, "do I
know him?"

172

WilliiDii and Mary.

Hhu Rtoppcd Hotthiiij^s lutHJtutud 11 iiiiiiiiciit hh if at a Iohh
wliat in reply.

*' You do, HJr !" hIu) at lawt iiiana«^i'(l to Hay. " I can
an8W(!f no nlo^l^ I darn not ! It would d(» moro harm
than ;,'o(id. Oji, sir, yoii don't know you cannot know
how luui'li haiiii I"

Mr. FVnwick Hat down, and f(»ldin^ IiIh hands on tlio
top of his Htatl' liowi.'d Iuh head tlu!i'u(tn. Thero wan
Bonu!thin<^ hero which paHsed Iuh coniprchenHion. '^ I
know him. " ho numud. It niockud him whilu it lud him
on. " 1 know thu man who would destroy the boy ! I
know him and yet don't know him I What madness is
hero. What can I do '. May power from on high assist
mo !" and he groaned in utter helplessness.

It never occurred to the dear old man now for one
moment, that if the I'ower from on high had foreordained
all this mystery which ])alHed while it mocked him, tho
Power from on high was not going to permit him to in-
terfere with it. As in all the great crises of his life, ho
found his cast-iron creed a])roken reed on whicJi to lean.
In theory it scjothed him, in practice he flung it to the winds.

" We cum over t' be atellin' on yew, but ez yew kno' all
abeout it we may ez well be agoin'. Cum Mary!" and
they were g(»ne.

The door closed behind tlunn, but the minister did not
move. He was overwhelmed with fear, doubt, and
anxiety. In the long course of his life, knowing sorrow
himself and meeting difficulties im every side, he had
never been brought face to face before with that which so
completely defied and bafHed him and set him at nought.
The deacon ennie in from the field ; but tlie bowed hoiul
remained bowed. .\t a sign from liis wift; f hry liotli passed
((uietly out into the back kitchen, where she gently broke
to him the news. When they came back, he was gone.

William and Marv.

CHAPTER XXVIir.

, GOOD INTENTIONS.

Thk Rt)v. Mr. Fonwick luul Hturted for homo full t>f };otKl
inteiitioiiH. Hjh loving heart luul fondly itniigiiuul that
lit.' had hit uiton a plan that would bring about a Holution
of the mystery which was hanging over his friends, or
failing in that, would at least give him a clew which he
might be able successfully to fi»llow up. He had, as
already renuirked, liimself known the "sweet uses of
aJvfirsity." in the vig(»r of his strong manho(»d the
partner of his bosom had been taken away from him.
His only child, on whom he doted, had early followed the
mother into the "silent land," and those long years ho
had gone in and out among his people, but with one aim,
one object in life — their present hapi)iness in the light of
their eternal gt)od. To him there was naught else in earth
worth living for. Simple as a child and atlectictnate as a
woman, he doubted none, but loved all. Strange incon-
sistency of the human heart ! He believed as finuly in
the doctrines as he believed in God ; yet it had never
once occurred to him that any of his own tlock were
among those whom (Jod had "foreordained to everlasting
death." So far as he was concerned, he both believed
and acted on the belief, that his rustic followers were
" by the decrees of Ood, for the manifestation of His
glory, predestinated into eve. lasting life." Those who were
passed by and ordained "to dishonor and wrath for their
sin, to the praise of His glorious justice," b^hjnged to
some other man's flock, not his. Unused to the ways of
the world in all that may be ccmsidered purely woi-ldly,

174

William and Mary.

he lived in tlie puro iitniospliero of benevolence, nor
could he bring Jiiniself to believe that what he saw on the
surface was not the reflection of what he could not see.
Hence as he always saw the best side of man's character,
he was as comj^letoly deceived as if he had repudiated
with sc(jni the doctrine of total depravity. With an
abiding faith in God and the decrees, he believed that all
things would work together for good to those who loved
Him. He loved Hii.i himself, and whatsoever had come
to him of apparent evil had worked for his present and
prospective good. Of that he was certain. Of this he
had no doubt— never had the shadow of a doubt. Wliat
had been true in his own experience would also be true
in the experience of others. Of this he was also cerfciiii.

It was with such reflections as these that he hastened
towards his liome from Deacon Farley's, full of a hope
that he tirmly believed had come to him there as an
inspiration from on high.

How often is it that our best intentions are frustrated
by the narrowness of the vision with wnich we view them.
How have our best laid schemes but precipitated the evil
we had struggled to avoid. Life is an enigma to aught
save the eye of faith. Who shall say that when in the
darkness of our ignorance we do those things we thouglit
for the best, but " ich proved after all for the worst,
who shall say that the Father who readeth the heart will
sit in judgment on the act, and forget the motive behind
it ? We would lose faith in the unchangeable goodness
of an all-wise and over-ruling Power, did we think so —
could we think so. Considered apart from the eternal
love that ^ ">arns towards us, we would be the victims of
gigantic gorgons of evil malignity, revelling in blood 'a\v\
disporting in tears. Who could live and have no ray of
hope that the bfvlances of life would one day be ad-

William and Maw.

175

stratecl
them,
evil
auglit
the
l^hovight
■orst,

„_ will
behind

)()dness
so-
eternal
•iims of
an'l
ray of
1 be ad-

justed ? We rush along blindly through devious ways,
or grope in gloom through blinding tempests of 'empta-
tion. Through eyes bedimmed with tears we see an
opening into green pastures beyond. Through the in-
viting portal catch we not the sheen of the shining
ones who, having entered, found rest for their bleeding
feet. We enter, when lo, the illusion vanishes. Like
the deceitful mirage of the desert it flies before us.
When nearest it ?3 farthest ! We follow on in the frenzy
of despair. In deep depths we sink. All the waves and
the billows are over us. We perish ! And yet the motive
which led us on was a good one.

When Mr. Fenwick arrived home he hastened up stairs
to his study to put into immediate execution what his
fond heart assured him would either avert the threatened
danger or at least lead to a solution of the mystery which
had settled over his dearest friend. Seated at his desk
he was soon busily engaged in writing. He was old, and
the pen moved not as briskly as of yore, but his heart
was in his labor of love and he toiled on till all was
finished. He had just got through his laborious work
when his housekeeper tapped softly at the study door :

" 1 didn't like t' disturb yew, sir, but seein' De^ken
Farley's ben in the sittin' room neigh onto an hour,
an' looks so cast deown like, I thort as p'rhaps you'd see
him!"

"See him ! Oh, dear me, yes. Why didn't you toll
me before. Send him up at once."

The fact was that the kindly old woman had lived so long
with the minister that she knew what his every look and
action meant. She had seen him come home from Farley's,
heard him clamber up stairs to the study, and knew as
well as if he had told her that something terrible was at
work in his mind.

1/6

William and Mary.

"Show him up Htairs, Sarah ; show him up. Dear me,
why (lid you not do so beforo ?"

When the deacon entered tlie minister rose, ama/.ed at
the pale, careworn face of the man. Once only had he
seen such a look on him^when years ago he had como
into the study after a sleepless night caused by his boy's
lapse of faith in the doctrines. But it was scarcely the
same look. Then it was the Vnik of the patriarch about
to sacrifice his son at the bidding of God, A terrible
look — a look never to be forgotten by him Vf\\o saw it.
A " though-thou-slay-me-yet-will-I-trust-in-thee" look !
Now, it was the look of despair, agony, love, all mingled
in one, with none predominating.

*' You must try and bear it as well as you can, deacon,
'looking unto Jesus,'" the minister at last managed to
say as they both sat down. The deacon groaned aloud.
How could he look unto Jesus and find consolation or
hope, while he believed with all his heart, and soul, and
. mind that this same Jesus had foreordained and brought
to pass all the trouble that had burst upon his family like
an enveloped thunderbolt ? For a brief time he had
looked unto Jesus, but he had been meditating since and
saw the absurdity of it all. Now he could not look. How
could he ? Let him answer who can ! The stern expres-
sion was gone ; for, as he passed through the fiery furnace
of trial, the doctrines had failed to comfort or sustiin.
The fearful weight of anxiety and suspense of the iast
few days had bowed him down to the earth a crushed and
wounded man ; while the appalling conviction, that what-
ever danger was threatening his beloved boy, had been
decreed by Almighty God, made his tongue cleave to t!ie
roof of his mouth when he essayed to pray that it migit
be averted. He pray, forsooth, that the eternal purposes
might be changed ! Tt was blasphmiy to think of the like

William and Mary.

177

" We tin •light," ho iiuiiiiigo<l after a time to say, *'wu
thought it stiango that you loft without a word, so 1 came
over.

The minister pointed to his table and the sealed letters
lying thereon, remarking as he did so, " Cheer up now,
deacon, cheer up. I have hit on a plan to discover a
clew to this mystery. When you go liome tell y ur good
wife to cheer up too. You have her left, deacon, even if
anything should happen the boy, and that is more than
your old pastor has."

Farley was touched to the ([uick as, lifting his eyes, he
saw the tears streaming down the minister's face. He
said nothing, however, for his heart was too full for words.
Rising slowly he grasped his pastor's hand and was gone.

Alone again, Mr. Fenwick fell upon his knees by the
table, and there was the wrestling of a mighty man with
his God.

That evening after supper he was taking down his hat
from its accustomed peg, when the housekeeper, as was
her wont, remonstrated :

*' Whar be yew goin', sir, ef I may be so bold ? Yew
look tew tired-like an' worn t' be agoin' eout."

"Oh well, Sarah, never you mind. I am stronger
than you think," and the dear old man laughed cheerily
as he began shuffling about the room for his staflf. It was
nowhere to be found. " Why, I put it right here in the
corner when I came in. Did you see it, Sarah ?"

"See what, sir ?" replied the housekeeper, pretending
she was too busy clearing away the table to notice his
search.

" Why, I put my stick right here, and it's gone. I can't
find it anywhere."

He shuffled round the room for a few minutes longer,
and at last sat down, bursting into a peal of laughter :

178

William and Mary.

"Oho, I see how it, is. You have hidden it, Sarah; you
have hidden it."

There was no denying the charge, and in the midst of
much merriment, which by the way was nothing unusual
between the two, the stick was brought out of its hiding-
place.

'*Thar neow 'tis ; but I sorter think yew oughten t' go
eout."

" Oh, never mind, Sarah ; never mind. I'm not going
far this time. I am only going to look in at Widow Walker's
and encjuire about the little one. You know the little
fellow hasn't been very well for a day or two, and poor
woman, she feels badly enough with her boy away in
the war."

The housekeeper's eyes were full of tears as she closed
the door after him, and then went to the window and
watched the loved form as he trudged wearily down the
street :

"The Lord spare him t* us," she soliloquized ; "the
Lord spare him t' us a little longer. But I have me
fears. These orful times are tryin' him, 1 ken see only
tew well."

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE EMBARKATION.

As the mighty fleet sailed out proudly from Canso that
glorious Sunday morning in April, and the stately
squadron turned defiantly in the direction of Louisburg,
divine service was held on board ev^ry ship. How
grandly poured forth over the sparkling waves that

William and Mary.

179

;yoU

Ist of
Lusual
iding-

tit'go

i going
alker's
le little
id poor
iway in

lg closed
low and
lown the

il; "the
have me
see only

Janso that
le stately
jouisburg,
^ip. How

faves that

vohinie of praise to the (Jod »tf Iwittloa who givetli the
victory ! Eacli heart was filled with reverence. Then
in solemn tcnies was read :

" O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good: for
His mercy endureth for ever.

*'0 give thanks unto the God of gods : for His mercy
endureth forever.

"To Him who alone doeth great wonders: for His
morcy endureth forever."

The blessing of the Lord (lod of Sabaoth was then
implored upon their enterprise, while in lowly penitence
their sins were confessed and deplored. The sermons
which followed had all but a connnon theme— the gloiy
of Jehovah (except Chaplain McDonald's, who breathed
out blood-curdling threats tagainst the images of Rome) ;
His presence with His people ; His promise of victory to
the obedient. What a preparation was here for the
coming conflict ! The simple-hearted men were of one
mind and of one accord — they believed in God. No
apostle of protoplasm i^a^^. as yet appeared as the herald
of a " gospel of dirt " among those primitive children of
New England. They laid hold upon eternal verities
with a childlike simplicity of faith, which in these our
days would be as astounding to us as modern scepticism
would be astounding to them had they known of it.
Their theology was hard, cruel, merciless in its logic ;
but in defiance of it all grew up saintly characters.

After service the men scattered themselves about the
deck in groups, some reading their Bibles, others chatting
in low tones about the loved ones they had left behind,
but all reverent and devout, as became the sanctity of
the day. William, who was now completely restored to
health, was seated on a coil of rope with his back against
a gun-carriage. Harry was stretched at full length at

1 80

William and Mary.

his fuel. TIk! iiiutlufr'.s liwt i(\h, the littlo 'riJHtiiuiout aho
had put in his Ik»x the ni<;ht l)ef«>it! thuir doparturo, was
open in VVilliaiu's hand. He had been readinj^ it, not in
a perfunctory way as a duty the sooner got through with
the better, but drinking from its haUowed depths the
refresliing waters to his soul. He had lost his wonted
gaiety within tlio last few days, and there was upon his
face a look of subdued anguish which he strove in vain to
hide from the loving eye of his friend. Thuy had each
written long letters home during the week, and now, as
their gallant l)ark plunged onward through the waves,
they realized as they had never had since leaving home,
that the stern actualities of the campaign were full upon
them. Lying before him Harry scanned his comrade's
face with his soul in his eyes. He loved him — not any
more for Mary's sake than for his own. Their hearts
were knit together by long years of affectionate inter-
course. To Harry, William had always been counsellor
through all the mysteries of their boy-life, and it was
with feelings akin to awe that he now comprehended that
this relationship had been suddenly changed — that he
was now to act as guardian and protector of one who up
to a few weeks had been his own director in everything.
It came upon him this morning, lying here on the deck,
like a revelation. That he could counsel William ! Why
he had never in all his life done anything without first
consulting him. And now all this was to be changed.
He almost rebelled against the cruel fate that had so
ruthlessly came in upon them. Not that he felt like
wavering. O, no : he would follow his friend to the
death if need be ; he would die willingly if thereby he
could save his comrade. How noble William looked, he
thought, as he sat there pondering the holy words he was
reading ! A shade paler it may be, but brave and hand-

IVilliant iDui Mary.

181

some. He wishod Mary could see hiiu now, iiiul thus
musing in his heart, the innocent boy gazed lovingly up
in his conii)anion'8 face,

" What are you thinking al)out, Hal r' (luestioned the
other as at last their eyes met.

*' What are yoM thinking about, William V

" I would not like to tell you."

" Nor 1 you."

" Were you thinking about me, Hal ?" after a pause.

" Yes," was the reply.

" And I about you."

They relapsed again into silence, Harry noticed his
friend's face twitch nervously as he gazed dreamily up
toward the sky, shading his eyes from the garish rays of
the sun.

" Harry 1"

"Yes, William,"

"If it were not for mother and father, and — and,
perhaps i/om, I would pray God to let me die on the neld
of battle !"

The boy sprang to his feet as if shot to the heart, and
stood quivering in every limb and muscle, staring wildly
at his companion. The sharp call to dinner rang through
the sliip, and William, turning away from the paralyzed
youth, fell into line with the rest who came crowding up
from the h<ild, out from the forecastle, and from every
sunny nook on the deck, eager for the mid-day meal.

The huge squadron swung onward through the sea.
It was fully anticipated by Pepperrell and Warren that
they would n<»t only be able to anchor in CJabarus Bay
during the night, but also etlect a landing under cover of
darkness, and advance immediately upon Louial)urg, only
about a league distant. But to the dismay of all on ))oard,
as the sun went down the light breo which had wafted

182

William and Mary.

them steadily onwards during the day entirely died
away, till every sail hung flapping at the mast. It was a
bitter disappointment, but the brave fellows bore it right
patiently. As night drew her sablo curtains around them,
the scene was weirdly grand and pictures(iue. The sea
was dotted with the becalmed hulks of the ships, and as
every inch of canvas was set, they looked in their motion-
less silence like spectres from another world. The dark,
fir-clad hills on the shore frowned ominously, as if in
wrath at the dread api)arition before them. Far ott' from
some distant ship could be heard, borne over the waters,
the rich tones of some brave New England lad as he sang
a verso of a hymn. Then silence as of the dead.

CHAPTER XXX.

INSIDE THE WALLS.

As the New England fleet lies becalmed yonder upon
the sea, while the prayer of faith and song of praise are
going up to God, a different scene is being enacted here
inside the walls of Louisburg. A brilliant company is
gathered in the spacious apartments of Duchambon.
All the ofticers of the garrison are present. Gaily dressed
ladies are in attendance. The room is radiant with " fair
women and brave men." The crash of martial music, the
whirling of the dancers, the gorgeous uniforms of the
military, the rich attire of the ladies, make up a scene of
almost Oriental splendor. Moving calmly about among
his guests, with the graceful politeness of his nation, the
Governor looks admiringly on the animated throng before

William and Mary.

■83

him. Conscious of his own inferiority to his predecessor
(the lamented Duquesnal), and long irritated by the open
iiisuhordination of the garrison, he felt no small degree
of pleasure in seeing around him to-night, and enjoying
his hospitality, those whose fidelity to liis person he had
many reasons to suspect. With little military or admini-
strative ability, he had all the Frenchman's traditional
l(»ve of glory and display. He desired, above all things,
to be popular with those over whom he was called to rule;
but he lacked that subtle, personal power to win and hold
the attachment of his people. All thn^ugh the dreary
months of winter liad he been kept in a continual fever
of excitement, owing to the mutinous disposition of his
troops. The loyalty of some of his princii)al otHcers was
more than doubtful. On the whole, his position had been
the reverse of enviable. Away from his beloved France,
exposed to tlie rigors of a northern climate, and living in
hourly peril of his life in the midst of an insubordinate
garrison, he hailed with delight the returning breath of
spring, when the fresh arrivals from beyond the sea
would break the monotony of months, and perchance open
up some way of escape from the difficulties of his position.
All his previous efforts to ingratiate himself with the great
majority of his officers had been more or less failures.
Some trusty ones had stood by him from the first, but
they were few ; the greater number were coldly polite or
openly insulting. He had to bear it all and make the
best of it. It is not much to be wondered at, then, if on
this Sunday evening his eye brightened as he gazed
around upon the beaming faces of his guests, and realized
that there was not an officer absent who was ofi' duty.
Advancing to a group of ladies, he saluted them witli the
courteous formality of the age and the gracefulness of a
Frenchman.

184

IVitliiDn and Mary.

** Ah, MiuluiMoisollc! <riliiiitt!f(nt,' lu! Hai<l, bowing
^^raciously uh lio iulditsHHiul a boautiful girl just blooming
into womanhood, " I am ho pleaHod to aoo yon hurc to-
night. It i.s wull for im« that I am married and growing
old."

"Wliy, your Exeellonoy?" (|Uuriod tho blushing maidun,
painfully umbarrassud and scarce kiu>wing what she was
saying.

'* Because, mademoiselle, your eyes would make sad
havoc with my heart ! Let the young ofHcers ])eware,"
he continued, not heeding her confusitin but adding to it.
" ily the way, who is the favored one ?"

"(), your Excellency I" stammered the young lady,
utterly confused.

His compliments were not empty ones. Mademoiselle
d'Hautefort, the only daughter of a captain of artillery
then present, was as good as she was beautiful — the id<tl
of her parents, the pet of the garrison. Scarce sixteen,
she had passed several years in Louisburg, where she had
been carefully trained by the good nuns of the convent,
who divided their time between nursing the sick and
teaching the young. Many had been tlie admiring
glances bestowed upon the charming little woman by the
unmarried otticers during the last few months ; but never
more so than to-night, when she stood here in blushing
confusion beside the (xovernor of the city. Bowing again
with a beaming smile, Duchambon passed on to speak
to her father who, standing with folded arms across
his breast, was pensively watching the dancers. The
Governor's place was instantly taken by a young lieu-
tenant of infantry, Henri d'Eftiat, who begged of Ma-
demoiselle d'Hautefort the honor of the next dance. The
request was blushingly granted, and as they stood await-
ing their turn, d'Eftiat rather bluntly enquired what the

^;m^ ;; 'i

Williain and Alary.

'85

Govornor had been saying U) licr. It was a stupid (juos-
tion, iinwortliy <»f a Frenchman, for it only a<ldt'd to tho
jjirl's confusion as, ahaaliud, shu <lroppt'd her t'ye.s to the
tiftor. Tlio hot ])lo(»d of thi! fiery youth tinj^ed his faco
iw he ghinced defiance in the dinsction of Ducluun])on.

"(), Monsieur d'EfKat," ejacuhited the j,'irl as, with
the unerring instinct of a woman, slie read histlioughts au
she ventured to raise her eyes, "you must not mistake ;
his Excellency was only Mattering me, and you know,"
she added with a charming nairetc that went straight to
tho man's heart, "you know 1 am not much used to gen-
tloiuen."

"Pardon, mademoiselle, pardon: I confess if that was
all, tho old Governor does h(»norto his judgment."

A minute after they were whirling through the dizzy
mazes of the dance. Madly, blindly in love with his
beautiful partner, d'Ettiat never had had an oppor-
tunity of addressing more than a passing remark to her
before. Her father watched the young couple uneasily.
The lieutenant was no favorite in the garrison, and
d'Hautefort loved his child with such passionate tender-
ness that he had carefully prev ented all intercourse with
his brother officers. When the music ceased and the
dancers were retiring from the floor, d'Hautefort ad-
vanced towards his daughter and, taking her arm within
his own, without as much as a glance at d'Effiat, led her
away to the opposite end of the appartment.

"Marie, my child. Lieutenant d'Effiat is not a lit part-
ner for you ! Do not dance with him again. Come, I
will conduct you to your mother."

Having done so, d'Hautefort took up his position as
before, this time, however, entering into conversation
with some officers near him, when suddenly he was con-
fronted by the outraged d'Effiat, livid with passion.
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1 86

William and Mary.

"Am I to understand, Captain d'Hautefort — am I to
understand by your conduct that you consider me unfit
company for mademoiselle ?

"You are to understand, lieutenant, just what you
please," was the calm reply.

' ' Then, I understand — I am pleased to understand — you
honor me with a challenge?" was the rejoinder, hissed
through his teeth with a sardonic smile.

" I am at your command, Lieut. d'Effiat."

"When, captain?"

"When you please. Monsieur."

"Then— now!"

The captain bowed profoundly and, saluting each other
with the politeness of the time, the two officers, followed
by their friends, leisurely strolled from the room. So
quietly was everything arranged between them that they
attracted no attention whatever from the rest of the
company.

On emerging into the open air the combatants imme-
diately chose their seconds and weapons, d'Effiat pre-
ferring to fight with the sword. Proceeding along the
wall, the party descended to the glacis on the side facing
the sea. It was soon over ; d'Hautefort fell — ran through
the body, expiring almost instantly, with his darling
Marie's name upon his lips ! The lieutenant returned
immediately to the ballroom, and, with the sangfroid of a
fiend, advanced to the side of her whose father's blood was
yet dripping from his sword in its scabbard.

"Pardon, Madame d'Hautefort," he exclaimed, bowing
low to the mother, * ' mademoiselle will honor me with
the next dance ! "

"You will have to get her father's consent, Monsieur
d'Effiat."

"I have his consent, madame," again bowing low.
"Monsieur d'Hautefort will not now object ! "

William and Mary.

187

n I to
3 unfit

at you

i— you
hissed

ch other
foUowed
cm. So
,hat they
t of the

He led the reluctant Marie on to the floor.

It was long past midnight. When the gaiety was at its
hci<,'ht, the brilliant company was startled hy the hurried
entrance of the aged Abbe do Gondi, wIk )so usually placid
and benevolent face was flushed with excitement. Ad-
vancing, as rapidly as his flowing robes would permit,
toward the Governor, the music stopped, the dancers
stdod motionless, every eye was turned after the priest,
who, in a low voice, inaudible save to th(jse immediately
near him, conveyed to Duchambon the news of d'Haute-
fort's death. The Governor rose excitedly, and as the
whole company by a common impulse pressed toward
him, a wild, piercing shriek rang through the hall
like the wail of a lost soul! Marie d'Hautefort fell
senseless at d'Efhat's feet. Seeing what was coming, he
had with cool malignity whispered that her father was
dead — that he had himself killed him !

ts imme-

ftiat pre-

long the

de facing

through

darling

returned

froid of a

)lood was

bowing
me with

I Monsieur
ring low.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE ALARM.

The brilliantly-lighted apartments of an hour ago are in
darkness. The exhausted revellers of the night are
wrapped in slumber as profound as if the tragic termina-
tion of the ball had been a prearranged part of the
entertainment. The streets are deserted. No sound is
heard save the steady tramp of the sentinels on the ram-
parts, and the low meanings of the waves which have
never ceased their cry. The dark form of some officer
who perchance had tarried to swear eternal fealty in the

i88

William and Mary.

,■< .!'

ear of a fair partner may be seen walking rapidly to his
quarters under cover of the walls, and then all is quiet.
The first faint streak of day is in the sky. The lone
sentry, pacing the parapet down where the wild waves
dash up over the stones at his feet with mournful wails,
looks out far off over the dark sea, for his thoughts are
away beyond the ocean this morning, and he roams in
fancy the green fields of his beloved France. The sky
brightens, [but his eyes, which are dim with the tears
which memory has evoked, see nothing as yet on the
wave. He turns and passes slowly and wearily along
the wall, drawing the cape of his great coat more tightly
around his shoulders, for the morning breeze is raw and
chilling as it sings in fresh from the moaning sea. As he
turns again on his heel the liorizon is clearly defined-
Ha ! what mighty spectre of the deep have we here ? The
white sails of a hundred ships loom up out of the fog
before him ! Can they be from across the ocean from his
own sweet land ? His heart leaps into his throat at the
thought. Tidings from home, from the old mother in
the Breton hamlet he loves so well ? Then another
thought : What if it be an enemy ? And the cry of
alarm rings out on the still morning air, repeated from
sentry to sentry till the sleeping city is vocal with the
shout. Confusion and dismay !

Duchambon is rudely awakened from his troubled
sleep by a frightened officer. The bells of the church
and convent clang out over the bay. The tired officers,
wrapped in lethargic slumbers after the night's carousal,
rush stupidly out into the streets, aroused by the uproar.
The sullen roar of the warning cannon thunders over the
city, breaking away in angry echoes among the green
hills beyond. The garrison is beaten to arms. The sun
comes up shimmering the waves.

till

William and Mary.

189

bo his
quiet.
Le lono
waves
. wails,
its are
atiis in
he sky
le tears
on the
y along
3 tightly
raw and
. Ashe
defined-
3re? The
.f the fog
from his
at at the
nother in
another

lC cry of

bted from

with the

The sight that bursts upon the excited troops as they
clamber tlie ramparts iipp.ils the bravest. A mighty fleet
bears down defiantly upon them. Ducliandjcju is amazed,
confused, astounded. His force, even could it be relied
on, he sees at a glance is unable to cope with the numbers
that must swarm in the approaching s(|uadron. The
troops sullenly fall into line. Nothing can now save the
city, the Governor at a glance realizes, unless he can
inspire his men with a spark of tliat patriotism that burns
in his own breast. Feeling that everything depends
upon the decision of the moment, he throws his whole
soul into his fiery words as he addresses the scowling line
before him :

"Soldiers of France I Frenchmen, hearken I Yonder
is the enemy of our country bearing haughtily down upon
us. Nothing can save us from destruction and disgrace,
but to arise like tme man and fight for God and king !
An opportunity presents itself such as never fell before to
soldiers of France. It is for us t(j forget our grievances
in the presence of our common enemy and common
danger, and by your chivalric deeds prove your loyalty to
your king. Will you do it ? Will you be true to your
colors and thus show to his Majesty that you are his
loving children, ready to die in his service ? Fellow-
Soldiers ! Now is your chance to atone for the past — now
or never ! Will you embrace it ? Will you throw to the
winds every thought but one — king and country!"

He ceased. A dead, ominous silence of a moment, and
then a cheer burst from the soldiers near him. Faint
and uncertain at first, but it was a cheer. Now louder,
till it rang crashing along the line.

Duchambon's eye brightened, and as the cheering died
away, the garrison swore to stand by their colors unto
death.

1 90

William and Mary.

With little exi>orienco in inilitiiry luiitters, the (Governor
was unduulttedly hiyal and deterniijied to fight to the
bitter end. It was too late for him n(»vv to regret liis
refusal of that i>roferred aid that had been made tt) him
the preceding autumn. He must do what he could.
With a small force, and needing every man that could be
pressed into the service, how he cursed the fate that had
deprived him of the brave and faithful d'Hautefort. He
could do nothing now but release d'EtHat fr<jm arrest,
determined, however, that the assassin should have hot
work <jf it for a time.

As the greater part of the fleet swei)t past the fortress
it became apparent to the garrison that the inva<lers pui'-
posed t(^ attempt a landing in Gabarus Bay, about three
miles from the ramparts. Few men could be spared to
oppose them, so thought Duchambon, who had resolved
to await behind his guns the shock of attack. This was
bitterly denounced by some of his subordinates, who
insisted that the whole force should march out with all
possible expedition and destroy the enemy in their boats.
Duchambon yielded, but the sight of part of the hostile
fleet casting anchor in the ofting, caused him to change
his plans, sending out in the direction of the bay only a
small force of about one hundred men, under the command
of Capt. Morpang. Accompanying this force the Governor
despatched Lieut. d'Eftiat, with the secret hope that ho
might never return. Not that Duchambon objected to
duelling. Not he ! But he bitterly lamented the loss
at this critical hour of one who was a true friend and a
good soldier. To be deprived of his counsel at such a
time by a man of d'Efliat's standing was to the Governor
unbearable. The lieutenant was a nuisance in the garri-
son, always in trouble, more than once having defied Du-
chambon himself ; therefore, he W(juld rejoice to get him

William and Mary.

191

out of the way before he would do any more lianii. His
Excellency never once thought, in this connection, of the
beautiful girl whose rare beauty he had but the evening
before admired and praised. It was no part of the code
of the chivalric gallants of the day to waste tears upon
orphans. Of course, the Governor regretted, and regretted
deeply, that Madame d'Hautefort was a widow and the
fair Marie was fatherless ; but the regret sprang from a
consideration of the fact that he had lost a friend and
the garrison a worthy officer.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE LANDING AND THE BATTLE.

At precisely eight o'clock on this glorious spring morn-
ing, on the last day of April, the New England fleet
dropped anchor in the quiet waters of Gabarus Bay.
There was not a ripple on the wave. Everything was
favorable to an immediate landing. A small force of the
enemy had been seen hovering near the shore, and it was
known on board the fleet that the disembarkation would
be opposed. The first division of boats was to contain
about one hundred men ; and William and Harry found,
to their great delight, that their company was to be in-
cluded therein. Harry, ever since the extraordinary re-
mark of his companion the preceding day, had been in a
state bordering on frenzy. William had positively, and
almost savagely, refused to be questioned by him as to
the meaning of his mysterious words, so that the poor

192

William and Mary

lad was iilnutst licart-lintken. 'J'lio boats at a j^iven signal
shot out from behind tlie shii)S, pulled in towards the
shore, making a feint in the direction of White Point, in
order to draw (jff the enemy in that direction.

"Easy, boys — '3asy boys, there," cautioned the officer
in command; "pull easy, easy — so. Whenever I give the
signal put about for your lives, and pull for yonder cove,"
at the same time throwing a glance over his shoulder.

" Now, we'll have war at last, thank God!" exclaimed
William, in a voice so uidike his own and so full of grim
earnestness, that the eyes of every man in the boat were
for the moment turned upon him.

" Ho ! he's the general or the corperlur ! "

William had been so eager for the fray that he had not
noticed, or if he had had entirely ignored, the presence
of his old antagonist. He was just on the point of reply-
ing when the signal was given, and in the twinkling of
an eye every boat was leaping back over the course it had
come. As they again drew near the fleet, another divi-
sion which had lain concealed behind the ships darted
out and joined the others with a ringing cheer.

" Pull for your lives, boys — pull for your lives," yelled
the officer in command.

"Ay, ay sir," and every oar bent to the stroke. The
excitenifent had now become so intoxicating that William
could only find vent for his feelings in wild shouts to the
sailors to pull.

"Dew yew heerthe general or the corperlur?" sneered
Waterman, but he was rewarded for his impudence by a
ringing slap on the face by one of the Woodside boys,
who angrily exclaimed: "There's general or corperul
for yew : keep quiet or I'll pitch yew overboard."

The next moment the boats grounded almost simul-
taneously, and with shouts and defiant yells the brave

William and Mary.

193

s the
tit, in

officer
ve the
cove,"

laimed
£ grim
it were

had not
jresence
)f reply-
tkling of
ie it had
her divi-
9 darted

^" yelled

te. The
Willian^
ts to the

I' sneered
jnce by a
Ide boys,
corperul

Ut simul-
Ihe brave

fellows spning into the .surf and dashed for the sliore.
The French, cfunpletely outwitted by the ruse, had
marched with desperation, under cover of tlie woods, to-
wards Flat Point Cove. Their leader, Captain Morpang,
a daring adventurer, saw to his dismay the English form
on the beach." " The heretic dogs are already in line of
battle. Forward."

The shells from the fleet, which had been thrown in a
somewhat desultory manner during the landing, were
now screaming incessantly through the air, falling among
Morpang's men, causing great consternation and destruc-
tion. The French, however, soon debouched upon the
bank where they were received with a murderous fire
from the invaders, who dashed towards them at a bound.
In the headlong charge William stumbled among the
loose stones and fell on his face, receiving, before he
could recover himself, a cowardly blow from Waterman,
who howled as he passed: "Th' day's lost, boys — th'
day's lost, boys — th' general or corperlur is kilt."

Harry, who saw it all, frantic with rage and excitement,
levelled his piece at the fellow as he ran ahead, but was
stopped by William shouting : ' ' Don't touch the fool,
Hal," and, springing to his feet, the two bounded forward.

The fight had now become general. Morpang and his
men contested every inch of ground. "Harry," screamed
William, as they rejoined their company on the bank,
and he rested his musket on a small tree before him,
" Hany, look at the French general or corperlur, as yon
fool says ; here goes for him," and Morpang fell shot
through the heart. The French, seeing their leader fall,
instantly broke in confusion for the woods, followed close
by the New Englanders, who pressed hotly upon them.

" Head them off, boys; head them off," yelled Captain
Allen, in his excitement using terms not altogether

194

William and Mary.

military: "hag some of them, my lads; bag some of
them,"

The boys clashed on and into the bush, William and
Harry close upon the heels of a big-bearded soldier, who,
having thrown away his piece and evidently wounded,
was running for his life.

" Stop there, or I'll bring you down !" roared Harry as
they all stumbled together out into an open space, the
fugitive not far in advance. Th Frenchman, turning his
head at the sound, saw the level)* d musket, halted, faced
about and threw up his arms. The next moment Wil-
liam had him by the collar.

' ' You great scoundrel — you big Monseer, what did you
make us chase you all this way for? Answer me that !"
and he gave the prisoner a shake till the poor fellow
looked as if he expected nothing but death. " Back
with you now," chimed in Harry, running up with the
muzzle of his musket close to the captive's ear. "Back
with you now, I say!" They hustled him along with
laughter and cheers, the unfortunate Frenchman appear-
ing delighted to find that his life was to be spared. A
shout greeted the two lads as they emerged from the
thicket driving the prisoner before them. They were
instantly surrounded by an eager and curious crowd.

"Did yew ever see th' likes ?" cried one.

"It's the queerest coon I ever see!" yelled another,
staring with open-mouthed wonder at the captive as if he
were a wild animal.

" Look at his nose !" ejaculated a third.

" An' his big beerd," screamed two or three in chorus.

"Let these mine eyes behold the idolater of Rome !"
It was a solemn voice and came from some distance, and
soon the pompous form of Chaplain McDonald was seen
edging his way through the crowd towards the French-

William and Mary.

195

horus.
)me !"
le, and
Ls seen
Irench-

uian. A ling was soon formed around llio lunviklered
prisoner, who shrunk back in alarm as tlie chaplain,
lifting his hatchet slowly above his head with great ini-
pressiveness, exclaimed :

" With these mine hands I shall hew down the images
in your idolatrous city !"

"Come, come chaplain!" exclaimed the indignant
William with impatience, forgetting his rank through
sympathy with the agitated Frenchman. " Come, come,
chaplain, this fellow is not an image, anyway ; he is real
flesh and blood — a real, tangible, corporeal existence ; a
jtrisoner of war, sir, if you please !"

The reverend warrior only deigned to notice the
remark with a withering look of scorn as he continued
addressing the astounded foreigner. "How dare you
give the Lord's glory to another in yonder town against
which we go up as against the mighty ? These mine
hands shall smite her images and pull down her altars !"
and he executed certain fantastic flourishes in the air
with his hatchet to the evident trepidation of "the
idolater," who momentarily expected to be brained on
the spot. An officer coming up at this juncture, the
Frenchman was removed from beyond the sweep of the
dreadful hatchet, to his great satisfaction and relief.

The remainder of the day was occupied in burying the
enemy's dead and moving their camp out of range of the
yuns of the city, which were now sending their shot and
shell crashing down upon the shore. It was with feelings
of devout thankfulness to the God of battles that the
hrave lads, as they threw themselves here and there on
the ground to rest, realized that they had thus easily
secured a base of operations within less than two miles
from the renowned fortress : had driven the enemy

196

William and Mary.

buliind their liiie.s with 1<>h.s, whilo luit a man «»f their own
numher ha<l lujun killed.

The following morning the whole army liad landed,
and innnediate prei)arationB were made to advance at
once upon the town.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE REVEREND MR. FENWICK AT HOME.

When the Rev. Mr. Fenwick returned from his visit to
the poor widow's, he was informed by his housekeeper
that a message had been left for liim to send any letters
or parcels intended for the army immediately to Captain
Allen's house, as a team was ready to start from there
that night, and there must be no delay. The housekeeper
had gathered' up all the letters she could find and carried
them over herself, afraid that it would be too late when
her master returned.

"You did right, Sarah ; quite right. It is just like
you — always thoughtful. But come, is there nothing else
we can send along with the letters ? "

The good woman's heart began to tremble ; for if she
had a weakness in the world, that weakness centred in
her larder and concentrated itself round about sundry
jugs and jars, the mysterious contents of which were
known only to herself.

"What else could we be sendin', sir?" she asked with
evident uneasiness, and glancing instinctively toward the
closet which contained her treasures.

William and Mary.

197

I if she

red in

mdry

were

with
rdthe

The old pastor hastily remembered he liad to look at a
book on the table near ])y, and so managed to turn away
his face in time to hide the roguish twinkle in his eye,
and the broad smile which wreathed his lips. He knew
the weakness of his housekeeper to a nicety, and it was
a source of great merriment to him at times, although no
one ever knew ought about it save hiuiself. Having
found what he wante<l in the book, and after tremendous
explosive blowings t)f his nose in the great red pocket
handkerchief, he shufHed back t<j his chair and sat down.

" Heow's th' child, sir?" en([uired Sarah by way of
diversion, hoping to lead his thought away from her pre-
cious closets.

*' A little better — somewhat better, I think, though it
is hard to say as yet."

He paused a moment to give her time to consider. He
knew her tenderness of heart better than she did herself.
She had never heard of suffering that she thought she
could relieve, but the attempt was finally made even if it
involved a raid upon her highly-prized jars.

She had lived with him ever since the day, now nigh
unto thirty years, when all that was mortal of his beloved
partner had been laid in the grave. She had never been
married — had never wanted to be married. Envious
gossips there were who would whisper that she had been
those thirty years in love with the minister himself !
But they might gossip away if it did them any good ; it
did her no harm, for she never heard a whisper of it.
She had no blood relations in the world, and her heart
and soul were with her dear old pastor. If this were
love, then she was in love ! How to make her master
comfortable, how to lighten his burdens, what to do or
what to say in his sorrows — for the sorrows of his flock
were his and her's both — these summed up the round of

198

William and Mary.

ViS

her life, entering into the very warp and woof of her
being.

*'She will be all right in a moment," he used to chuckle
to himself when he would come home from visiting some
poor creature in the parish, and would begin to make
dark and awful hints as to what could be done in the case.
She never thought anything could be done ; and so he
would leave her alone, toddle up stairs to the study,
chuckling as he went : * " She'll come all right in a few
minutes, dear old soul ; she'll be all right in a few
minutes." And she always was right in a few minutes.
After he had sat looking intently at the floor for s(mie
time he ventured to remark : "I dare say William and
Harry — the Lord bless the lads — I dare say they will
have hard times enough of it down there, sleeping on the
cold ground out of doors."

"Sleepin' on the cold groun' eout of doors!" she
gasped, *'hev they t' dew that?"

"O dear me, andVorse than that — sleep in the mud
and the rain, sleep in their wet clothes, and sleep that
way whether they are sick or well."

" Oh, dear, dear ; who ever heerd th' likes of that be-
fore ? Heowhard it must be fur th' poor lads."

" Yes, it is hard, to be sure, it is hard. We who
have our home comforts can't imagine how hard it is ;
and now that William has been poorly, I suppose his ap-
petite won'u be any of the best."

" Of course not," .and she glanced uneasily towards the
door of the closet and moved nervously in her chair.
Then he dived at the book on the table again, whispering
to himself, "She's coming round; yes, she is coming
round faster than I thought." And after some more
alarming blowing of his nose, he commenced shuffling
acrosa the room towards his stick in the corner.

William and Mary.

199

E her

uckle
some
make
i case,
so he
study,
a few
a few
mutes,
r some
m and
sy will
on the

,!" she

le mud
)p that

jhat be-

e who
Id it is ;
his ap-

irds the
chair,
ispering
coming
ke more
ihuffling

" Yew'll dew no such thing. I'll take them over
meself."

"Take what over, Sarah?" and his eyes twinkled
more roguishly than ever.

"O, well, never yew mind. Yew go up t' the study,
neow, an' lie down a bit ; yer nigh tired eout."

" Well, I suppose I must obey the powers that be."

" Of coorse yew must."

Soon he was clambering up the stairs, pufhng and blow-
ing, and gasping out, * ' She's round — yes, she's round.
She always do^s come round," and the dear old soul
chuckled and made outrageous noises with the red hand-
kerchief as he threw himself upon the lounge in his study,
unable to stand with merriment. As he tell into a dose
he could hear her hammering away down in the closet,
and knew as well as if he saw what was going on with
his eyes that she was so far "round" that an unmerci-
ful raid was being made on the contents of her precious
jugs and jars.

The letters written from the army before it had sailed
from Canso were received in Woodside with great joy.
Poor Mrs. Farley was beside herself at getting such a
sweet long letter from her boy. True, she couldn't make
much headway in reading it herself, but the fjither had
relieved her of the trouble. William spoke lightly of his
wound, assuring her he was as safe as if he were at home
on the old settee by the fireplace. The letter to Mary
was full of love, breathing eternal devotion. He was
safe, he assured her. She was not to doubt that ; for he
had an abiding faith in the providence of God. " Do not,
my Mary," he wrote, " do not doubt this. 1 feel that
God is here as well as in Woodside. It has been a never-
failing source of consolation to me to dwell upon this
thought, that I cannot go so far away as to be beyond

200

William and Alary.

the reach of His love. Do you remember what the
Psalmist says : * From the ends of tte earth I will cry
unto thee.' I know that He is at the ends of the earth,
and that consequently he is here. We have seen rough
times since we left you, and expect to see rougher ; but
not so rough that God cannot make them smooth if it
pleases Him. This is my hope, let it be yours, my Mary.
We will soon be back again and — then ! The sweet
thought that my mother and my Mary are praying for
me never leaves me for a moment. May the Lord bless
you, my darling one, and make His face to shine upon
you. Never, never, doubt His love any more than you
doubt the love of your faithful William."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THWARTED

The sailor who had brought Mary the letter, to which
reference has already been made, reached his vessel just
as it was ready to put to sea. Rough and uncouth in ap-
pearance though he was, this man carried a warm heart
under his seaman's jacket. The marvellous beauty of
Mary Oliver haunted him like a dream in the night. He
could not get away from it. It would not get away from
him. Her sad iace rose up before him in the darkness as
he stood at the \^'heel, and appeared to beseech him not to
forget his promise.

" Thar's suthin' wrong," he would say to himself, and
then he would pass his hand into his bosom where Mary's

William and Mary.

20I

letter was hidden, " tliar's suthin' wrong!" What was
wrong poor Jack didn't know — couldn't know. It would
not stay in his mind, do what he would, tliat any-
thing could be wrong with such a lovely being as he had
seen and talked to. The other letter was in his chest.
He had taken it out more than once to destroy it, and he
would say : " She didn't want'er send it." But a second
thought would show him that it might do her more harm
than good were it destroyed. So he would put it back
again into his chest.

*' I'm sorry 'nough that I ever 'greed to dew it," and he
would go to the box, take out the letter, and feel it all
over for the hundredth time to see if he could make out
what mischief lurked therein.

When the cruiser cast anchor in the still waters of
Can so, in front of the encampment, Jack took the letter
out of his chest to deliver it to its address. "Shiver me
timbers, but I'll dew suthin' with it," he ejaculated, hold-
ing up the missive and then feeling it over and over
again. " Lem me see, this means harm t' 'er, or she'd not
hev looked so queer," and the pale, angelic face rose up
before him. " I wonder ef I'll ever see the likes of her
again ; mebbe I will," and he went over the letter as
before, holding it up to the light and feeling it between
his thumb and first finger. But he could not make up
his mind to destroy it. So, getting permission to go
ashore, he leapt into the boat that was just starting, de-
termined that if it cost him his life he would deliver
Harry's letter into his own hand at the same time. But
alas for best laid schemes! Harry had just started with
the raiding party that had gone on to St. Peter's, and in a
few hours the dejected sailor, with Mary's letter close to
his heart, was out at sea bound for Newfoundland, whither
the crusier was immediately despatched by Warren, with
U

202

William and Mary.

peremptory orders for any British ships of war in those
waters to join the expedition at Canso.

When Mary received the letters from her lover and her
brother, dated the day before sailing for Lonisbnrg, she
knew that her strategem had failed, and that all that was
now left her was to pray and wait. She dared not think
even. Every morning she dreaded that before night some
fearful tidings would reach her. Every night she shud-
dered lest before day she would be awal.eued by awful
tidings of her loved ones. The weeks passed wearily, but
her more than earthly beauty was only heightened by the
sweet sadness of her face. The father, as was his wont,
talked little to her. Why should he ? he reasoned within
himself. What could he do for the girl ? But if her
father was not much comfort, she found in Mrs. Farley
more than a mother. She would come down of an after-
noon and remain for hours sometimes assisting the little
stricken maiden with her work, while she encouraged her
with cheery words. Then the deacon would drop in and
they would all sit down to talk of the boys and the war.
Mrs. Farley, brave-hearted woman as she was, saw for
many days back that everything was going to depend on
herself. Afti " the first paroxysm of agony had passed
away, she began slowly to realize that her husband's
courage, always so unflinchable before, was failing before
the awful trials of those terrible days. It almost crushed
her to think of it. From Abijah she had expected nothing,
from Mary it was unreasonable to expect much ; from her
husband she had expected everything. The doctrines had
unmanned him. The mysteries had taken away his forti-
tude. For the first few days he had been like his old
self, but when he went to the fields to work he commenced
meditating and saw his folly. Logically following his
cast-iron creed to its legitimate conclusions, he saw on the

William and Mary.

203

one hand the folly of praying to God to avert danger from
his boy, while on the other hand stretched away a wilder-
ness of desolation, imlighted by a solitary ray of hope.
Whatevtr would befall the boy had been prearranged
from all eternity, of that he had not a doubt. But the
fact that God had preordained that his son should suffer
trial, perhaps death, failed to mitigate the horror of the
thought. He was like a man caught in the eddying swirl
of the on-rushing rapids leaping toward the dread cataract.
He felt all the waves and the billows surging over him,
but knew it was useless to stem the current. Over into
the seething maelstrom he must go ! No longer could he
sit erect like a moral iceberg in his straight-backed chair,
with stern visage pondering the mysteries. The storm
had burst upon him and crushed him to the earth. Alone
his devoted wife stood with her God. Unfettered by the
shackles of theology, it never entered her head that all
their troubles had been foreordained by God ! All she
knew was that in the Book she was commanded to call
upon Him in the day of trouble and He had promised to
hear and to answer. And so alone she called. Alone ?
0, no ; not alone ! There was one who was ever brave,
and whose words of cheer were heard above the storm.
The dear old minister was ever the same. Tho tragedies
of those days only roused him to renew his youth. To
him Mrs. Farley could always go when crushed almost
to the ground, and she always came away with the load
lightened, if not removed. Many a time when feeling
that she must fall in sheer helplessness and give up in
despair as she looked upon her husband's face reflecting
the desolation of his soul, the pastor's shuffling step M'ould
be heard at the door, and the sunshine of hope would
stream down upon her when he entered. Thus day by
day she lived on, praying and waiting — waiting and
praying.

204

William and Mary.

Not that the deacon forgot his devotions. He would
die sooner than do that. But there was no hope in his
prayers. How c(juld there be ? What right had he to
have hope \ On what basis could he ground a hope ] H'
the decrees were propitious to the boy, he could thank
God for having made them propitious. If they were not,
could he thank God for that \ What could he pray about 1
Not to change eternally-arranged plans ; for, apart from
its absurdity, such a prayer to him would be blasphemy.
Could he pray to God to protect his son ? How protect
him 1 AVhat would be the meaning of such a prayer ?
Protect the lad from what? The deacon was logically
and terribly consistent, and so asked the Lord to do just
nothing of the kinfl. How could he? Why should he?
The councils of eternity had settled William's fate, and it
would be an insult to the Infinite Majesty to pray al)out it !

Each day as they got through family worship Mrs.
Farley remembered a time when the prayers were differ-
ent. A time when there were earnest supplications that
men should be made submissive to the purposes of
Jehovah. A time when there were pleadings that He
might work according to the councils of His will. But,
O dear, there was no shadow of death hovering over their
own home then, and \i was an easy matter to indulge in
flowing platitudes when the iron was piercing the heart of
a neighbor. Then she would recall his tenderness when
William had gone away first, and she had nestled her head
on his shoulder as in the olden time, thanking God that
he was himself again — the dear, loving husband, and not
the stern, unbending deacon. But he had gone back to
his meditating, and now he was away where he had been
before, only worse. The sternness had given place to the
listlessness of despair. And his prayers ! All doctrines,
and mysteries, and deorees, black as '* the horror of great

William and Mary.

205

darkness" that I'ell upon Al)ruliiiiu. He would go to the
fields and work the whole day long, coming home as he
had gone, without a word of cheer for her bleeding heart.
0, it was so hard ! And thus went by the hours and
dragged along the days.

Thank God for His unspeakable gift to man — a true
woman ! What would our cursed world be to-day sliould
all the faithful ones He has given us become like ourselves
in selfishness? Woman lives but for others. Deny to
her the great purpose of her nature, the all, all-controlling
power that permeates every fibre of her spiritual being,
and she becomes a burden to herselt, if not a curse in the
world. Deprive her of all incentives to love, strip her of
every motive to labor for something or for somebody, and
she is forthwith transformed intO something more or less
than human, living a life of death while she liveth.

Thank God for His unspeakable gift to man — a true
woman ! She bends over the little crib with unutterable
yearnings ; she bows above the tiny grave when the little
crib is empty ; but as the baptism of her tears bedews it,
she remembers the living. Lifting herself out of the
depths, erect she stands with the iron piercing the ([uiv-
ering heart. She lives, and works, and loves, and dies !

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE RECONNOISSANCE.

Immediately upon the landing of the remainder of his
force on the forenoon of the first of May, General Pep-
perrell determined to follow up the advantage so auspi-
ciously gained, and advance at once upon the city. The
troops wereflushed with victory,and, like the skilful officer

206

William and Mary.

that lie was, Peppenell saw that now waa the time to ^ive
them plenty to do. True, there weie few in the aiiny
who had any correct idea of what a battle really meant.
They were also deficient in artillery, and the enemy yon-
der had over a hundred heavy <^ains trained upon then*.
Every avenue of approach to the town was defended. The
veterans of old France were behind the ramparts, strength-
ened by nearly two thousand "militia, well disciplined and
accustomed to the use of arms. Pepperell's boisterous
four thousand had little to aid them save brave hearts,
strong bodies, and an abiding confidence in the God of
battles. But was not this enough, and more than enough,
to warrant the general advancing immediately upon the
worksl Such were the thoughts which animated the noble
Pepperrell this glorious first of May, 1745. Deeply im-
bued with the religious instincts of his time, he felt
almost like one of the leaders of old who went up against
the enemies of Heaven, and went up but to conquer. As
profoundly convinced in the matter of the doctrines as was
ever Deacon Farley himself, unlike the deacon he did not
carry them to their logical conclusions by floating passively
with the stream. He believed in prayer, but trusted
to hard blows. The deacon was logical, the general
practical.

Having decided to advance without delay, Col. Vaughan
was ordered to reconnoitre the enemy's position with the
entire New Hampshire battalion, reinforced by a comj)any
of volunteers, making in all four hundred men. The
colonel was left to his own discretion to act a?- emergencies
presented themselves. The ringing commands of the
ofiicers were soon heard upon all sides.

" Fall in, boys. Fall in— fall in !"

The camp was alive in a moment and a scene of wild
excitement and enthusiasm followed. It was a bitter dis-

William and Marv.

207

ith the

of the

appointment to tliose who had to remain behind ; hut like
bnive felhtws thev bore it as best they could. The battalion
formed on the beach presenting the only open apace suit-
able for the purpose. When all was in readiness, the
general advanced to the front and addressed a few words
of advice, warning them not to give way to excitenient,
but to be steady ; and, above all, to be true to their God,
their king, and their country.

"We'll be true, general, never yew fear — we'll be true !"
shouted one.

"That we will, general ; let the Monseers look eout !"
cried another.

Thus did those simple-hearted fellows, in blissful ignor-
ance of the stern discipline which might have frowned
down such ebullitions of feeling, keep up a running com-
mentary of promises to the general, who smilingly looked
on and listened in silence.

"Attention!"

It was the colonel's voice.

" Before the order to march is given, Chaplain McDonald
will offer prayer."

Every head was bowed as the chaplain stepped out from
the group of othcers surrounding the general and advanced
with a desperate attempt at composure. William had just
time to notice before bowing his head that the hatchet
this time was nowhere to be seen. The prayer was ram-
bling, incoherent, irrelevant, and bombastic, winding up,
however, with breathings of slaughter swift and sure
against the idolatrous city and the " images of Rome ! "

" Attention ! Shoulder arms ! To the right face !
March!"

And with shouts and clapping of hands, waving of caps
and cheers, the battalion climbed the banks and were soon
lost to view in the dense woods skirting the shore.

20S

William and Mary.

Williiiiii and Harry were shoulder to .slumlder as before.
The thought — the appalling thought — hud been forcing
itself upon Harry during the last few hours thjit his com-
rade's mind was surely giving way. From the deepest
gloom he had seen him break out into the most boisterous
and senseless laughter. True to the instincts of his affec-
tionate nature he resolved to stand by his friend, never to
leave him for a moment, till at least some glimmer of light
should be let in on this perplexing mystery. As the bat-
talion plunged deeper into the thicket, and commenced
struggling along under the branches and over the fallen
trees till sometimes they were on all-fours, William roared
and shook with convulsive merriment.

" Ha ! ha! ha !" he yelled as he sprang head foremost
into a thicket that seemed impenetrable ; "ha! ha! ha!
this is grand. What's Woodside to this, Hal ! What's
Latin or Greek to this, old fellow ] Ha ! ha ! ha ! " Harry
came running up breathless with fear and amazement.

" For mercy's sake, William, don't ! Don't, William,
don't ! " and the now thoroughly alarmed boy gazed
almost frantically into his companion's face.

" Why not, Hal ? Let's yell," and the woods rang with
his shout. They had emerged from the bush and were
confronted by Captain Allen.

" Who was that shouting?" he asked sternly.

" I, sir," was William's instant reply.

"Your'

"Yes, sir."

"You will have an opportunity to shout by-and-bye, I
have no doubt. We must now advance quietly. Keep
with your company, boys."

The ground was very uneven, and this last command
was by no means easy of performance. In many places
deep boggy marshes had to be crossed in which the boys

Williavi and Mary.

209

P!iiik to their knees ; l)ut tlie j^'.iv rollickiiij,' lu<l.s liiu)^lietl
iuul plun<;ed and luu^'lied ii^aiii ii-< if it waH the hcst fan in
the W(»rhl. Suddenly cheern were heard far in advance,
and dashing forward every man soon found liiniself on
an open space on the hills, with the mighty fort at their
feet, the ramparts swarming with the astonished garrison.
What a sight was here ! Before them — so near it seemed
—lay the dread city towards which their hearts and minds
had for those long weeks been turned. Here it was at
last, resting there on its narrow neck of land, the black
open-mouthed cannon frowning defiance upon every side.
The great blue waves of the Atlantic stretched away
interminably in the distance, till they blended with the
still deeper blue of the sky. Yonder in the olHng lay the
great hulks of Warren's sc^uadron blockading the harbor.
The waters in the bay were calm and still as a sheet of
solid silver. The sun smote the roofs of the houses with
a roseate glow till they shone like burnished gold.

After the first cheer of astonishment from the men,
they stood and gazed down upon the scene in silent admi-
ration. Although within easy range of the guns, they
were unmolested, the garrison contenting themselves with
staring up at the strange and startling sight upon the
hills.

*' Three cheers, boys ; three cheers, and then to cover,"
at last shouted Vaughan. They were given with a will,
and ere the echoes had died away over the city, the last
man had disappeared from view, and the green hills again
wore their wonted composure. As William and Harry
struck into the bush, they came suddenly upon the re-
doubtable chaplain on his hands and knees, crouching
close to the ground behind a huge boulder of granite.
Neither spoke as they looked into each other's face in
silence and hurried on.

2IO

William and Mary.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

OAPTUKK OF TIIK (JHAM) HATTKKY.

Thio slight they liiid just })ehi'l(l iidded to tlie entliusiiisiii
of tlie inviideiH, and liad Viui|^liiiii ordcriMl a <,'eiutral
assault upon the West Gate instead of thiee cheers, it
wouhl, no (hjuht, have as readily Ixh'U made. Plun<;in^'
throui^'h the undc;r^'ro\vth, the battalion marched in the
rear of the Grand Battery, dehouchiuj^' at last upon the
bank of the north-west arm of the harlxjr. It was now
daik, l»ut they discovered, to their j^^reat delight, several
lari^'e warehouses crammed with military stores, includin,^'
immense ([uantities of wine and brandy. It was the work
of a nu)umnt ! The brifjht leaping llames lighted up tlie
woods and bay with a brilliant glow, casting a weirdly
lurid glare over the scene. How the red tongues of lire
licked the brandy casks, leaping over them like demons of
the pit, whirling round them, dashing under them, huggiiij,'
them in their hot embrace, encircling them with liviii;^
bands of lire — madly in love with them — careering, spring-
ing, hissing as with the wild glee of hell. Let them burn !

As the tire went down the men bivouacked for the night
in the edge of the woods, and each slept such sleep as oidy
a soldier knows of.

Who can sleep as he sleeps'? Who can dream such
dreams ? Talk not of downy pillows to the man who all
day long has trudged footsore the weary march or walked
unmoved in " garments rolled in blood." He wants none
of them. Give him some verdant knoll on which to rest
his head and the gods might envy him his slumbers. Is
he imaginative — thrilled witli high hopes, aspirations and
desires ? Let him lay him down, then, here under

William and Mary.

21 I

treui'Vul
eers, it

I in the

poll

tlu'

svii-s iiow
, several
ncludiu'^
the wovk
id up the
a weirdly

ves of t'i»^
\en\oua of

hu'^iiiiij^

th liviu;-^

iiig-

ciu hum 1

the nii;ht
ep as only

ream such

all who all

or walked

.vants none

iiich to rest

Inihers. Is

[rations and

lere uiider

the sij^hiiif; pines, and they will sin^' t(» him — sin*,' to hi.s
soul all throuj^'li the nij^'ht .Hueli unutteiahle Hoiig.s that he
ia lifted up out of himself and carried in spirit unto regions
of entrancin;^^ melody. Does In; yearn for the " touch of a
vanished hand " — j^roans he for the sound of "a voice that
is still ]" Lay him down here, then, on the hrink of this
laughint,' rill with yonder stone for his i)illow, and the
voice will speak to him in his dreams, all throuj^h the
(|uiet hours till break of day, while the vanished hand will
touch him into life in the morniiij^f.

As the first streak of li^dit ai)peared in the sky the men
were on the move, rubbinj,' their eyes and feeling some-
what stiff of limb ; for the early spring nights were as yet
chilly, but all alive were the lads to tiie possibilities of the
opening day, and yearning to be off.

"Hello, Hal!" exchiimed William, crawling out from
under the thick branches where he had slept. " Hello,
Hal ! Where are you \ Oh, I see. Well this is life, isn't
it] This is fine — this means s(»mething ! What is Wood-
side to this ? What is Greek or Latin to this \ Ha ! ha !
ha ! How do you like it, Hal \ How do you like sleep-
ing out of doors on the damp ground, eh, old fellow ]"

" I like it better than I did — I am getting used to it."

" Getting used to it \ 1 should think so. One gets used
to anything. What's that Horace says : * Consadudo quasi
altera natura V"

" Horace says nothing of the kind."

" Who says it, then ? "

" Cicero/'

" You're right, Hal ; you're right. You've got ine this
time ; but then a fellow can't be expected to be very accu-
rate when he is not more than half awake.

" Heovv'sth' general or the corperlur?" sneered a passing
figure in the gray dawn.

212

William and Mary.

" He's this way, lool !" and witli the words on his lips,
William spran«,' like a tiger on the retreating man, hurling
him down crashing among the brush : " Have you your
knii'e now, you villain, you coward, you liar — have you
your knife now 1" and with the grip of a giant he clutched
his prostrate foe hy the throat. " I've stood you about
long enough, now — look out !" and phacing his knee on
Waterman's breast, the crushing Idows fell like rain on the
upturned face till it was a mass of blood. The man
struggled desperately and tried vainly to scream ; but the
fingers onl}' tightened the more firmly on his throat. They
had rolled over together into a slight hollow in the ground
which eftectually screened them from view in the uncer-
tain light. Harry stood above them breathlessly mute.
He felt that long-delayed vengeance had come.

" Scoundrel, take that, and that, and that !" and releas-
ing his hold, William dealt three fearful parting blows,
springing backward to his feet the same instant. Harry
leaped forward expecting a repetition of the cowardly stab
on the ship. But there was no danger of that. The
wretch was insensible, and did not move.

" Harry, look to the — the fellow, and I'll go and give
myself up. I couldn't stand it any longer.'' A crowd
had by this time gathered round, and the bruised and
bleeding Waterman, having regained consciousness, was
helped to his feet. William immediately reported to his
. captain, but was ordered back to his company to be dealt
with on their return to headquarters.

After a hastily-eaten breakfast, the battalion was again
on the move on the march to the camp. Arriving in the
rear of the Grand Battery, the colonel called a halt, and
selecting a dozen trustworthy men, among the number an
Indian, he ordered the main column forward to camp,
while with his small detachment he climbed cautiously
to the summit of the hill to reconnoitre.

jfA

William and Alary.

213

his lips,
I, hurling
you your
have you
J clutched
yovi about
,sknee on
rain on the

The man
11 ; hut the
coat. They
the ground

the uncer-
essly mute.

' and releas-
rting blows,
ant. Harry
pwardly stab
that. The

" Easy, boys, easy — don't .sliow your heads for your
lives. Let me lead."

The redoubt was now visible through the trees right at
their feet, and they could see almost into every corner of
it. The white Hag of France was Happing in the morning
breeze, but not a sign of life was to be seen.

" This is strange, certainly strange," whispered Vaughan
to the man nearest him, after gazing for some minutes
intently at the work, "can you make out any one]"

" Not a soul ; 'pears t' me they've left."

"Aye," replied the colonel, "or the brave Monseers
must have all died last night with fright."

Moving stealthily forward to get a better view, Vauglian
satisfied himself that something unusual had happened.
What it was, he couldn't for the life of him divine. It
struck him at length that the enemy had evacuated the
battery, but he banished the thought instantly as he
scanned the enormous strength of the work. " Then it
must be a ruse to decoy us to the attack." What should
be done ? As thus puzzled with uncertainty how to act,
word was passed along the line to the colonel that the
Indian had just signified his willingness to risk a nearer
approach, and if the battery was actually deserted to enter
by an embrasure and open the gate. The offer was eagerly
accepted, and the Indian started. When he emerged from
cover in full view of the redoubt, Vaughan and his men
saw him, to their amazement, throw himself on the ground,
struggle frantically, foam at the mouth, while he groaned
forth most hideous shrieks and yells.

" What in the name of — of — well, of Louisburg, does
the red-skin mean?" ejaculated the colonel, utterly as-
tounded by the antics before him.

" 0, let th' ole Injun alone, ha knows what he's about,
no doubt," replied one of the party.

214

William and Mary.

•A 'I

" Look thar," cried another aloiul, " was th' likes ever
seen since the world was made?"

The Indian was now executing a mad war-dance, or
something of that sort, in full view of the parapet.

" There ! he's gone," exclaimed the colonel, as the fan-
tastic figure disappeared like a flash, and was hidden from
view by the uneven nature of the ground.

" Look at him now!'^ cried every man in chorus as the
Indian was seen springing into the moat, and with the
agility of his race, went clambering up the parapet and
disappeared through an embrasure. A minute scarcely
and the great gate of the battery was slowly swinging
open, and the unearthly war-whoop floated up to the
astonished men on the hills.

*' It's deserted, sure enough, boys," cried Vaughan,wild
with excitement ; " Forward, at a bound."

The French had evacuated the position during the
night. The smoke and flame of the burning warehouse at
the north-east arm had been taken by them as an indica-
tion that the entire English force was marching down
upon them from that direction. The guns had been
hastily spiked, but were left in position. Not a carriage
had been touched, and a glance sho\Ted Vaughan that
every gun could be made fit for service in a few hours.
The brave boys went dashing about from point to point —
looking here and there in astonishment. They could not
bring themselves to believe in their luck.

" Look ahere ! " cried one to another, " look ahere ;
look at me !"

" Wal, I be alookin' at yew," was the reply.

" Tak hold on me arm, will yew ?"

The other did as desired. " Thar ! neow pinch —pinch
hard ez yew can ! "

This was done with a will, till the soldier screamed

William and Mary .

215

ikes ever

lance, or
t.

the fan-
.den from

:iis as the
, with the
rapet and
e scarcely
swinging
Lip to the

ghan, wild

luring the
arehouse at
an indica-
hing down
had been
a carriage
ghan that
few hours,
to point—
y could not

3ok ahere ;

nch— pinch
jr screamed

with pain. " Thar ! that'll dew ; though I 'low I couldn't
believe it ! "

" Believe what ? "

" I couldn't b'lieve what ? I couldn't b'lieve I wuz
awake !"

"0, yer awake fast 'nougli ; at least ez much awake ez
yew ever wuz !"

The two burst into a roar of laughter at this sally.
"Tiie fackis," said a third, who had been looking on, "the
fack is, I don't believe none of us is awake. It's tew good,
tliis here is !"

Col. Vaughan, who was about as excited as any of them,
here turned his eyes to the Hag. " Down with it — down
with the white rag !" he shouted. " Down with it !"

Half a dozen sprang forward. " Hold, though ! The
worst is, we have nothing to put in its place !"

" Sure 'nough."

" I hev it, kurnel ; I hev it !" exclaimed a strapping
young fellow, as he began pulling off his red jacket. "Get
me a nail or tew, an' suthin' t' drive 'em !"

This was quickly done, and, taking the coat between
his teeth, away he went up the pole with the agility of a
squirrel. The white flag of France soon ran down in
disgrace, while, amidst the cheers of the reckless fellows,
the red jacket was nailed securely in its place.

It was now about nine o'clock, and Vaughan, beginning
to realize the danger of his position should he be attacked
from the city, sent off the brave old Indian with the
laconic despatch to Pepperrell : .

" By the grace of God, and the courage of thirteen men,
I entered the Grand Battery about nine o'clock, and am
waiting reinforcements and a flag !"

2l6

William and Alary.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

WITHIN THE CITY.

: ■'■!

"i ,'.

When Morpang fell, the command of the French force
opposing the landing devolved upon d'Etiiat, who, as has
been seen, immediately ordere<l a retreat upon Louisburg,
burning in his way every building that might aft'ord
shelter to the invader. Duchambon watched from the
ramparts his disorganized troops struggling back in con-
fusion toward the city. He saw with dismay as they
approached that their captain was missing, while the
hated d'Eliiat, though considerably crestfallen, was still
alive and untouched. The company straggled in by the
West Gate in the wildest disorder. The lieutenant ad-
vanced to the Governor to report. He reported, true
enough, that the enemy had landed an overwhelming
force, and that, with his small command, there was
nothing for them but retreat or annihilation. Duchambon
bit his lips. " How did your men behave ?" he encpired
after a moment's pause.

" Nobly, your Excellency ; they fought admirably !"

"And the enemy ]"

" The heretic dogs ! They fought like tigers, swarming
upon us on all sides !"

"That will do, sir!"

The lieutenant withdrew, the Governor determined
that the hot-blooded duellist who had deprived the garrison
of its bravest officer should have his hands full for the
next few weeks.

The remains of the lamented d'Hautefort had been
buried that morning in the cemetery at Point Rochefort,
near tlie great white cross, visible from all points of the

William and Marv.

217

li force
as has
isbuvg,
afford
:oui the
in con-
as they
nile the
,vas still
a by the
iiant atl-
;ecl, true
irhehuing
lere was
chanihou
en*iiured

bly

swarmmg

itermined
e garrison
11 for the

had been

lochefort,

Ints of the

city and harbor. The stricken women were inconsolable.
Marie bowed beneath the fearful stroke. Like a flower of
the oasis, scorched by the withering breath of the simoom,
she drooped and faded under the awful blow that had
fallen upon her. The kind old Abbd Gondi did all in
his power to comfort her and the widowed mother, but
with little success. They would 'not be comforted. On
the evening of the funeral, and shortly after the defeated
expedition came pouring in confusion into the fort, the
good old priest sought Madame d'Hautefort's quarters.
" You must leave here at once with Marie," he said kindly,
but firmly, to the weeping woman as he seated himself.
"You must leave here at once and take refuge in the
convent with the sisters. Here you are no longer safe.
This is no place for you now."

" Oh, father, it is so hard !" was the sobbing response of
the widow.

" Yes, it is hard ; but bow submissively to the stroke.
Remember your duty to the dead," and he crossed himself
reverently as he muttered a prayer for the repose of the
soul of d'Hautefort. " The city will be invested by the
heretics in a few days," he went on. " Our men have
been driven back. You will be exposed here to the fire
of the enemy, and Marie must be placed where she will
be safe from the murderer of her father."

With heavy heart the widowed mother arose to prepare
for immediate removal to the convent, and the kindly
abbe', in order to hide the tears he felt gushing to his eyes,
murmured a hasty adieu, saying as he left that he must
hnmediately see the Governor.

" I will be round in an hour at most to escort you to
the sisters," were his last words.

The abbe' had just turned the angle of the street, and
was making with all haste for headquarters, when he
15

2l8

William and Mary

U't"

stood face to face with Lieut. d'Efliat. Tlie ofticer salutf.d
and wa.s passing on, when, by a gesture from the priest,
he was st(»pped.

" Dost thou know, sir, what thou hast done?"

" I did the best I could, good father ; the enemy were
five to our one."

" Wretch, I speak not of that. Your hands are red with
bhjod."

"And redder will they be, good father, before this is
over— red with the blood of the heretic,"

"Blood of the heretic," exclaimed the now agitated
priest with emotion ; " your hands are red with the blood
of the faithful d'Hautefort, you have wickedly slain."

The lieutenant paused abashed. Even his well-known
arrogance availed him nothing here in the presence of the
holy man.

" Good father, what shall I do ?" he at last managed to
mutter with downcast eyes.

" Do ] Do your duty ! Throw yourself at the feet of
the holy mother of God. Make restitution to the two
women whose hearts you have broken by your foul deed !
Should you die in your present state of mortal sin, you
will be buried with the burial of an ass, and damned to
all eternity."

At these awful words the officer uncovered his head and
bowed almost to the earth, making the sign of the cross
with every appearance of contrition, muttering at the same
time, " Holy father, pray for me."

The abbe' waved his hand, turned on his heel and pro-
ceeded briskly in the direction of the King's Bastion.
D'Effiat watched the retreating figure till well out of sight,
while a sardonic smile curled his proud lips : " Soul or no
soul," he hissed between his teeth, " Marie will be mine
or there will be more blood, nor will it be the blood of the

William and Mary.

219

;r sainted
he priest,

emy were

e red witli

are this is

y agitated

I the blood

slain."
^■ell-linown

ience of the

managed to

the feet of
to the two

r fonl deed!
tal sin, you

. damned to

lis head and

of the cross

at the same

leel and pro-
g's Bastion.
ont of sight,
" Sonl or no
all be mine
blood of the

heretic either." Bad as he was he conld not, however,
nerve himself to do now what had been his purpose to do
before meeting the abbe. He had resolved to throw him-
self at the girl's feet and declare, at all hazards, his love.
It was a mad thought ; but love is mad, and blind, and
wild — at least such love as his. He knew nothing of the
purity of that devotion which encircles the object of affec-
tion as with a garment of light.

O love, true love, what art thou and what art thou not?
There is the touch of an aitgel's fingers at the heart, and
then there is the going forth of the soul towards the idol.
Pure love is of heaven — heavenly. It is not of earth.
How the soul sways beneath its power. We dwell in
realms of bliss. We are in the earth but not of it. Life,
which perchance but yesterday was clad in black and
sombre hues, to-day sparkles with a roseate glow. Ah,
blest love, thou art of God — a remnant of man's deep
loss. Thou art a breath from Paradise — thou art a song
in the night, life's night — dark night, but for thy light.

D'Effiat passed grimly on to his quarters, and in less
than an hour the fatherless girl was beyond his power.

"Dear child, sweet child!" exclaimed the abbesse
meeting Marie and her mother at the door of the con-
vent, "Holy Mary, mother of God, be good to you."

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE FIRST SHOT AT THE CITY.

When Gen. Pepperrell received Vaughan's despatch he
could hardly believe the evidence of his senses. " What
hiitli God wrought T he piously exclaimed, lifting his
eyes heavenward.

220

William and Mary.

Brifij.-Gen. Waldo, in command of the New Hampshire
troops, was ordered immediately to the Grand Battery
with his men, where he arrived early in the afternoon, to
the f^reat joy of Vaughan and his l)rave squad of thirteen.
They had in the interim been attacked by armed boats
from the city, which they had gallantly met on the beach
and repulsed.

The strategic importance of the Grand Battery struck
Waldo the moment he entered it. The guns had been but
poorly spiked, and without an hour's delay, Major Pom-
eroy, a professional gunsmith, was busy superintending
the drilling. This was continued all night by relays of
men, so that eai'ly on the morning of the third May,
Waldo had one gun ready trained on the town. The
French, in entire ignorance of what was going on in their
deserted work, were in crowds about the streets or
stretched lazily on the parapet watching with characteristic
sang froid the effect of their own desultory fire. Waldo
aimed the piece himself. The distance across the harbor
to the town was scarcely half a mile. Suddenly there is
a roar ! The loungers on the parapet stagger to their feet
in the wildest confusion as the iron messenger crashes
down among them, rebounding into the crowded streets
below, cutting a lane as it tore along. Fourteen men lay
cold and dead within the city ere the smoke of the dis-
charge had lifted itself from the bay. It was a terrible
foretaste of what was to follow.

The first Sabbath dawned upon the besiegers. It was
to them a novel experience to find the sanctity of the day
of rest was to be broken by the incessant crash and thud
of shot and blare of shell. All the guns of the battery
were now fit for use ; but before opening on the town
Waldo had the men beat to arms for divine worship.
What a sight was here ! The boys had smelt powder—

William a^id Mary,

221

they had looked upon death. Before darkness came down
upon the hills some of them might be sleeping that sleep
that knows no waking. Sternly they stood in the ranks,
with the brilliant sun baptizing them with a benediction
from above. Each man's face was a study. Struggling
emotions were at work deep down in every heart. The
shot from the city fell continuously against the walls of
the battery, throwing great clouds of sand and earth over
them. But not a man flinched — not a muscle moved.
Like veterans of a hundred battles, they stood as calm as
if all this was in the ordinary course of events.

There was one, however, toward whom many eyes were
turned with ill-concealed disgust. Chaplain McDonald
was seen to emerge out of the bomb-proof and go shufHing
along under the cover of the wall nearest the enemy. He
held in one hand the Book, while the other nervously
grasped the hatchet. Standing up with his back against
the parapet, and glancing wildly over his shoulder with a
shudder as the balls struck the earth in a shower above
him, he laid the hatchet on a gun carriage and began the
service. When preliminaries were ended, he announced
his text : " Enter into His gates with thanksgiving and
into His courts with praise." Psalm, c. 4.''' He spoke in his
usual incoherent and rambling style, with great swelling
words of sound, with little sense and less adaptability.
As the enemy's fire had slackened considerably, he waxed
wild toward the close, at length grasping his hatchet with
the oft-repeated declaration : " With these mine hands
will I hew down the images of Kome !" A low murmur
of indignation ran along the line, which the disgusted
othcers did not attempt to check. The chaplain had for
some time been losing caste, and he was now held by all in

^ The text is historically accurate.

;

222

William and Mary.

about the pame estimation as by the irrepressible smith's
apprentice in his own village.

When service was over a hasty dinner was snatched, and
then the guns opened a terrific fire upon the town. The
cannon were served with such precision that the enemy
at first, apparently amazed, maintained an ominous
silence. It was the lull before the storm. Soon every
gun that could be trained on the battery replied with
astounding rapidity. All along the front of the town, from
West Gate to Battery Island, was a sea of flame. The
earth shook beneath the appalling reverberations. The
calm waters of the harbor trembled as if in fear, as ever
and anon they were ploughed up in seething furrows
by bursting shell and shattering canister. It was an
unequal contest. The besieged had at least three guns to
Waldo's one, the greater number also of much heavier
calibre, but the brigadier's blood was up, and so was the
blood of the brave lads he handled so skilfully. Darkness
settled down on the scene, but the terrible duel went on.
The solid shot struck, tore, knocked — the demoniac scream
of the shells roared with a bellowing howl through the
air, falling with a shriek and a blare as they burst in and
around the battery.

" Give it to them, boys — give it to them ! " thundered
Waldo, dashing from side to side. " Give it to them, boys
— give it to them !"

He was answered with wild cheers and shouts and yells.
The explosions were deafening. It was not gun answer-
ing gun, but half-a-dozen vomiting forth at once like a
horrible volcano, till the continuous belching roar had in
it something so unearthly that the bravest might well
have stood appalled. At length, thoroughly exhausted
by their terrific efforts, and uncertain as to the effect
produced in the darkness, Waldo gave the order to cease

William and Mary.

223

mutn 8

1(1, and
. The

enemy
tuinoua
I every
:d with
n, from
J. The
a. The
as ever
furrows
was an
guns to
heavier
I was the
Darkness
vent on,
scream
)Ugh the
t in and

Hindered
em, boys

md yells,
answer-
,ce like a
ar had in
ght well
jxhaustetl
the effect
r to cease

firing. The French kept it up for a few minutes longer,
and then all was quiet. The silent stars twinkled and
blinked ere long upon a scene as calm and peaceful as if,
but an hour before, sea and sky and land had not been
tremulous with the shock of battle. The casualties in the
battery were only one killed and three wounded.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

A GOOD MAN AT REST.

Mary was sitting by the little window in her chamber on
the evening of the day that her loved ones, far away, were
marching through the thick woods of the distant isle.
She held in her hand listlessly an open letter, the last she
had received from her lover. She had just answered it,
and was waiting for her father to return from the village
whither he had gone to enquire about the next cruiser to
Louisburg. She felt that life* and death were now being
brought down to the narrow compass of a few days, com-
pressed within the accidents of a few hours. How to act
slie knew not. That her idolized William was, perhaps, at
that very moment at the mercy of one who knew neither
pity, fear, nor love, was a thought so terrible to her
gentle heart that she shuddered as it came upon her here
afresh, shuddered till the chair shook beneath her. Her
prayers died away in her throat, they would not be
uttered — they were unutterable. Her faith in God never
wavered for a moment ; but she could only throw herself
down before Him in silence and weep. The father had

224

William and Alary.

'■%

become more and more gloomy as the days rolled by. He
was all but broUf,dit to the verge of cursing tlie Being that
had "appointed" all this misery. Nothing but a vague,
undefinable hope that perhaps after all the minister and
deacon were wrong saved him from open blasphemy.
Mrs. Farley alone was a tower of strength. It could ntjt
last much longer, she would say. She prayed that the
days might be shortened and that they might know the
worst. This suspense was death. And so Mary thought
this evening as she sat by the little window, lietter
know the worst at once, then meet it as God gave strength.
Heaven help the child, she was so young, so tendt-r, so
frail.

When her father arrived at the parsonage Mr. Fenwick
was out. " He jest went over to th' poor widder's," said
the housekeeper, inviting Aliijah to come in and wait.
" Yew know th' baby died last night, poor thing, though
ez for that, ef it wuz one of the 'lect its all right, an' ef it
twant, why it'll not get ez much of the 'tarnal llames ez if
'twere older."

Abijah had no sympathy just now to waste on widows
or dead babies, elect or otherwise. His own troubles he
thought were greater than those of all others combined.
" He'll soon be back," continued the woman, as the de-
jected man sank into a chair. "Heow's Mary, th' dear I"

"Abeout the same," was the laconic reply, and he re-
lapsed into silence unbroken till the entrance of the
minister himself.

"Good evening, Abijah; good evening. I'm glad to see
you again," was the somewhat wearily-expressed saluta-
tion of the old pastor as he resigned his hat and staff into
the hands of his faithful Sarah. The minister sat down,
and Abijah's solemn face assumed if possible a still more
solemn aspect as he waited for the never-failing consola-

William and Mary.

o o r

- - J

,y. He
\v^ tliat
I vii^i;ue,
ster and
^phemy.
juUl not
that the
now th»;
thouj^ht
Better
Btiength.
ender, so

Fenwick
ir's," said
md wait.
<_', thouL'h

,, an' ef it
anies ez it

n widows
lubles he
;ombined.
,3 the de-
' dear I"
Ind he re-
;e of the

|rlad to see
ed saluta-
staff into
I sat down,
I still more
In consola-

tioii of his friend. But he waited tliis time in vain.
When he lifted his eyes at len^'th, and f^hmced curiously
in the direction of Mr. Fenwick to see wliy he was not
heini^ comforted, he beheld such an e.Kpri.'.ssion of utter
.sadness and weariness that for a moment his sellishiu;ss
vanished. He almost forgot liis own troubles in surprise
lit tlie unusual dejection of one lie had ever seen s(r cheer-
ful and hapi)y. Abijah dropped his eyes again waiting
for his turn, and so the three sat silently gazing at the
floor,

"Little Freddie would come and look at tlie cold pale face
of the baby in the cradle, and then he would toddle away
lo the corner where he kept liis playthings and bring his
string of pretty beads and call so piteously to the silent
one : 'Here, Wobbie, here ; take it, Wobbie, take it !' "

The old man's voice choked and the hot tears streamed
down his furrowed cheeks ; but he recovered himself and
went on ;

" ' You know, sir,' said the poor mother, * he always
called baby Wobbie ; he can't say llobbie. Baby used
take hold of the beads and they would play with them by
the hour together !' "

Sarah here broke down completely, and, hiding her face
in her apron, swayed to and fro in her chair.

" Then he would run to the mother and cry so that I
thought my heart must break : ' Ma, wake Woblde; wake
clear 'ittie Wobbie !' and he would creep up again to the
cradle and put his chubby little hands on the cold cheek,
but he would draw back as if afraid of something, and
running to the mother would hide his head in her lap."

"'We'll have to put Wobbie in a box in the ground,'
the mother would say as best she could with her sobbing,
and then the bewildered child would cry out, ' No, ma,
no. What for ? Don't put dear 'ittie Wobbie in 'e ground,'

226

William and Mary.

and again he wonkl toddle off to his corner and bring some
new playtliing to the cradle. ' Here, Wobble ; dear 'ittie
Wobbie, take it from Freddie.'"

The minister paused. A death-like silence was in the
room, broken onl/ by the suppressed sobs of the house-
keeper.

" I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to come right
away ; the little one in the cradle looked so much — I have
s'^en a great many cold little faces since then, but 1 thought
I never saw one that looked so much like our own dear
Georgie the day he died !"

Sarah groaned aloud and tossed herself back and forth
in her chair. It was the Hrst time in thirty years he had
mentiuned the name of the sweet boy they had laid beside
the young mother on the hillside. Abijah rose and crept
stealthily from the room. The two sat together with
bowed heads, while the fountain of sorrow found vent in
tears. An occasional sob from the woman told of her
anguish. Many long years had she been with him ; but she
had never seen anything like this since the day when
they came home from little Georgie's burial. It was 'i
luxury to her kind heart to be permitted to weep with
him now. The minutes flew by, and the darkness of
night came down upon them, but they moved not. They
sat in the gloaming and wept. It must have been well on
to midnight when the minister's tremulous voice ar^ used
his companion :

" ' The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord ; and
he delighteth in His way. Though he fall, he shall not
utterly be cast do\-'n ; for the Lord upholdeth him with
His right hand. I have been young and now am old, yet
have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed
begging bread.' "

Again a pause, and now his voice is heard in prayer.

William and Mary.

227

^ some
r 'ittie

in the
liouse-

e right
-I have
h ought
TTx dear

id forth
he had
1 bepide
id crept
er with
vent in
L of her
but she
ly when
was 'i
;ep with
cness of
They
well on
ar^ used

3rd ; and

lall not

nu with

ohl, yet

lis seed

prayer.

It was the simple pleading of a tired child with a loving
Father, and when it was ended he called to his house-
keeper :

" Where are you, Sarah 1"

"Here, clus by yew, air !"

"Give me your hand, Sarah. 1 have lived my whole
life over to-night, and — I am not disappointed. ' Yea,
though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil ; for Thou art with me ; Thy rod and
Thy staff they comfort me.' The Lord bless you, Sarah,
and make His face to shine upon you."

Then, refusing a light, she heard through her sobs his
unsteady steps going up the stairs to his room. It was
late when she awoke next morning. The sun was stream-
ing down through the window on her '-ed, and its warm
touch on her face had aroused her. She felt so ashamed
of herself, for she knew the dear old master must have
been astir for an hour at least. She never so hurried as
she did preparing the simple breakfast ; but it was soon
waiting and ready for him. " He's in the garding, I
s'pose," and she glanced out of the window feeling so
pleased, kind soul, that he had not come in before she was
prepared for him. Such a thing had never been known to
happen, and she could not just see what she should have
done had it happened this morning.

" I can't see him nowhar ; I s'pose he's off deown th' street
for a walk, it is sech a fine mornin'," and she busied her-
self putting the cosey room to rights as she waited. " Thar
he is ; here he cums at last," she exclaimed as a footstep
was heard outside, and she tripped toward the kitchen
when stopped by a loud rap at the front door. " La's me,
it's not him arter all ! " and she hastened back to the door
which, to hei amazement, she found still locked. It was
Abijah, He had come over, he said, to see about sending

228

William, and Mary.

the letters. Sarah, staggered at the thought of any one
finding her master in hed at that hour. Then her heart
smote her as slie recalled the night before. He was so
tired, she solih)quized, creeping up the stairs on tip-toe,
though why on tip-toe she couldn't say if questioned. She
was going to wake hini, but she stole along as stealthily as
if it was the last thing in the world she thought about.
Then she tapped at his door so lightly — a fly would have
made more noise. Tlien louder, and she trembled at the
fearful noise she thought she had made ; but there was no
response. Tlien she opened it a little very softly, and
called in a low whisi)er. Then a little wider and a little
louder call. Then she went in. A wild, ])iercing shriek
and heavy full on the iloor! Abijah, aroused from his
lethargy, rushed up and into the room. The old minister
lay on the bod like a sleeping child ; but it was the sleep
of death. His hands were clasped on his breast as if in
prayer. A radiant smile wreathed his lips, as if when the
angel spoke to him in the night, he had called so sweetly
that the weary man thought he but heard the voice of his
loved ones — the mother and the baby — so smiled his soul
to God.

CHAPTER XL.

MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OP WILLIAM.

The day following the departure of Gen, Waldo for the
Grand Battery, William was arraigned before a court-
nuirtial at headquarters. The young soldier stated his case
clearly, admitting the assault, at the same time showing
the annoyance to which he had been subjected. Harry,
who had been detained as a witness, with tears in his eyes

William and Mary.

229

related how his friend had been taunted from the day they
first met "Waterman in Harmony.

" Are you a relative of the prisoner, younj:^ man ?" asked
the general kindly.

" No, sir ; we were brought up together."

" Why do you think so much of him, then; why do you
love him so if you are not relafed ?" »

" Because — because I love him !" ^

The general smiled. "Waterman, whose face bore evi-
dence of the severe punishment he had received, made a
great ado as to how he had been attacked three separate
times by the prisoner, and concluded by saying that he did
not consider his life safe for an hour if Farley was let go.

" You have nothing to do with that, sir," replied Pep-
perrell sternly. " You have brought all tliis on yourself,
and you deserved more than you got !"

The decision was given accordingly, and William, to the
unbounded joy of Harry, was set at liberty. The following
morning as the two were sauntering about camp, having
nothing just then to do, they were hailed by an orderly
from headquarters with the command .^r William to report
himself at once to the general. They both proceeded in
haste to Pepperrell's tent, Harry pale and trembling,
fearing some new trouble to his friend. The general was
busy writing when Willif"^ entered, but immediately
looked up with a pleasant smile :—

" Private Farley, I hope you will never be placed under
arrest again. I think there is the material of a good
soldier in you. Your persecutor will not be likely to
annoy you again, and I expect to hear favorable accounts
of you during the siege. You will carry this despatch to
Gen. Waldo at the Grand Battery, and report yourself
with your young comrade to your captain. You know the
way — now be off, both of you ! "

230

William and Mary.

William grasped the despatch, and with a few words
in acknowledgment of the commander's kindness, saluted
and retired.

" We're to start at once for the Grand Battery, Hal," he
cried, rejoining his companion outside.

" Good," shouted the boy, his mind greatly relieved. It
was thfi work of a few minutes for the two young men to
pack thei» knapsacks. As William grasped his musket
for the start, he exclaimed with emotion : "There, I've
got you again, and when you will be taken from me it
will be in death." They soon had plunged into the
woods. " No danger of falling into the hands of the
Monseers, is there, William ]"

" I shouldn't think so," was the careless reply ; " we're
on the same trail we took the other day. See, this is the
very spot we stopped the big Frenchman," he exclaimed,
as they emerged into an open space.

They trudged on now for some time without speaking
till they arrived at a wet, boggy place right in their path.
They both halted to consider the best way of crossing.
Harry sat down on a log, and his comrade after a moment
followed his example.

" William, you know how I love you," said the young
lad, after a minute or two, looking at the other with his
heart in his eyes.

" Why, Hal, of course I do ! What a strange question."

•' No, it is not a strange question at all. You said some-
thing the day we left Canso that makes me ^hink you did
not believe in my love."

«0h!"

"Yes, and you doubt Mary's love too, which is worse."

The other was on his feet and plunging through the
bog before the words were well uttered. The disappointed
boy could do nothing but follow in silence.

U^illiam and Mary.

231

sv words
, saluted

Hal," he

jved. It
jt men to
s musket
[lere, I've
:om me it
into the
is of the

" we're

this is the
exclaimed,

t speaking

their path.

crossing.

a moment

the young
ir with his

uestion."
said some-
ak you did

is worse,
irough the
sappointed

"God save tliem hotli," he murmured to himself. "As
for my own life I will willingly ofler it np if it will bring
them together again. The enemy has begun his work, of
that there can be no doubt."

In his confusion at the abrupt movement of his friend,
and blinded by the tears which gushed into his eyes,
Harry stumbled off the hillocks over which he wa.s pick-
ing his way, and sank into the soft yielding mud to his
knees. William had disappeared on the other side in the
thicket and was out of sight. Harry thought he had
heard him shout, but was not certain. With considerable
difficulty he extricated himself from the mire, wet, cold,
and bespattered with mud. He stopped to listen, and,
hearing his friend crashing through the bushes far ahead,
dashed forward. After proceeding for some minutes his
heart almost failed him at William's strange conduct.

" How could he leave me here?" he cried bitterly; then,
regardless of consequences, he made the woods ring with
the shout, "William! William ! William!" but the mock-
ing echo among the trees gave the only reply.

" What can it mean ; is he only just trying me ?" Then,
almost angry at the thought, he pushed on in silence. He
had not gone far, toiling wearily up the hills till he came
out in full view of the city, the exact spot on which
they had stood a few days previously. He entered the
woods again, and now certain that William was dodging
him ahead, he hurried boldly forward till arriving, as he
judged, in the rear of the Grand Battery, he climbed
cautiously up the hill. As he came out into the clearing
again in sight of the city, a faint cheer was borne upon
the gale to his ear. He paused a moment to admire the
scene before him, and then rapidly descending made for
the gate. The sentry on duty was one of his own com-
pany, and the tired boy was no sooner within hearing
tlian he sang out :

232

William and Mary.

"How lonf:^ since William passed in?"

" William ? William Farley ? Why, he's not here ! "

" Didn't he pass in here a few minutes ago?"

"No,. not he. Whar's he ]"

The boy staggered against the wall, which by this
time he had reached, and would have fallen to the ground
had he not been caught by the guard. Fear, love, despair,
surged through his heart at those awful words. The ser-
geant, hearing the commotion, came forward and learned
from the stupefied boy the story of his parting with Wil-
liam in the woods. The matter was immediately reported
to Waldo, and a small squad was instantly sent out in
search, but after several hours' absence they returned
bringing no tidings.

Harry, sick, wearied, and almost frantic, dragged him-
self to his company's quarters, stunned by the tragic
events of the day.

CHAPTER XLI.

Harry's TRAGir death.

Day followed day, and the dejected boy's hopes di d out
of his heart. His comrades tried to rally him, but his
only reply to it all was the touching refrain : " He's lost
— he's lost ; we knew it would happen !" He sought an
interview finally, in sheer despair, with the chaplain.
They were together for a long time, and when he returned
it was evident to all that his last hope was gone. They
loved the lad, those great, rough, honest fellows ! They
had known him, many of them, since he was a baby. They

Williani and Mary.

•e!"

by this
ground
despair,
rhe ser-
learned
ith Wil-
reported
t out in
returned

red liim-
16 tragic

di d out
but his
He's lost
ought an
chaphiin.
returned
e. They
s! They
,by. They

knew his attachment to William, and the delicate rela-
tions existing between them on Mary's account.

" This'll kill th' old man," whispered one to another
as Harry sought the open air again.

' ' Th' old man ? Who keers abeout th' old man. It'll
kill more'n him !"

"So 'twill ; an' what's worse nor all, Hal's loosin' his
mind!"

"Dew yew think so ? Oh, I hope not !"

"Wal, ef yew'll only keep an eye on him when he
thinks no wan's alookin' yew'll think so tew ! "

"See aheer ! D'yew think this here is true they're
atellin' ?" asked one.

" What ?" cried half a dozen in chorus.

"Why, that William's deserted — gone over t' th'
Monseers !"

"Never !'' roared a score of voices at once.

"No, never!" indignantly put in Sergt. Gibson, not
liaving spoken before, ' ' No, never ! I know William
Farley ; he'd die tirst ! A truer soldier isn't in the army."

"The capon," replied the man who had asked the
question, "the capen said it in me own hearin'. He'd
ben awatchin' on William, sez he, fur sum time, an' he
know'd he'd desart if ever he'd get a good chance."

"Captain or no captain, I don't believe one word of it!
Pshaw! Why desert?" contemptuously asked the
sergeant.

' ' Dunno ; but what looks bad, they say he'd a des-
patch or suthin' fur th' general."

"Oho!" bawled out a soldier who hitherto had said
nothing. "Oho ! that's it, is it !"

"What's it?" demanded Gibson, with indignant
vehemence.

"Why, that he'd a despatch or suthin' fur th' general,
t' be sure."
16

234

William and Mary.

"Well, what of that ? What if he had ? "

" O, nothin' at all, only he'd a despatch or suthin' fur
th' general."

The sergeant looked at the man for some moments
in silence, as if uncertain what he meant. The tirst
speaker spoke again.

" It's my opinion that William's fell inter th' hands of
th' Monseers. Yew see he was ahead of th' boy con-
siderable."

"But I've heerd worse nor eny of yew abeout him,"
again spoke the man who had insinuated about the
despatch.

" What ?" cried a dozen, " what hev ye heerd ?"

" That he killed Waterman. He's missin' tew, yew
know ! "

"A happy riddance, then," sneered Gibson. "The
cowardly fool ! "

" Wal," said one who had been up to this a silent
listener; "wal, ef it wasn't fur th' doctrines, 1 dunno
what th' poor lad would dew jest neow ! "

"Doctrines," ejaculated Gibson, not catching his
meaning.

" Yez ; yew see, it's all foreordained what'U happen tew
us heer ; an', fur my part, I'm not agoin tew trouble
meself abeout eny thing."

"O, of coorse, we all b'lieve that," replied three or
four at once.

"Yez," continued the other, "nothin' ken happen
t' us here but what God fixed from all temity. Harry,
poor lad, ken meditate on the dark ways of providence,
an' that's abeout th' best kind of comfort I knows on ; it
allers duz me good to meditate on th' dark ways. "

The conversation was here abruptly stopped by the
entrance of the general's orderly with the command for

Williani and Alary.

235

thin' fur

moments
The iirst

hands of
boy con-
out him,"
bout the

tew, yew

n. "The

IB a silent
Is, 1 dunno

;ching his

lappen tew
3w trouble

d three or

en happen
y. Harry,
)rovidence,
lows on ; it

[)ed by the
tumand for

Sergt. Gihson to report liimself at once at licadiiuarters.
He soon returned in high sj)irits, announcing tliat he was
t(j start next morning before break of day, with a de-
taclniient of twenty-five men, on a raid into tlie country,
to ascertain, if possible, the movements of tlie Indians,
wh(^ were reported to be hovering in great numbers in
the rear of the army.

' ' Lucky fellow ! Who's goin' ? " cried every man in a
breath.

" Take me ! " shouted one.

"And me," cried the man who took comfort in the
dark ways.

"Hold on, boys, hold on! I've got them all down
here ! " and he proceeded to read out the names from the
list in his hand.
" Harry Oliver ! "

A murmur of surprise followed the announcement of
his name.

"It's tew bad. The boy's all broke up!" exclaimed
a man who had seen the lad in his cradle.

" It'll do him good, perhaps," answered Gibson. "Poor
fellow, go and find him out one of you, and let him
know."

Harry was glad enough to go. " Anything but this
terrible suspense " he said. He might hear something
about William, and if not, perhaps he might meet death
himself. He would die willingly. How could he ever go
home to his Mary without her lover ? He actually smiled
when told he was one of the raiding party.

The detachment started before it was clear the next
morning, Capt. Allen being on the ground to see them
off. Climbing the Green Hills they struck into the
woods beyond, and before the sun was well above the
tree-tops, several miles lay between them and the Grand

236

William and Alajy.

Biittoiy. About noon tliey reached a fine settlement
situated on a beautiful sheet of water covered with fishing
boats at anchor. No sign of inhabitants however could
anywhere be seen, and the men scattered themselves
carelessly from house to house, plundering whatever they
considered of value. A horrid yell ! It sounded like
the scream of a hundred demons. A shout, which froze
the blood in their veins ; for, as the soldiers rushed out
of the houses, some here, some there — all scattered —
they found, to their horror, that they were surrounded
by over two hundred bellowing red-skins and French
thirsting for blood. There was no possibility of rallying.
They were cut down like dogs. Those who were not
killed at the first onslaught were reserved for a worse
fate. Among these latter was Harry. He had been
standing listlessly at the door of a dwelling-house, taking
no part or interest in the wild fndic of his comrades. He
was liemmed in by a score of savages. He had shot one
and brained another with the butt of his musket, when
he was felled senseless to the ground by a blow from a
club. A dozen tomahawks flashed in the sunlight above
his prostrate body, when, with a fiendish chuckle, tliey
were stopped by an aged chief, and the still unconscious
boy was bound securely and left bleeding where he fell.
The shouts and yells had now become demoniac.
Gibson and two of the party were plundering the most
pretentious-looking house, when they heard the first
terrific war-whoop outside. A glance from the door
showed them that to come out was but to court death.
Gibson sprang up the ladder leading to the chamber, and
was followed breathlessly by his two companions. To
draw the ladder after them was the work of a moment.
Fortunately they had their firearms and ammunition,
and, with grim determination, they resolved to sell their

William and Mary.

237

lives as dearly as ])ossil)le. They knew that if discovered
it meant a horrible death. If not dislodged, they would
be burnt in the house with its contents.

" Pray, boys ; pray, if you ever prayed in your lives.
Hush^iere they come!"

There was a whoop, and the room below swarmed with
the savages. After searching al)out for a few minutes
they retired, and the imprisoned men breathed again
more freely.

" Pray, boys ; pray, if you ever prayed in your lives !"
again repeated the sergeant in .an unearthly whisper.

" What'll we be aprayin' abeout ?" said he who took
comfort in the dark ways, for he was one of the party. ' ' Ef
this heer thing's ordained 'tain't no use t' pray !" The
way was certainly dark enough for him now to give him
all the comfort he desired.

The boards on the gable end near which the three men
were concealed were in many places an inch apart, and
the movements of the Indians outside as a consequence
were plainly visible. A consultation of some sort ap-
peared to be going on among them. It was soon over,
and was followed by the fiendish war dance. The sergeant
knew weii what was coming from his long acquaintance
with Indian customs on the frontier at home. When the
dance was over the prisoners were led forward. ' ' Oh,
my God ! " groaned Gibson in deei)est agony, staggering
against the wall. " Yonder is poor Harry ! I had hoped
he was dead ! " The brave boy had recovered, and stood
gazing defiantly in the faces of the hideous throng around
him. Gibson levelled his musket through a chink in the
boards.

His arm was caught by him of the dark ways. "In
heaven's name what're yew goin' tew dew ? " was his
suppressed shriek.

•

23S

JVilluini and Alary.

'* VVull, |)orliiii)s it's bettor not. Tlioro 1h just a ghost
of a chauco for us to escape, and I suppose it is not right
to tlirow it away. 1 was going to slioot the dear hid to
save him from this horrible deatli ! "

" Ordained from all eternity ! " said the man with the
usual inconsistency of his creed. "Yew can't stop
what's ordained. 1 take comfort in meditatin' on that ! "

His words were drowned by a terrific yell. The
darling boy was being hacked in pieces before their eyes.
All the prisoners met the same fate, some under circum-
stances of unheard-of barbarity. The mutilated bodies
were left where they fell on the ground, and, apparently
ai)prehensive of an attack, the unhuman monsters
retreated silently to the dark forest beyond.

When night came on, Gibson, satisfying himself that
the Indians had all departed, cautiously proceeded to
lower the ladder. His position was a truly desperate
one. The unearthly silence without made every sound
seem like the wild whoop of the savage, " Easy, boys—
softly — easy !" but every movement rang out on the still
air. It seemed to their excited imaginations as if their
very breathing rumbled like the growl of an earthquake.
They could hear their hearts thump so loudly that more
than once they all stopped in their work shuddering,
thinking it was the stealthy step of the enemy. What a
creaking made the boards under their feet ! Everything
appeared to be possessed with the demon of noise. In
the dense darkness, though standing shoulder to shoulder,
they could see nothing ; but fiery eyeballs glared out of
every corner upon them. It was a long time before the
boards were all removed, and then they began feeling
for the ladder. They couldn't find it. Everything they
touched seemed in league with hell, imbued with an in-
e nal tendency for sound. The soft pressure of a hand

William and Marv.

239

nut right
jar lad to

1 with tho
can't atop

on that ! "
yell. The

their eyes.
ler circul-
ated bodies

apparently
\ monsters

himself that
roceeded to
y desperate
every sound
Easy, boys—
[ on the still
J as if their
earthquake,
ly that more
shuddering,
ny. What a
Everything
Df noise. In
; to shoulder,
rlared out of
[le before the
began feeling
erything they
i with an in-
sure of a hand

on the planks tang out like the crasli of a hammer in tho
gloom. 1'liey found tlie ladder at last. Lift as carefully
as they would, something was sure to be in the way.
" Easy, boys— easy— softly !" gasped Gibson, his throat
parched and his tongue swollen. " Easy, boys — boys ! "
They had got one end of the ladder down the opening,
when their hearts stopped beating — their hair stood liter-
ally on end ! A rasping sound was heard — then a screech
like the yell of a hundred savages — a loud crash, as if a
thunderbolt from heaven had fallen upon them. In their
nervous excitation each one had relaxed his hold on the
ladder, letting it rush unchecked to the floor below.

"We're lost," groaned Gibson in despair, comprehend-
ing what had happened. "Pull it up, boys — for your
lives. Where is it?" and he groped frantically in the
darkness. "Oh God, it must have dropped on the floor.
Can you find it?"

The three swung their arms down the opening regard-
less now of noise, the one of the dark ways muttering
something about the incomprehensible mystery of fore-
ordination, till at last his fingers clutched the ladder. It
was dragged up with a hideous racket, the boards were
slammed back in their place, and the men once more
clutched their muskets. It must have been an hour they
sat there — it seemed like an eternity - panting, not daring
to breathe a word. Whenever they had convinced
themselves that all was quiet again, the sighing of the
wind through the forest, or the far-away note of some
bird of the night, sent their hearts bounding into their
throats.

"I think we can move now, boys," Gibson was
at last heard saying in a husky whisper. His tongue
was all but paralyzed. He was a brave man — brave as a
lion. He would have charged unmoved upon the can-

240

William and Alary.

non's mouth, but he shrunk with a true soldier's dread at
the thought of being butchered in cold blood like his
comrades.

They got down at last, how they never could tell, but
they got down ; and into the open air, the do(jr shrieking
like an evil spirit behind them. The thick fog from the sea
had been driven far inland during their ini])risonnient —
clinging to every tree and shrub as it hugged the ground,
till the darkness was almost palpable. It was a fearful
undertaking. How to find their way back to the battery
through the impenetrable blackness of the forest was
only a part, and the smallest part, of the difficulties which
beset them. Every step they took they felt might be a
step nearer to a horrible death. No one spoke. The
man who took comfort in the dark ways was having his
fill of it. As they plunged into the woods a new trial
awaited them. The branches of the trees were dripping
with the moisture of the fog, not only drenching them
to the skin, but endangering the use of their firearms.
They trudged on, sometimes brought to a standstill by
huge windfalls across their path, at other times wallow-
ing in bogs and morasses where they sank almost to their
loins. Then when they got on to firmer ground, the dry
limbs would crnncn under their feet with loud snaps like
the report of a musket, while, as the gloom became less
dense, every separate tree-trunk sprang up before them
like a wild savage ready to brain them. It grew
brighter as they advanced ; and by-and-bye as the fog
lifted itself slowly, they could discern objects ahead.
Still they spoke not. And now it is daylight. With
faces and hands torn and bleeding, each starts with terror
at the sight of the other. Soon they catch sight of the
blue sea through the trees, and in another moment
emerge on the brow of the hills overlooking the town.

William and Mary

241

's (Iroad at
A like his

d tell, but
r shrieking
:oni the sea
sonment —
he ground,
LS a fearful
the battery
forest was
dties which
might be a
poke. The
having his
a new trial
ire dripping
Lching them
pir firearms,
tandstill by
mes wallow-
aost to their
nid, the dry
id snaps like
became less
before them
It grew
as the fog
jects ahead,
[ght. With
i with terror
sight of the
ler moment
ho town.

CHAPTER XLII.

THE BURIAL AND THE REVENGE.

The appearance of tlie three wearied, bleeding soldiers
drawing near created great constL^rnation in the battery.
Tliey no sooner approached the gate than they were sur-
rounded by every officer and man off duty. The story
was soon told. Wild wails and lamentations arose on
every side. To be shot down in fair fight was what they
all knew was one of the probabilities of a soldier's life, but
to be murdered in cold blood — murdered with such fiendish
refinement of cruelty, was something the brave troops
knew not what to do about. They wept. Yes, wept! It
was a marvellous spectacle. Rough-looking men, who
perchance had not shed a tear for years, sobbing like
children.

"An' Harry tew, the dear boy, with his heart nigh
broke before he went ! Oh, sarjent — his sister ! What'll
become of lier with both of them gone !"

Gibson shuddered in agony as the sight of the bleeding
youth rose up again before him. They had by this time
all entered the battery.

"Who'll voluntet-r to avenge the murder of your con?-
rades ? " roared Waldo, livid witli passion.

" I will ! " rose like the cry of one man from three hun-
dred throats.

It was difficult to make a selection, but about one hun-
dred was cliosen almost at random. Sergt. Gibson would
return. " I must go back, general. I must go back or
die ! "

" Sergeant, impossible ! You are near dead now, and
the column must move immediately."

242

William and Mary,

, if';.
■ -t ■

" I can never live through this if you refuse to let me
avenge the murder of my noble boys. I'll be ready when
the men are, general. Never fear."

" As you will then, sergeant, if you will have it so ; but
remember I will not be responsible for the consequences."

Gibson saluted and was off, soon returning in a dry suit
of clothes, the blood washed from his face, and altogether
looking as if nothing very serious had happenei!. Neither
of his two companions expressed any desire to return, one
of them going off to his bed to take comfort in meditating
on the dark ways of Providence !

Chaplain McDonald was ordered to accompany the
expedition in order that the murdered men might receive
Christian burial. He was troubled with his "heart, he
said; in fact, his heart had been troubling him more or less
since the army landed at Gabarus Bay. Could not the
dead be brought in and buried near the battery 1 It was
wrong — a very great sacrilege to bury Christian soldiers
where their graves could be violated by the idolater !
Yes, the dead should be buried here !

" I will give you just ten minutes to get ready," thun-
dered Waldo, glancing at his watch as he turned his back
with contempt on the man.

The detachment was in line long before the chaplain
issued from his quarters. He had become the laughing-
stock of the garrison.

" Where's your hatchet, chaplain 1" queried Gibson,
" haven't you got it ? I saw images out there that you can
have a blow at, if so disposed ! "

The chaplain made no reply, but looked the picture of
despair.

" Forward — March ! " and with teeth set and flashing
eyes the column filed out by the gate. There was no
cheering. The men were too desperately in earnest for that.

William and Mary.

243

let me
y when

so ; but
ences."
dry suit
together
Neither
urn, one
editating

,any the
it receive
heart, he
316 or les8
d not the
"j It was
n soldiers
idolater !

jly," thun-
his back

chaplain
laughing-
Id Gibson,
at you can

picture of

ad flashing
bre was no
lest tor that.

Gibson's blood was at fever heat. He felt that the awful
disaster of yesterday was in a great measure owing to his
own imprudence, and nothing but vengeance swift and
sure would satiafv him. Thev arrived at the settlement
early in the afternoon. The dead bodies were just as they
had fallen. At the awful sight, the men burst forth again
into wild cries and wails. The mutilated remains were
githered together, laid tenderly in a row on the grass,
while a squad was detailed to dig the graves. Sentinels
were posted on the outskirts to give warning in case of
surprise. The main body rested for any emergency. At
last the graves were finished. The company formed, and
marching with reversed arms to the spot, twenty-two dis-
figured bodies were lowered into their last resting-place.
When they came to poor Harry's niangled body, a burst of
horror shuddered along the line till the men shook like
the trees in the forest swept by the passing gale. He was
$0 young, so gentle, so pure, so good ! Every one loved
him. Those strong men who ([uivered here as they looked
on his disfigured remains, recalled, many of them, the little
boy with the sweet face and loving eyes they had so often
met in the green lanes around Woodside. And here was
all that remained of the lad ! And then they thought of
Mary. How could she bear it ? The two had never been
apart for a day before he left home ; and the thought
pierced them afresh till the great tears rolled down their
bronzed cheeks like a baptism for the dead. Even the
chaplain was moved, and forgetting himself for a moment
brushed away a tear. It was such a sorry sight. They
covered him up at length, letting the earth fall on him
softly, for they loved him :

•• Oh, he was somebody's love ;

Somebody's heart enshrined him there ;
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.

244 William and Mary.

Soiiiuhoily wept wliuii ho luarcliud away,
Looking ho hundsonie, brave and grand ;

Somebody's kias on his foreliead lay ;
Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's waiting and watching for him—

Yearning to fold him again to her heart ;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,

And the smiling child-like lips apart.
Tenderly they buried the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear —
Carved on the wooden slab at his head,

' Somebody's darling lies buried here I ' "

The company inarched back from tlie graves, and
Gibson with a husky voice addressed the men :

"We can't find tlie enemy ! Let us avenge the bh)od
of our dear boys as best we can. Burn — destroy —
demoHsh everything to the earth. To the work ! Break
ranks — away ! "

A shriek rather than a shout followed his words. Soon
rolling columns of smoke began to ascend from every
house.

" Here's the chapel, boys !" yelled one. It was locked,
but a few blows from a half dozen musket butts shattered
the door. Tlie men swarmed in. "Whar's the chaplain
neow an' his hatchet? This is what he's ben atalkin'
abeout so lon^ ; heer's them thar imajess, shure's yew
live ! Whar is he ? Bring him — carry him — drag him
along ! Away for him some of ye ! "

"I'll get him!" cried a stalwart Harmony boy, an
attendant on tlie chaplain's church, but as great a sceptic
as to the hatchet as Ned Gilchrist himself. "I'll get
him ef he's tew be got ! " He soon returned, dragging,
rather than leading, the reluctant McDonald.

" Chaplain : yer hatchet, whar's it ? Hew tew th'
arth — behold the ijols ! Whar's yer hatchet, man ? Look
at them thar imajess !" were the questions and admoni-

Willia7}i and Alary.

245

es,

and

le blood
estroy —
! Break

Is. Soon
fin every

s locked,
battered
chaplain
atalkin'
re's yew

llrag him

boy, an
a sceptic
("I'll get
Idragging,

tew th'

ji ? Look

admoni-

tions rained upon him from every side as he was pushed
up the aisle.

" (iet liiin an ax. I see wan a minute a^<» somowhar,"
slioutcd the man who was liustling the reverend warrior
along.

The axe was soon got and handed to the now thoroughly
alarmed minister, who, (quivering in every limb, hesitated
to take it.

" Take hold of the axe, sir ! " thundered Gibson, enter-
ing the chapel at the nujinent and taking in the situation
at a glance. " Take hold of the axe, sir !" and ho strode
up the aisle with drawn sword. The wretclied man,
seeing it was useless to refuse, and trembling at the
sight of the sergeant's weapon, grasjied the axe with
desjjeration.

"You c(jwardly poltrocm ! " roared Gibson, who was
beside himself with all he had passed through, " You
cowardly poltroon, I have listened to more than enough
of your cant for some weeks ! Now to your work ! "

The chaplain, goaded by the taunt, here made a pass
at a hitleous i)icture of the Virgin on the wall, but, miss-
ing his aim, the axe came crashing down in dangerous
proximity to his own toes, whilst tlie soldiers roared and
shook with laughter. "Take better aim, sir," screamed
Gibson, laying the cold blade of his sword on the chap-
lain's face. The men roared again. Keenly sensitive to
the taunts which were being heaped upon him, McDonald
madly rushed at the altar, and soon the axe was crashing
among crucitixes and candles. " There ! let's leave the
fool now and tire the building ! " cried the sergeant. It
was the work of a moment. The flames burst out on
every side, driving the chaplain now rather reluctantly
from his work of destruction, as he was making frantic
but iUjCfiectual passes at a huge altar-piece above his head.

2 4-6

Williafn and Mary.

Every house was burnt to the ground. Everything
that could by any possibility be of service to the enemy
was utterly demolished. When their work was done
they started unmolested on the return march.

As they drew near the battery they relaxed their
vigilance, and although very much exhausted, most of
the men fell into sprightly conversation on the events of
the day.

" It's kinder queer, tew," spoke the man who had
dragged the chaplain to his work, and addressing no one
in particular. " Yez, I 'low 'tis kinder queer."

" What's kinder queer ? " asked one near him.

" O, I wuz only meditatin' on th' deekrees : it is kinder
queer."

"What's kinder queer, I wanter know ?'' again asked
the other.

* ' Wal, yew see he wuz a good lad ; handsum an' sech,
an' I 'lows it's kinder queer."

" Yer kinder queer yerself, 'pears t' me I" put in his
comrade, somewhat nettled.

" Wal, p'raps I be, shouldn't wander ef I wuz, How-
sumever. that's neether heer nor thar. I v.uz a sayin' t'
meself that it's kinder queer, an' yew needn't listen ef
yew doant like ter !"

"But I dew like ter. I wanter know what's kinder
queer ?"

" Dew yew, tho' ? Wal, he wuz a handsum boy, an'
it's kinder queer, that's all. 'Tis all right 'nough tho'."

' * What's kinder queer, woant yer say ? Speak eout,
man."

" I wuz asayin' ez heow th' lad wuz handsum an' sech."

"What lad?"

' ' Why, poor Harry, t' be shure ! It's kinder queer
that he shuld be sent inter th' world t' be hacked like

Wi^Hani and Mary.

247

jrything
B enemy
as done

ed their

most of

gvents of

who had
ig no one

yon, an' skulped by them thar red Injuns. Kinder queer,
aint it ? I 'low 'tis."

" Wal, yez, neow that I think on't. Foreordained
t' be hacked a.i skulped. Yez, it is kinder queer."

" It's true, tho'. I wuz consolin' on myself thinkin' on
it ez we came 'long ; but I 'low 'tis kinder (|ueer."

" Wal, queer or no queer, 'tis in th' Book, an' what's
in th' Book's all right."

" Shuld think 'twas," laconically remarked the other,
and the conversation dropped, both appearing mutually
satisfied.

; is kinder
;ain asked
1 an' sech,

put in his

uz. How-
a sayin' t'
t listen ef

at's kinder

m boy, an'
igh tho'."
peak eout,

an' sech."

CHAPTER XLIII.

DEATH OF D EFFIAT.

inder queer
acked like

When these events were transpiring in connection with
the men of the Grand Battery, the main body of the
army under Pepperrell was not by any means idle. The
commander-in-chief, seeing the insufficiency of his force
to properly invest the fort, decided to advance regularly
against the West Gate and the King's Bastion. The first
battery was erected on the slope of the Green Hills, con-
siderably less than two thousand yards from the walls.
It was a desperate undertaking that now stared the
general in the face. Nothing but his abiding confidence
ill God and in the righteousness of his cause could have
nerved him to the task. When the wretched-looking
earthwork was in course of construction, the guns with
which it was to be manned had to be dragged on sledges

248

Williaiii and Ma^y,

from the camp at GaLariis Bay, over rocks, hnish, fallen
trees, as well as through marshy bogs where the men
sank in places almost up to their arm-pits. But there
was never a word of complaint. They Lent to their task,
enlivening it betimes with snatches of song. So expe-
ditiously was the work carried forward that in a few days
two batteries were ready to throw their messengers of
death into the town, — the second one being only one
thousand yards from the gate. The roar of caniKjn had
now become incessant except at night, so that the be-
leagured garrison found it as much as they could do to
attend to the fire of the Grand Battery c(jming acr< »ss the
harbor, assisted by the two saucy new earthworks that
sent their missiles crashing over the walls and thrcnigh the
houses beyond. So firm a foothold had the besiegers
secured, and so marvellous had been their success thus far,
that at a Council of War held on the 7th May, at-
tended by Warren and Pepperrell, it was determined to
send a flag of truce into the town demanding its inane-
diate surrender. This was accordingly done, but Du-
chambon gallantly replied that he would "answer at the
cannon's mouth !" The result was a furious cannonading
which was kept up on each side with unwonted fury till
darkness settled down over the combatants. When the
morning broke, the French were amazed to see frowning
within four hundreds yards of them another battery
which had sprung up under cover of the night as by
magic. Duchambon appears never to have fully com-
prehended up to this moment the character of the enemy
with which he had to contend. He heartily despised
them as an undisciplined rabble till, in astonishment, he
beheld this last earthwork. He had permitted them to
erect their two former wretched-looking works unmo-
lested save by his guns, which, strange to say, did little

William and Mary.

249

damage. Ho now resolved on bolder measures. On the
night following the erection of the last-mentioned battery,
a sortie was decided on. He was suspicious of his men —
he liad good reason to doubt them. True, they had be-
haved admirably since the siege commenced, but the
Governor could not or would not forget their former in-
8u])ordination. He feared to trust them outside the ram-
parts. Their urgent appeals to be led against the enemy,
he interpreted as merely a ruse to desert en masse. It
was, however, now a choice between two evils. He must
attack this insolent little battery which all day long had
so annoyed him, or allow it to beat down the gate before
his very eyes. It was as well to lose his men outside as
inside, he reasoned, even if they resolved to prove
traitors to their flag and king. The sortie was, therefore,
fixed for the coming night. No one should lead it but
Lieutenant d'Effiat.

"The wretch," muttered Duchambon to himself as he
despatched an orderly for the fiery young officer ; "the
wretch, to deprive me of my d'Hautefort in this time of
need. There is not one of my officers that can assist me
in tliis crisis like my dear dead friend. I would rather
have lost every one of them, if I could have saved him."

When d'Effiat entered the Governor's quarters he was
rather sternly informed what he was sent for. " Take
fifty men, trusty and the bravest you can select, and
dislodge the heretics from their new work to-night."

" Give me at least double the number, your Excellency,"
replied the lieutenant more courteously than was his
wont, beginning to realize the desperate character of the
task entrusted to him.

"Impossible! Not another man. You hear my
orders I Are not fifty soldiers of France, led by d'Effiat,

250

William and Alary.

Hi I

able to cope with three times the number of raw Provin-
cials ? You hear my orders, sir. You may go ! "

The lieutenant saluted and retired.

" He wants me out of the way — shot down like a dog.
That's plain enough. The old fool ! Those Provincials
are not the poltroons he takes them for, as I have already
found to my cost ! " and, with a grimace and shrug of the
shoulders, he proceeded to carry out his instructions.
" Ha, Marie !" he muttered as he passed the convent and
lifted his chapeau. "Ha, Marie, those cursed heretics
will have the town before long, and then — and — then I "

The night set in with a dense fog from the sea. The
darkness was so unusual that the attackinj; party stum-
bled and jostled each other in a very unsoldierlike man-
ner as they marched towards the West Gate. Duchambon,
deeply interested in the success of the movement, was
waiting their arrival in the guard -house. As their
shuffling tread was heard approaching along the paved
way he advanced to the door. "Proceed cautiously,
lieutenant. You know every inch of the ground, and
need not go a step out of the road. Let not a word be
spoken. When near enough, dash on the work, spike
the guns, and give the signal. We will then open on the
first and second batteries."

The Governor returned to his quarters, and the column
filed noiselessly out through the gate. " It's madness,"
muttered the unfortunate d'Effiat to himself, tightening
his sword-belt; "it's madness, but I am a soldier oi
France — here goes ! "

The party crept along by the road breathlessly. The
darkness, if possible, became denser as they advanced.
It was out of the question to tell where they were.
D'Effiat couldn't distinguish the sergeant by his side.
The cold, rain-like mist had by this time completely I

Willia^n and Mary.

251

saturated their liair and beards, and the men shivered in
the ranks as the raw wind from the sea swept in upon
them from tlie harbor. The lieutenant grasped the ser-
geant's arm, and the ctnnpany was lialted. The bewil-
dered ofticer advanced cautiously to reccmnoitre. He
soon came back in dismay and whispered to the sergeant :
*'I can't tell where we are. Can it be possi])le we have
passed the work ?" The sergeant thought not, but
couldn't make out where they were.

The last English battery, like the two others, was
thrown up on the left of the road by which the attacking
party advanced, and d'Efliat could not make out whether
he was now at its front, flank or rear. Tho rain, which
had long been threatening, began to fall in torrents. In
sheer desperation the word was whispered from man to
man to file from the road to the left and form for the
assault. So long as they were on tlie hard, well-paved
roadway they had marched in something of order, now
they stumbled and staggered in confusion over granite
boulders, hillocks, and other obstructions. Seeing that
it would be impossible to proceed much farther without
attracting attention, d'Efliat halted and tried vainly to
form his command. A lurid flash right in their faces — a
loud report rang out in the darkness — in an instant, wild
confusion ! A galling fire smote them, and, almost
without returning a shot, the French broke and fled,
every man for himself. The guns of the King's Bastion
opened a terrific fire on the batteries beyond, which was
returned with vigor, and for some minutes the heavens
were lighted up with the lurid glare of shrieking shells
as they crossed and recrossed each other in fiery tracks
athwart the sky. Then all was still. The movement had
miserably failed. D'Efliat fell at the first volley riddled
with bullets, and was buried by the English with honors
the following morning.

2:^2

William and Mary.

CHAPTER XLIV.

POOR JACK FULFILLINO IIIS PROMISE.

''P"''

On the day followinff tlie return of the expedition which
had wreaked vengeance upon the French settlement, a
rouj,di-looking man in pailor'a garb was seen by tlie sentry
from tlie gate of the Grand Battery, cautiously creeping
down from tlu; Green Hills. The man evidently was un-
certain how to proceed ; for he would advance a step, he8i-
tate, and finally stop. As he drew nearer he was recog-
nized by his dress aa belonging to the fleet, and accordingly
motioned to come on. When within hailing distance he
stopped again.

" Come along, me man ; come along ! What dew yew-
want ?"

" Oho ! All right 'nough t' say cum on ! I s'pose yew
wanter run me thro' with yer bagnot! Be yew Injuns, or
Monseers, or what be yer ?"

"Oh, we're friends, man. Come on, won't yew ?"

"Ay, ay ! Be yew from New Hampshire?" advancing
a step or two nearer.

" Yez, most on us. Come on, I say, an' tell us what yew
want."

" Sech a time's I've hed !" exclaimed the sailor excitedly
as he cautiously drew near, glancing nervously to the right
and to the left as if still doubtful about his safety ; " Sech
a time's I've hed adodgin' here'n thar from th' sojers all
th' day long I When I'd put me head out of th' bush I
was shure I'd be shot deown or run thro' with a bagnot ;
an', I s'pose, it's all up with me neow ennyway. Whew!"
and he dodged nearer the gate as a screeching shell from
the city tore high above his head.

William and Mary.

253

lition which
[>ttleinent, a
y the sentry
sly creeping
ntly was un-
! a step.hesi-
i \vaa recog-
l accordiufjly
T distance he

liat dew yew

I s'pose yew
ew Injuns, or

yew r

V advancing

us what yew

Ulor excitedly

\y to the right

[afety ; " Sech

|i th' sojers all

I of th' bush I

ith a bagnot ;

ay. Whewl"

jng shell from

" Wal, I tliink yer all rij^'ht neow, ef yew behave yerself.
What iJiyQ want, ennyway \" asked the sentinel as the
Bailor sipiatted himself on the ^Tound a few yards distant.

" See aheer !" and he scrambled along on all fours ; "I've
nmned away from th' ship, an' ef I ever get back alive
I'll ketch it ; but, 'pears to me, I've ketched it already
from ye all, with the balls atlyin' areound wan's head, an'
skippin' abeout ez thick ez Mother Carey's chickens !"

*' Wal, we'll not hurt yew heer, depend on't, if yew be-
have yerself. Come along, neow."

Picking up courage, the sailor rose to his feet and ad.
vanced rapidly toward the gate, just as the sergeant of the
guard came forward, having overheard the C(jllo([uy. Poor
Jack's heart began to fail him again. He was almost on
the point of taking to his heels, till once more reassured
that he had nothing to fear.

" She looked so castaway-like, an' so I promised tew dew
it, an' heer I be tew dew it. I've kept it neow nigh onter
a month, p'raps more'n a month ! "

"Kept what ?" asked the sergeant dubiously, thinking
the man demented.

*' Shure 'nough. Didn't tell yer what, did I ? Be thar
a lad heer ye call Oliver ? Harry Oliver ?"

Tiie kind-hearted soldiers both tried to answer but
failed. The sentinel turned away his head to hide the
tears that would come.
" Be thar 1" persisted the sailor alarmed.
"No."

"Them sojer chaps, deown at th' shore yonder, tole me
he wuz heer ; but, I s'pose, I've got astray acomin'.
Shouldn't wonder with all the dodgin' I had of Monseers 'n
bagnots !"
" No, yer not astray ! "
" Then, he's heer ?" cried the poor fellow brightening.

254

William and Mary.

I ''J

"No. He's— dead!"

" Ded r'

"Yes— dead !»

" Did — yew — say — ded ?"

"Yes, and buried !"

" An' I've kept it all this time fur nothin' ; neow he's
ded ! "

" Kept what 1"

The sailor drew from his bosom a soiled and crumpled
letter.

" Look aheer, sojer ! Mebbe yer foolin' on me ?" and
he held tlie letter between hiy forefinger and thumb ; "his
sister — oh, aint she a beauty — she guv it t' me !"

At this juncture footsteps were heard approaching, and
presently Capt. Allen and another officer drew near. They
were going for a stroll outside the battery, and were on
the point of passing when the captain's eye fell on the
sailor.

" What ? What does this fellow want here, sergeant ?"
he sternly enquired, stopping in his walk.

" He's got a letter, sir, for poor Harry, from his sister, he
says."

" Oh, well, Jack — I'll take the letter ; give it to me. I
was his captain, you know."

The sailor had no notion of doing anything of the
sort, but thrust the letter hurriedly into his bosom.

" Sergeant, arrest the fellow. It's not safe to trust any
one in time of war. Arrest him, and put him in the guard-
house !"

The sergeant advanced to do as commanded when the
sailor struck him a stinging blow on the forehead, and
then sprang like a tiger on the captain. Both officers were
unarmed, and Jack, striking right and left, was in a fair
way of getting out through the gate wnen stunned by a

'■""""■' -

William and Mary. 255

blow from the sentinel. Capt. Allen immediately secured
the letter, and the poor fellow was dragged insensible to
the guard-house.

"A queer customer," remarked his companion to Allen
as they resumed their walk.

" I should thiuk hf, was. The man must be crazy "
"Orappy!" "'■

"Or a spy. The fact is, you don't know who to trust in
such times as these. The evil spirit appears to be more
^an usually active when great events are transpiring.
Who, for instance, would ever imagine that young Farley
-a deacon's son and all-would turn out as he did ?"

" Sure enough, who would have thought it ? Let me
see. Was he not a relative of some kind of the poor fellow
for whom this crazy sailor had the letter?"

" No, not a relative. I knew both lads since they
were babies. Good, honest, God-fearing folk are their
parents. "

'• And do you really think this young Farley has de-
serted?"

" Do I really think he has deserted ! I don't think
anything about it— I know it !"

"The unhappy boy ! Wha^. a horrid fate awaits him
should he be alive when the city falls !"

"If alive, ir, will go hard with him. Pepperrell is
very strict ; but I'll do what \ can to save him, for his
parents' sake."

"Certainly, cerialnly, I know that !"

The two strolled on for a time in silence.

"When have you heard from home, captain ? " asked
his friend.

" A few days since. Sad new from there ; yes, very
sad news ! Our dear old pastor has gone to his reward-^
died suddenly. He was worn out, I think, by the strain

256

William and Mary.

of these troublous times and the trials of the hour. Ay,
trials : and there will be more deaths in Woodside before
long !"

'*How so — what makes you think that ?" questioned the
other in surprise, struck by the peculiar tone in which
he had spoken.

" Well, you see, those two families, the Farleys and
Olivers were very intimate. They did not want the boys
to come with us. Now, one of the lads is dead, and the
other — well, worse than dead, a deserter ! When the old
people hear it all they will never bear up under it. There
will be one death, at least, that 1 am almost certain of. I
know them well."

" It will be necessary to break the news gently, poor
souls !" said his companion with unfeigned sympathy.

" Oh, of course, of course — certainly, certainly. I have
done that already as well as I know how. Were the dear
old pastor alive, it would have been a great relief to me.
As it was, I thought it my duty to let them know as soon
as possible."

" Quite right. You are always considerate. The lads,
too, belonged to your company. "

They had by this time strolled up the brow of the hill
and sat down on a rock. The battery was at their feet.
The fortress thundered defiance across the harbor a little
to the right. Out on a straight line from where they
were sitting lay the Island Battery grimly pounding
away, while far in the otting were Warren's squadron idly
watching the bombardment. The two oliicers gazed pen-
sively on the scene. Allen was the first to speak.

" What a strange providence," continuing the conversa-
tion where it had dropped, " the good old people did not
want the boys to leave home. I did not want them — tried
every way to discourage young Oliver. Their places could

William and Mary.

257

>ur. Ay,
de before

ioned the
in which

rleys and
t the hoys
1, and the
en the old
it. There
tain of. I

ently, poor
ipathy.
Ly. I have
re the dear
Blief to me.
low as Boon

The lads,

of the hill
their feet,
rbor a little
where they
yr pounding
uadron idly
gazed pen-

!ak.

le conversa-
iple did not
hem— tried
places could

have been filled by a choice out of a dozen or more who
wanted to come, any one of whom would have made a
splendid soldier. But the boys came, you see — would
come, in fact, must come — and they were in trouble all the
time !"

" It is strange," replied his friend.

" Strange ? Why, it is astounding if viewed from a
worldly standpoint ! "

" Oh, my dear captain, this life is full of perplexing
things."

" So it is, and yet all things are ordered from above,"
replied Allen solemnly ; "my trust in an overruling pro-
vidence grows stronger every day of my life. I would not
know what to do were it not for the consolation of this
truth !"

" And yet does it not seem remarkable," continued the
other ; ** does it not seem remarkable that God should
ordain all these things which are happening around us?"

" How, remarkable ] In what respect remarkable 1
What do you mean ?"

" Well, captain, you have just said it was strange about
those two lads /"

" So I did — so it is strange !"

" That is what I say— strange ! Now, does it not strike
you as among the very, very strange things that God
should have foreordained that those boys should come
down here, one of them to be cruelly murdered, and the
other, perhaps, to die like a dog ?"

" I can't just see what you mean ! I said it was strange,
if viewed from a worldly — I should have said, human
standpoint ; but, of course, we must not look at it from a
human standpoint. The way you are putting it surprise*
me ! Of course, nothing happens by chance. Don't you
believe that ?"

258

William and Mary.

" Certainly I do; and just there is where the strange-
ness, to my mind, comes in. The lad Oliver was butchered
in cold blood. It had to be so — in a word, every blow he
received had been prearranged from all eternity — he
neither received one more nor one less than had been
ordered. His comrade deserts ! Well, that was also fore-
ordained. He will be shot, likely, lor doing what he could
not help doing — in a word, for doing what in no possible
way he could avoid doing !"

" That is it ? Now, pray tell me what part of all this
strikes you as being among the very, very strange things,
viewing it through tlie medium of the decrees, which, you
will admit, is the only proper way to view it ?"

" Why, captain, to me it is very, very strange that the
boys slujuld have been born at all with such a destiny
mapped out for them. From all eternity it was decreed
that they should act just as they have acted ?"

"Certainly!"

" Now, it seems to me remarkable that this boy Farley
will have to be shot as a deserter for simply doing what he
could not help doing — what, in fact, he was created to do !"

" And your talk, sir, is more strange to me than all
that. I have never heard any one talk as you do !"

" Oh, captain, you must not think I disbelieve the
doctrines. I. believe them just as firmly as you do !'*

" And I believe them from the deepest depths of my
heart ! I don't understand them, and what is more, I
don't want to understand them ! I believe them all the
more because I don't understand them !"

They were both silent again for a time, Allen being, as
before, the first to speak.

" I want to ask you a question, sir."

" By all means, captain. Ask what you will ; I will
answer if I can."

William and Mary.

259

trail ge-
tchered
)low he
itv— he
id been
Iso fore-
lie could
possible

all this
3 things,
lich, you

that the
a destiny
18 decreed

,oy Farley
g what he
ed to do !"
e than all

.0!"

telieve the
L do 1"
ths of my
is more, I
em all the

m being, as

ill ; I will

" Do you believe that God knows all things from all
eternity ? "

" Well, I did not expect to be put through my catechism
at my age, or I would have looked it up before coming
out !" was the reply, witli a slight touch of raillery, " but
I will answer all the same. I do believe it, as I believe in
my own identity !"

" Then you believe God knew in all ages how those boys
would act ?"

** Most undoubtedly ! "

" Then He created them knowing what they would do ?"

" Tliat is just the point — the difficulty lies just there.
The mystery to me is why they should be punished for
doing what they could not help doing. It kind of looks
as if personal responsibility is not taken into account at
all. I would like to ask ywi a question, if you please."

"Well?"

" Did it ever occur to you that God may foreknow the
event, yet His foreknowledge does not make the event ?"

"This is preposterous — this is sheer blasphemy !"

"It hasoften struck me," continued the other,not heeding
the sneering reply ; " it has often struck me that we con-
found things that differ. God foreknows all things that
will come to pass, and yet it may just be possible that He
knows them because He sees them — all things being
present with Him — and not that they come to pass because
He foreordained them. He cannot be deceived ; yet who
knows but He may see in man the power of acting other-
wise than he does act 1 In a word, may it not be con-
ceivable that God knows a number of different ways a man
may act if he so will, instead of the one way that he
finally does act ?"

The captain rose excitedly to his feet. " We shall settle
this matter before the Church when we get home ! It

260

William and Mary.

hardly comes under tlie cognizance of a military court,
or we M'ould settle it yonder," and he pointed to the
battery.

They walked Lack in silence, Allen moodily seeking his
quarters when they re-entered the work.

CHAPTER XLV.

DISASTROUS REPULSE AT BATTERY ISLAND.

Commodore Warren lay idly in the offing with his squad-
ron. It was a sore trial to the gallant othcer to wait here
day after day doing nothing, or what a])peared to him
next to nothing, while the brave Pepperrell was pound-
ing away as he crept closer and closer to the walls. So
long as the Island Battery remained in the hands of the
enemy the harbor was effectually closed against his ships.
Could a few guns be mounted on the heights opposite,
the troublesome islet would be placed in a hazardous
position, as the distance was only about one thousand
yards. There were, however, insuperable difficulties in
the way. To transport artillery from the base of opera-
tions at Gabarus Bay was a most formidable undertaking,
and the commodore could see no other practical solution
of the problem than to wait patiently the slow develop-
ments of the siege. At this juncture the fortunate dis-
covery was made, that under the waters of the harbor, at
a place known as Careening Wharf (only a few hundred
yards from the contemplated battery), over thirty guns
were lying on the bottom, where they had been hastily
thrown by the French. It was another of the many

William and Mary

261

court,
to the

in^ his

, squad-
ait here
to him
pound-
11s. So
, of the
s ships,
pposite,
.zardous
lousand
ties in
opera-
taking,
solution
evelop-
ate dis-
irbor, at
lundred
i-ty guns
hastily
e many

marvellous coincidences wliich marked the progress of the
siege, and which came home to the hearts of the simple-
minded New Englanders as a special evidence of the
favor of God. In the wliole army there was not probably
a man who did not firmly believe that it had been
arranged from all eternity that tliose cannons should have
been submurgetl just there for their use. The raising
and transporting of the guns were, as a consequence, im-
mediately entered upon with great alacrity, and, notwith-
standing a lierce attack by the enemy, the work was
rapidly puslied forward. It soon, however, became
apparent that the obstacles in the way liad not wholly
been overcome by this providential discovery. The labor
occupied the entire attention of nearly two hundred men,
who could not well be spared from the small army of
investment. At tliis crisis it was decided by a Council of
War that an attempt should be made to reduce Battery
Island by assault. No movement since t e siege com-
menced was more perilous, .and both officers and men
fully appreciated the gravity of the undertaking. The
assault was decided upon in opposition to the advice of
the most experienced officers, who held that it was
running clearly in the face of the decrees. Volunteers
were however called for, and about four hundred selected
for the purpose. The men were permitted the rare
privilege of choosing their own commander, their choice
being a Captain Brooks — a brave soldier as well as a good
man.

On the night of the 27th May the expedition started.
They embarked in light whale-boats and rowed noise-
lessly round by the Black Point on the Atlantic sea-
board. It was their intention to effect a landing on the
island, and then dash on the work, trusting to the
audacity of the assault to bewilder the enemy. Fortune

262

William and Mary.

again appeared to smile upon them. The sky was overcast.
The fog was tliick, palpable. The wild moanings of the
sea as the waves rolled in sullenly against the walls of
the huge fortress they were passing drowned the sound
of their oars as, like grim spectres of the deep, they
swept swiftly, silently, surely on. The men held their
breath. Not a word was spoken. Not a whisper even.
The slightest ripple of an oar might bring the great
plunging shot upon them, hurling their boats to the
bottom in one conunon ruin. At length they were past
the town in safety. With long, steady, but stealthy
strokes they headed for the island. A minute more and
the boats would ground upon the beach. A shout — a
cry — a shot —a volley — and the air is thick with bullets.

"Pull, boys — pull for your lives !" roared the heroic
Brooks.

To their horror and dismay they find themselves among
the breakers. The boats dash in pieces on the rocks.
Some plunge to the bottom riddled by balls.

"Jump out !" screams the commander. A ringing
cheer answers him as about two hundred of his men leap
into the seething surf and stumble up through the
breakers, up over the slimy stones, up in the face of the
withering fire of the enemy.

"Forward — charge ! "

A wild yell, and they dash after their captaii\ The
fight is now terrific. The whole garrison is upon them.
The English, dripping wet, find, to their bewilderment,
that their firearms are all but useless ; but they dash on.
Shrieks, roars, yells, cries, cheers, mingle with the sharp
rattle of musketry. Slowly, but surely, against terrible
odds and at a fearful disadvantage, our brave lads are
gaining inch by inch, driving the French before them-
Brooks springs like a lion for the flagstaflf, cutting a lane

Williavi and Mary.

263

for himself with his sword. In an instant he has the flag
of France at his feet and is grasping it with his left hand
when he falls, clefi through the skull by a Swiss soldier-
Seeing their commander gone our men lose heart, and,
huddling together, throw down their arms.

Over sixty brave New England boys lie cold, and stark,
and dead around and within the work. About one
hundred are made prisoners. ,

When morning broke over the scene it was only to
intensify the feeling of gloom in the army. Cheer after
cheer rang out over the bay from the island, was caught
up by the fortress, and sent echoing defiantly over the
heads of the besiegers, dying away among the fir-clad
summits of the hills. The complete and utter failure of
the assault inspired the French, while it correspondingly
discouraged the English. It was the first reverse of the
siege, and for the time hope died within them. But it
was of short duration. There were not wanting those
who pointed to the repulse as an evidence of God's dis-
pleasure at not following His leadings. It was said that
Providence had arranged the way the battery was to be
silenced, and that He had placed the means of doing it
before their eyes. Contrary to what was j)lainly fore-
ordained, they had attacked the island and lost about the
same number of men as those who had previously been
engaged in raising the sunken guns. It was plainly their
duty, then, to commence where they had so rashly left off.
These views prevailed. Instant preparations were again
set on foot to erect a battery at Lighthouse Point, as at
first contemplated. The work was laborious ; but it was
now prosecuted with that vigor that came of assured
conviction that the whole thing had been divinely planned.

Meanwhile Pepperrell crept nearer and nearer to the
West Gate. A breaching battery, only two hundred

264

William and Ma7y.

and fifty yards from the ramparts, had been constructed,
and was now thundering away almost incessantly, day and
night till the drawbridge and portions of the adjoining
walls were masses of tottering ruins.

The reverse at Battery Island, it has been said, cast
only a momentary gloom over the besiegers. A gay,
roUicking lot they were. While those in the trenches
were fightiug like veterans within speaking distance of
the enemy, those off duty were enjoying themselves in
all the wild abandon of guileless hearts. Pitching (^uoits,
shooting at marks, wrestling, running, frolicking, they
were as happy an army as ever sat down to the hazardous
operations of a siege. They knew nothing of the art of
war ; but they were as brave as the bravest regiment of
the line. They built their wretched earthworks on a
plan entirely their own, despising the slow approaches of
zig-zags and epaulments. Selecting their site in the day-
time, while shot, and shell, and canister raged and roared
and tore around them, the next morning the astounded
enemy beheld another battery nearer than ever, where
no sign of broken ground appeared when the sun had set.
And thus they went on, fighting, and frolicking, and
trusting m God.

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE SAD NEWS IS HEARD IN WOODSIDE.

Deacon Farley had been more than usually cheerful all
day at his work. He had more than his wonted share of
labor just now, and sadly missed his boy from the
field ; but this beautiful day towards the close of the
month he had felt almost like himself again. He could

William and Mary

265

itructed,

day and

,d joining

jaid, cast
A gay,
trenches
stance of
iselves in
ng (quoits,
ing, they
hazardous
the art of
giment of
arks on a
roaches of
n the day-
ind roared
astounded
er, where
n had set.
iking, and

)E.

jiheerful all
3d share of

from the
lose of the

He could

not account for the feeling ; but lie looked haf*k with
surprise at the last few weeks as he recalled his melan-
choly. It would be but a short time now, he hoped,
before the lads would be back again in tliuir old places
none the worse for the war, and ho felt certain ho would
be all the better for it himself. So would his dear wife
— bless her — he mentally ejaculated, she had so much to
bear, and she bore it so patiently. While she had been
bravely facing this trouble, he had been moping his life
away meditating on the doctrines. Ho had been adding
burden to burden and sorrow to sorrow ; for he had it
settled in his mind, after much reading of the Bible and
Commentary, that William was not one of the elect. To-
day a light had shone into his desolate heart as he was at
work in the fields — such a sudden gleam (^f sunshine that
he felt sure it came from God. He had not been thinking
much about his boy, strange to say ; but, like a revela-
tion, the thought came upon him : William has been
miraculously saved from the knife of a would-be assassin !
What did that mean ? Would the Lord go out of His
way to save a reprobate ? Clearly not. He could not
just recall any such instance ! William's wonderful de-
liverance could have but one meaning : the boy was
included in the covenant, and no harm could come to
him. Even if he died .an honorable death it would be
well with his soul. If no dishonor attached to him, it
was proof positive that the lad was among the chosen few,
chosen from all eternity. And the comforted man took
off his hat reverently, lifting his eyes to heaven in devout
thankfulness. And then he thought of Mary. Well,
when the boys came back, Mary would come and live
with them, as it had been arranged, never to go away
again. With William married to his beloved Mary, how
happy w^ould they all be ! And there again was Abijah.

266

William and Mary.

He would never liavo consented to give up Iuh id<»l but
for the war ; and thus God was bringing good out of
every seeming evil. With such thouglits as these Farley
worked away all the afternocjn, coming home in the
evening with the old smile upon his face. O, that smile,
that well-remembered smile — the smile that had always
wreathed his lips before he began meddling with the
mysteries ! His wife couldn't make it out. At first the
thouglit pierced her like a dagger that his mind had at
last given way ; but he innuediately s(jlved the problem
by frankly telling her what had been his thoughts in the
field. Before his elevation to the diaconate there never
had been any secrets between them. In the olden days
he never did anything great or small without his wife
knowing .all about it. He had never been known to cross
her in anything ; and, noble, true soul that she was, she
respected his confidence by never imposing upon it, or at
least seeming so to da. If she wanted anything clone,
with the adroitness and tact of her sex it was always so
arranged that he imagined before it was half accomplished
that it was he himself that wanted it done all the time.
And his dear wife had, of course, agreed to it ! Since
his acceptance of the important office in the Church, with
its consequent study of the doctrines, things had been
somewhat different. His wife's feelings, therefore, can
be more easily imagined than described, when, on this
pleasant evening he walked into the kitchen, and, with
the cheery voice of old, told her what had come to
him in the fields. He had been very much to blame, he
said, giving way to doubts and fears, but that was over
now. The lads would be back in a few weeks at most,
and they would be all the happier for what they had gone
through. He had meditated upon it all the afternoon,
and he felt sure it was the purpose of God to bring the
boys back.

William ami Marx

267

After aii[)per ho crmcliuled lie would j^o down t«>
Abijah's and cheer them up a bit. Poor things I Al>i jah
luul plenty to make him gloomy now, Farley a<lmitted.
In fact he could not half blame him to-day for having
been mystified over the decrees when his wife was taken
away, for had he not a fiery ordeal of it himself the last
few weeks, and he a deacon ? Not that he doubted like
Abijah ! No, perish the thought ; but he had trembled
lest his boy's soul was doomed ! So, kissing his wife as
he had not done for many a day, he rose.

" Hadn't yew better go deown t' th' village first, dear.
Mebbe there's news cum T'

"Well, I hadn't thought of that. You see it is (juite
a walk, and I'm not as snuvrt as I was once."

" O, t' be sure. 1 only jest thort abeout it. It's quite
a long time neow sense we heerd lany think, an' theyve
ben atellin' on me that them thar ships ar a comin' an'
agoin' nigh all the time !"

" Yes, so I believe ! Yes, it is just what I have been
thinking about, along with what I have told you, pretty
much all day."

"But, dear, yer tew tired. Go over tew 'Bijah's, an'
t'morror we'll see abeout th' letters ; altho'," she added
after a slight pause, "I'm most shure ez heow thar's a
letter ! "

"Tired? Not a bit of it ! O, well, I suppose I am a
little fatigued ; but what of that? What has thiit to do
with it if there is news from the boys ? Of course I'll go
down !"

" Of course," sfiid his wife.

In a moment he was off. ' ' Jest th' self an' same ez
afore he wuz made deeken. Wal, I dew deeclar!" and
she watched him disappear over the brow of the hill.
" The Lord keep him jest so ! Oh, heow 'twould heli) me
tew kerry this heer load on me heart !"

268

William and Mary.

!lHI^

The dear woman was so overjoyed that the tears flowed
like rain, and she could find no vent for her feelings till,
throwing herself on her knees, she poured forth her
thankfulness to God. Then she set about her work
cheerily. The light was breaking through thj clouds, she
thought. Even now was the sheen of the silver lining
visible through the gloom. She hummed a little hymn
to herself — one of her boy's favorites. How often lie had
sung it just there, and she glanced fondly at the ol ^
settee in the corner, till the tears came again, do what
she would. Her work was at last finished, and she sat
down in the twilight, whispering to herself, "I s'pose
he'll be late ;" but she rose hurriedly, hearing his step at
the door.

"Why, heow soon yer back," she exclaimed as her
husband entered wildly. " What— what's th' matter?"
she cried in alarm as he staggered towards a chair calling
for a light.

" What's th' matter, dear, in heven's name ?"

" Light the candle — quick !"

The candle was burning on tl e table in an instant,
and the deacon, with an open letter in his hand, dragged
his chair towards it. Again and again he glanced wildly
at the letter.

"Wife!" He hissed tho word through his teeth till
the alarmed woman sank almost fainting into a seat.
*' Wife ! I'm going mad — I have feared this for days and
days ; My mind is giving way. Look at this — read it ! "
and. with a savage gesture, he held the letter towards her.

"What is it?" she shrieked, trembling from head to
foot.

" What is it ? I don't know — look at it — read it, won't
^'ou : be quick ! My brain is on fire ! God of my fathers
— thou covenant-keeping God — desert me not ! Quick,
woman, (juick. Will you read it, or will you not?"

William and Mary

269

flowed
ngs till,
rth her
■r work
luls, she
r lining
e hymn
1 he had

the oV'
do what

she sat

I s'pose
IS step at

1 as her
matter ?"
,ir calling

instant,
, dragged
led wildly

teeth till
a seat,
days and
read it!"
^rards her.
n head to

it, won't
iiy fathers
Quick,

" I can't. Yew know I'm not much at readin' writin' !
What is it abeout?" and she scanned the strange liand-
writhig like one in a dream.

" About ? Can't you read it and see ? Wife ! I've gone
mad on the road — you haven't a minute to lose before
I'm a raving maniac. It has been coming on for weeks —
my brain reels!" and he slapped his forehead with his
open palm. "The boy's soul is lost — doomed from all
eternity!" ind he groaned and writhed in his cliair.
Then he snatched the letter from her, thrust it into her
face, telling her again with an awful threat to read it.

She took it, and, as if assisted by a higher power, did
what ordinarily would have been almost an impossible
task — read the letter with comparative ease. It was from
Capt. Allen, and told of the fate of the boys. When she
got through she looked up at her husband's face with his
wild eyes glaring upon her.

' ' What is it about — what is it about ? " and he grasped
his wife's arm till she shrieked with pain and horror.
" What is it about, I ask — do you hear me ? "

She looked into the blood-shot eyes again. In that mo-
ment, she thought afterwards, she had lived an eternity.
What could she do ? Between her fingers she crushed
the letter containing the news of her darling's disgrace —
of Harry's C tn — before her eyes glared a madman wait-
ing for her to speak. Heaven help thee, woman. What
canst thou do ? What wilt thou do ?

"What is the letter about, woman?" and the fingers
tightened on her arm. "His soul is damned, is it, at
last? I knew it, I knew it — out of the covenant, left
out — cfiven over, passed by, to the praise of His glorious
justice ! Doubted the doctrines — sure sign ! Ha, woman,
won't you speak ? Who's the letter from ? I'll tell you —
listen : it's from Ood — it's from God ! But what is it

t?"

270

William and Mary

about, do you hear nie ? What saith the Lord V and the
fingers tightened and the eyeballs glowed like coals of
fire.

" Abeout," murmured the appalled woman. *' Abeout
— why, it's abeout th' boys ! "

" Of course, of course I What has God said about the
boys ? The archangel Michiiel gave it to me ; but I
couldn't read it. What saith the Lord ? Ha ! I know.
I'm a prophet inspired — I am John, who was beheaded —
I have risen from the dead ! Thus is it written, William
Farley is a captain of the Lord's host ! Is that it ? Ha !
ha! ha!" and a wild demoniac laugh rang through the
house.

"Let's go over an' tell Mary an' her father th' news,"
said the dazed woman, trying to release her arm.

"No more work for Deacon Farley — no more work for
the deacon ! Bibles and commentaries now all the day
long, studying the divine oracles ! Cajitain William
Farley ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! that sounds good — Captain Wil-
liam Farley ! Who would have thought it though — who
would have thought it ?"

" Wal, let rie get reddy," quietly answered his wife,
now releasing her arm from his deadly grasp with super-
human cahaness. " Yew wait heer till I get reddy."

"Hal ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho! Captain William
Farley ! Oh, it is grand — it's grand. Let's burn the old
house ! Who cares for the old house now ? Down with
the old house ! " and the madman dashed for the door.

' ' Not neow, dear ; not neow ! Let's go deown t' th'
village an' get th' men tew cum up an' help ns burn it."

"That's it ! You were always right. Of course, why
not ? Ho ! ho ! ho ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! Captain William
Farley ! Captain of the host of the Lord ! Ha! ha! ha!"

"O, woman, great is thy faith!" She went out into

IVilliaiJi and Marv.

271

"' and the
J coals of

' ' Abeout

about the
le ; but I
, ! I know,
eheadecl —
n, William
b it ? Ha !
irough the

th' news,"

re work for

all the clay

n William

aptain Wil-

Lough — who

ed his wife,
with super-
reddy."
lin William
burn the old

Down with
the door,
deown t' th'
IS burn it."

course, why
bain William
3a! ha! ha!"
,vent out into

the night alone witli him. He urged her on. He would
leave her, springing forward in the darkness, screaming
at the top of his voice, and tlien, swooping down witli a
shriek, he would drag her on. She had feared when they
reached Abijah's that he would not pass ; but he dashed
silently ahead as if dreading to be seen. The gleaming
lights in the viilage at last caught her eye. She had lived
ten lives over during the few minutes she was with him
alone. She coaxed him on into the store that she knew
would be crowded at this hour by the farmers discussing
the war. She got her hand on the latch— she could feel
his hot breath upon her neck. Oh, could she ever open
the door ? It swung back at last, and, springing quickly
in, she fell senseless in the midst of the astounded throng.
Two eyes like balls of livid tire were seen glaring in the
darkness outside for a moment, and then a shriek as of
the damned, and the deacon disappeared. A dozen men
or more started in pursuit ; but, after visiting his house
and searching half the night, had to return to their homes
without finding him. Next morning the search was re-
newed. Lying on the bottom of the brook, with a huge
atone fastened about his neck, they found him cold and
still, in the very spot where Mary had fallen as a child.

" Vex not his ghost : O, let him pass ! Ho hates him
That would upon the rack of this rough world
Stretch him out longer ! "

272

William and Mary.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE CANDID FRIEND.

Poor little Mary had heard the sad news almost as soon
as Mrs. Farley herself. There are always in every com-
munity well-intentioned (?) folk who glory in being the
self-commissioned prophets of evil. To such the death
of a friend is a god-send. They revel in the thought that
they can be the first to break the evil tidings. They gloat
over the agony their message has produced. They would
willingly sacrifice every comfort and place themselves at
any conceivable inconvenience, if thereby they may become
the heralds of the gospel of trouble. What would be an
insurmountable obstacle in the way of their doing good, is
an insignificant trifle in the way of doing harm. Such
persons may not know it — may not be aware of the posi-
tion they occupy in society, but they are nevertheless the
despised of all men, the loathed of all women. Who has
not been the victim of their kindly offices ? Who is he
that does not reckon among his friends (?) some social
nuisance he cannot abate? He thinks it his duty — of
course, it is always his duty — he thinks it his duty to put
you on your guard ! He does not believe that you are
aware what your most intimate companion has been saying
about you ! Or, are you conscious that you are the subject
of considerable attention in a quarter that means you no
good ? Such persons are always your warmest admirers !
Certainly ; it would be gross ingratitude to doubt it. It is
of the love they bear you that they are under the painful
sense of duty — always the painful sense of duty — of un-
burdening their minds. To say that such characters are
in league with the spirit of confusion is a mild putting of

Wiliiam and Mary.

273

)9t as soon
svery corn-
being the
the death
ought that
They gloat
'hey would
iniselves at
iiav hecome
ould be an
ing good, is
irm. Such
of the posi-
rtheless the
"Who has
Who is he
some social
is duty— of
duty to put
hat you are
been saying
the subject
:ans you no
t admirers !
ibt it. It is
the painful
uty— of un-
aracters are
d putting of

the case. When it is considered the evil they have done
in the world — the hearts they have crushed — the graves
they have digged and filled — the peace they have broken
— the harmony they have disturbed, it is a mild putting
of the case to say they are of their father the devil, who
was a liar from the beginning. The " candid friend " is a
liar b> profession. To him honor is a meaningless phrase,
manliness an empty sound. Social harmony is as hateful to
him as purity to the impure. It is enough for him to know
that amity prevails between man and man or woman and
woman, for all the machinery at his command to be set in
motion to mar it. Who has not known the candid friend,
who has not felt his sting ? We pray sometimes to be
delivered from wars, from pestilence, and from sudden
death. May the time hasten when in some revised liturgy
we may read : " From the candid friend, the social mon-
ster, who for the love he bears us tortures us on the
hot gridiron of a cold-blooded malignity — Good Lord de-
liver us !"

It was one of those dear creatures, with a heart over-
flowing with pity (1) who rushed with the utmost expedi-
tion to unburden her agitated mind to the poor Olivers,
when the sad news of Harry's death became known in
Woodside. Capt. Allen had written to several besides
Deacon Farley. At the time that the deacon's alarmed
and almost demented wife was leading her mad husband
past Abijah's, the candid friend was inside relieving her
mind.

Mary and her father had been conversing together in
the twilight about the absent ones, when the door was
suddenly jerked open and the candid friend, in the shape
of a venerable maiden lady whose youthful aspirations had
been prematurely nipped in the bud, entered, and with a
sij^li (bless her heart, always with a sigh) took a seat in

274

William and Mary.

silence. They knew she had come for no good, slie never
had. With vague forebodings they held their breath.
She had come, she said (and then there was a succession
of sighs), with news— news from the war ! Yes, from the
war, and about the boys ! Oh, well, what else could it be
about if not about the boys ? She did hope — in fact, she
had been praying all the way over — that they might have
strength given them in this hour of need. It was God's
doings, foreordained from all eternity ! Who would dare
say to Him, What dost Thou ] She did hope they would
bear up under it — "whom the Lord loveth," and so forth.
She considered it her duty; yes, her solemn but painful
duty to let them know it at once. The doings of Provi-
dence were oft-times obscure, very dark, at least to us poor
pilgrims in our blindness here below ; but, well, it would
be all for the best ! ** Harry's ded, kilt an' skulped by
th' Injuns, an' William, why, he's runned away tew th'
Monseer^ — worse nor ded, a desartar!"

How often have we found all our preconceived opinions
of men and things entirely disarranged by the stern logic
of facts and experience ? Abijah did not lose whatever
little sense he had left, nor did Mary die. Judging by all
the past history of the two men, Deacon Farley would
have been the one we would have supposed would have
stood sternly erect in the storm, while the poor v/himper-
ing widower, bemoaning for years the "wan's ded an'
gone," would be crushed beneath the blow. It was not so.
He reeled beneath it — intensified as it was by the gloating
manner of its recital. The floodgates of grief were opened
in mercy for the stricken child, and at last s;ie came out
from the fiery furnace like gold tried in the fire. She
had loved the boy ! Oh, how she loved her darling Hal !
She had clung to him till her affection had bordered on

William and Mary.

275

slie never
ir breath,
succession
s, from the
could it be
in fact, she
lui^ht have

was God's
wouhl dare
they would
nd so forth,
but painful
irs of Provi-
st to us poor
rell, it would

akulped by
iway tew th'

ived opinions
ae stern logic
ose whatever
udging by all
Farley would
would have
)oor v/himper-
wan's ded an'
It was not 80.
)y the gloating
ef were opened
it slie came out
the fire. She
r darling Hal!
■td bordered on

idolatry. He was so gentle to his little sister, ho iiol)lt
good, so true. She could not now recall that, in all their
happy life together, he had ever spoken to her one word
hasty or unkind. Then she would think of the night she
had warned him against going. The soft touch of his
fingers was in her hair again as she thought it all over, till
the hot, scalding tears would flow afresh as a torrent.
And he was dead, killed- -murdered, mutilated ! Her Hal
killed? Oh, how cruel! Who could touch Iter Hal?
Even the wild savages would have loved him had they
knf>wn him as she did ! And now he was gone — dead —
and without a kiss fnjm his Mary — his little Mary I And
a fearful paroxysm of grief would surge through her. But
as day f(dlowed day, she gradually came forth, all the
womanly in her nature glorified by the fire of trial. Wil-
liam a deserter ! Never ! He might be dead, but alive (U'
dead he had been true to his colors. That she knew. It
was the work of their enemy. That she knew right well.
Not a doubt remained on her mind as to that She would
save her William if he were yet alive. How ? Ah, there
came the difficulty. How save him ] Yet she must and
she would ! Thus, while crushed with grief, the terrible
thought that her lover was at the mercy of one who hated
him with an intensity of passion she knew only too well,
buoyed her up and saved her reason. The father was
little changed. He had often said, when the* boys left
home, that he had suffered about all he could suffer. He
had never been able to get beyond a certain point with
his thinking. When he get that far he had to go back
and commence it all over again. His darling Mary was
now all that remained to him ; but, as he could not add
to his sufferings, neither could he add to his love for her.
He gave no evidence by word or deed that she was any
dearer to him now than she had ever been. Nor did he

276

William and Alary.

try to cheer her in her sorrow. \h\ seldom epoku about
Harry, but sonietinies would give his views about William.
He had never liked the deacon's son, but he laughed the
idea to scorn that the lad had deserted. " Why de/art ?"
That (question settled it, for no one could answer the why.
But, if the truth must be told, he secretly took comfort in
the thought that he would now have Mary all to himself.
But then he was only Abijah, and charity must be exer-
cised towards him. Poor soul ! He kept on at the " thinkin'
an' thinkin','' and felt that as " electin' an' 'pintin' " hud
served him on the whole most shamefully, if they had for
once done him a good turn, it was but a sorry offset to all
the evil they had brought on his house. But the brave
little girl rose daily to the responsibilities of the hour.

" Father," she said one evening after supper, ** I am
going up to see Mrs. Farley. Come with me !"

He said nothing. They started. Mary felt that some-
thing must be done, and done quickly. She had made up
her mind what to do, had done it, and was now waiting
developments. It was to talk the matter over with
William's mother that we find them on the way to the
deacon's.

CHAPTER XLVIIL

AFFAIRS IN LOUISBURG.

It was a trying hour to Duchambcn, notwithstanding the
brilliant repulse of the besiegers at Battery Island. Day
by day the enemy crept nearer and nearer upon him.
Their red-hot balls and bursting shells searched every
nook and corner of the city, crashing through the houses.

William and Mary.

277

)ke about
, William,
ighed the
rde/art?"
r the why.
couit'ort in
hiiuHelf.
at he exer-
s " thinkin'
ntin"'bacl
ey had for
jffset to all
t the brave
e hour.
)er, "I am

: that some-
ad made up
low waitinf?
over with
way to the

[tanding the
Island. Day

upon him.
Irched every

the houses,

many of which were a mass of ruins. The garrison had
on the whole behaved well, thus far ; hut he was yet
afraid to trust them. He would not, or could not forget
tlieir insubordination. He never could bring himself to
believe that their constant clamoring for a sortie in force
was not a cunningly-devised scheme to desert en mnsse to the
enemy. Had he had more faith in his troops, or had they
given him more reason to have had faith in them, the
siege might have early been raised, and the invading army
perhaps annihilated. Duchainbon waited behind his guns,
hoping against hope, as he prayed for reinforcements from
France — praying that, if some help did not come, the raw
Provincials, worried by delays, would in sheer disgust retire
from before the town. He reckoned without his host. The
ship Vigilant, sent by the king to his relief, lell an easy
prey to the vigilant Warren. Nor was the raw army of
invasion disheartened because the gates had not imme-
diately been thrown open to them. Doubtless, nuxny a
New England lad had thought that all that was to be done
was to go up and "possess the land." When, however, the
land refused to be unceremoniously possessed, like the
l)rave race from which they sprang, they doggedly sat
down to reduce the position by the slow operations of a
siege. Duchambon saw with dismay that the annoying
obstinacy of the foe outside the walls was everyday be-
coming more obstinate. With greater dismay he hears of
the capture of the long-looked-for succors from France.
What is he to do 1 The shot from the enemy plunge
around his head if he walks forth — they knock with inces-
sant thuds at the gate — they plough through the streets —
they tear through the houses of the fated town. Among
his officers he has few friends and not a confidant. In this
hour of trial he has but one man to atand by him, to cheer
him, to enter into his feelings, and soothe his perturbed

• - 'I

278

William and Mary.

heart. The hiithfiil old priest never realized iu all his life
hetoie the fearful responsibility attached to his holy calling
than now. The friend of all, he was at everyone's call, at
the service of the meanest private as well as the highest
olHcer. He stood by the wounded at the ramparts, ad-
niini.st«!re(l the viaticum to the dying, cheered and animated
the hopes of the living. Duchambon was pacing the lloor
of his apartment on the afternoon of the day he learnt of
the capture of the Vigilant. He was in a frenzy of grief
and was completely unmanned.

" It is no use, it is no use ! " he cried, frantically stamping
the floor in impotent rage ; "It is no use ; I'll have to sur-
render and be forever disgraced in the eyes of my king !"

He walked the room with rapid strides.

"Surrender!" he fairly shrieked, clenching his fists;
" surrender an army of France to a beggarly rabble of Pro-
vincials — an armed mob ! Horrible !"

"Pardon me, your Excellency, if it be the will of the
good God it cannot be helped !"

The kind-hearted priest had sought the Governor,

knowing how desperately he must feel about the disaster

to the Vigilant.

" Ha, my dear father, are you here ? You heard me,

then, did you 1 What's to be done — what's to be done,

father!"

" Let us fight to the last extremity, and if, after all, we
be compelled to surrender, then it must be the will of the
good God !"

" True, true, dear father, true ; but if it were a
regular army that had come against us I would not feel
the sting as I do !"

" Those heretics fight well ; but do you not know that
in the old days the good God permitted the idolater to
afflict His people for their good ? It may be even ao

William and Mary.

279

[1 all his Ufe
holy calling
jne's call, at
i the hij^best
aniparts, ad-
u(l animated
ing the iloor
he learnt of
enzy of f^rief

aiy stamping
L have to sur-
f my king !"

ing his fists ;
rabble of Pro-
he will of the

he Governor,
the disaster

'ou heard me,
to be done,

after all, we
the will of the

if it were a
would not feel

not know that
the idolater to
ly be even ao

now !" and the abbe made the sign of the cross hurriedly
as he breathed a prayer.

"Yes," responded Duchanibon, wit)) Ijittcrness, remem-
bering the mutinous spirit of his troops, Imt having no
very definite idea of what the abbe referred to ; " yes, it
may be so now !"

He paced the floor again excitedly, but becoming calmer,
stopped suddenly in front of his friend :

" Father, you are my only comfort in this trying hour.
Pardon me for any act of impatience of which you may
have known me to be guilty during tho.-e awful weeks.
Give me your blessing, father, and the blessing of our holy
mother, the Church ! "

The Governor knelt on the floor It was an affecting
scene. His proud head bowed before the aged man who,
with outstretched hands, pronounced the blessing in a
voice tremulous with tears. Rising from his knees the
two friends seated themselves and conversed together for
some time in low whispers, Duchambon becoming deeply
interested as they proceeded.

CHAPTER XLIX.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

On the morning of the 11th June three guns were in
position on the heights commanding Battery Island, The
long-looked-for hour had come. The enemy is amazed.
Day by day they had seen the frowning work above them
approaching completion, but were powerless to prevent
it. When the fog from the sea lifted itself from over
Lighthouse Point this glorious morning of June three

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280

William and Mary.

hungry mouths were looking straight down on the doomed
battery. The garrison knew well what was coming and
prepared for the shock. As the fog rolled up in dense
clouds and drifted out to sea, the silence was paralyzing.
Every man held his breath, knowing it was the lull before
the storm. At precisely twelve o'clock the loud report of
a cannon from the Grand Battery broke over the bay.
The echo died away among the hills. The snu^ke lifts
itself slowly, weaving fantastic wreaths above the heads
of the waiting troops. Then the ground shook, the
waters trembled, as from the batteries in front of the
town, the thirty gvins of the Grand Battery, the three
hungry mouths at Lighthouse Point, there belched forth
one unbroken sheet of flame, smoke, with red-hot balls
and screeching shells. The shores quivered as with an
earthquake, when every French gun on the ramparts,
from the King's Bastion all around to the Island Battery,
roared out a terrific volley in reply. Gun answered gun,
till the shock of the fierce cannonade became a continuous
blare. The enemy was driven from his guns on the
island by the plunging fire from above. Six cannons are
dismounted. Not a man dare show his head. From the
Lighthouse Battery all along around the harbor to the
West Gate balls crashed, shells shrieked, red-hot shot
seethed and hissed on their errands of death. Darkness
at last came down over the horrible carnival, and the
fire gradually slackened, and after a time all was still.

Immediately a Council of War was Keld in the Grand
Battery, attended by Pepperrell and Warren. It was
seen by s.ll that the decisive hour had come. A general
assault by sea and land was arranged. Warren had just
been reinforced by three men-of-war. The bombardment
was accordingly resumed on the following day.

Next morning everything v^as in readiness for the final

"or the final

William and Mary. 281

assault. The troops were paraded. Stirring addresses
were made by Pepperrell and Warren. But Duchambon
saw what was coming. Incompetent though he undoubt-
edly was, he realized the folly of further resistance He
had felt the weight of English metal, and now, broken in
heart and crushed in spirit, he resolved to surrender
forthwith upon whatever terms the victorious enemy were
willing to grant. On the afternoon of the 15th, before
the return of the commodore to his ship, a letter was
received asking for a cessation of hostilities preparatory
to a consideration of conditions of surrender. To this
letter the following reply was immediately given :

..T«.n T^ "Camp, 15tL June, 1745.

' To Governor Duchambon : . i'*^.

hnlfnTf^ ^"T ^''"''u ""^ *^'' ^**® proposing a suspension of
hostilities for sux;h time as shall be necessary for you to
cletermine upon the conditions of delivering up the garrison
of Louisburg, which arrived at a happy juncture to prevent

he effusion of Christian blood, as we we're together and had
just determined upon a general attack. We shall complv
with your desire until 8 o'clock to-morrow morning ; and if

n the meantime you surrender yourselves prisoner? of war
you may depend upon humane and generous treatment We
are your obedient, humble servants,

" Peter Warren.

'•William Pepperrell."
On the following morning the Governor replied, stating
the terms upon which he was willing to surrender, which
terms were peremptorily rejected by the commanders of
the besieging army, who forthwith submitted to Ducham-
bon the only conditions they would consider. They were
as follows :

" Camp before Louisburg, 16th June, 1745.

" We have before us yours of this date, together with the

several articles of capitulation on which you have proposed

to surrender the town and fortifications of Louisburg, with

the territories adjacent under your government, to his Brit-

282

William and Mary.

: -I

t I

i I

tanick Majesty's obedience, to be delivered up to his said
Majesty's forces now besieging said place under our com-
mand, which articles we can by no mej,ns accede to. But,
as we are desirous to treat you in a generous manner, we do
again make you an offer of the terms of surrender proposed
by us in our summons sent you May 7th last, and do further
consent to allow and promise you the following articles,
namely :

**(1) That if your own vessels shall be found insufficient for

the transportation of your persons and effects to France, we

will provide such a further number of vessels as may be

ufficient for that purpose ; also any provisions necessary for

the voyage that you cannot furnish yourselves with.

"(2) That all the commissioned officers belonging to the
garrison, and the inhabitants of the town, may remain in
their houses with their families, and enjoy the free exercise
of their religion ; and no person shall be sutfer'd to misuse or
molest any of them, till s 'ch time as they can be conveni-
ently transported to France.

"(3) That the non-commissioned officers and soldiers shall
immediately, upon the surrender of the town and fortress,
be put on board his Brittanick,Majesty's ships till they all be
transported to France.

'* (4) That all your sick and wounded shall be taken care
of in the same manner as our own.

' ' (5) That the commander-in-chief, now in the garrison,
shall have liberty to send off covered waggons, to be
inspected only by one officer of ours, that no warlike stores
may be contained in them.

" (6) That if there are any persons in the town or garrison
which you shall desire may not be seen by us, they shall be
permitted to go off masked.

' * The above we do consent to and promise on your com-
pliance with the following conditions, viz. :

"(1) That the surrender and due performance of every
part of the aforesaid premises be made and completed as
soon as possible.

**(2) That as security for the practical performance of the
same, the Island Battery, or one of the batteries of the town,
shall be deliver'd, with all the artillery and warlike stores
thereunto belonging, into the possession of his Brittanick
Majesty's troops, before six tff the clock this afternoon.

"(3) That his Brittanick Majesty's ships of war, now
lying before the port, shall be at liberty to enter the harbor
of Louisburg, without any molestation, as soon after six of

to his said
er our com-
e to. But,
nner, we do
[er proposed
I do further
ng articles,

mfficient for
France, we
1 as may be
ecessary for
ith.

ging to the
ly remain in
ree exercise
to misuse or
be cc'nveni-

loldiers shall
md fortress,
1 they all be

taken care

;he garrison,
50ns, to be
irlike stores

1 or garrison
liey shall be

1 your corn-
ice of every
jompleted as

nance of the
of the town,
Eirlike stores
is Brittanick
ernoon.
if war, now
: the harbor
after six of

IVilliam and Mary. 28

SwIhtSltS-^? - '"» co.™a„de..i„.ehief „, the

to u, P"'™"" «'■*'■ y- shall be •.mmediately delivered up

we"decC l/Z^r""^""'?"''""!'.'^"'' t'"^« conditions,

Shall de'caS^X\";r^.XnTa:?I'r;^'^"' ""'

"Your humble servants,

"P. Warren,

" W. Pkpperrell."

CHAPTER L.

THE SURRENDER.

DucHAMBON had no election. He submitted to the terms
and on the 17th day of June, the renowned f ortification^
of Louisburg fell mto the hands of the brave little New
England army. The exultant troops marched into the
town against which for weeks they had hurled their mis-
siles of death. Their amazement was unbounded as they
gazed upon its strength. '' God has gone out of His way
n a remarkable and almost miraculous manner to incline
the hear s of the French to give up and deliver t"il
strong city into our hands," was the thought of some.
Foreordained from all eternfty," was the conviction of
many. General Pepperrell, with his strong faith in
Jehovah, was more than ever convinced as he scrutinized

284

William and Mary.

the works that the Lord God of Sabaoth had been with
his ill-disciplined troops all along.

The French commander bore up under the disgrace
doggedly, though smarting keenly. The Abbe Gondi
availed himself of the courtesy of the concjuerors, and, in
company with the other religieuse, Marie and her mother,
were concealed from the prying gaze of the soldiers as
they were sent masked on board of the ships lying in the
harbor.

It was a day of wild frolic and rejoicing. The grand
fellows who for so many weary days and nights had toiled
on in the cold, dragging cannon through bogs and mo-
rasses and over boulders of granite — had toiled on in the
trenches — had toiled behind their rude earthworks, now
sat down within the captured town to revel over their
well-earned rest. Joking, laughing, singing, shouting,
chaffing, there was not a sour face or an angry look to be
met with among the rough but honest boys as they went
prowling from point to point, eagerly scanning every
corner of the redoubtable stronghold. Even Chaplain
M 'Donald forgot his canting whine for the nonce, and
bore up with wonderful composure under the chaff and
taunts of the boisterous soldiers, as they cried :

"Whar'sth' hatchet?"

*' Deown with them thar imajess !"

' * With these mine hands will I hew the idols of
Rome!"

He had never received even ordinary respect from
either officers or men since his disgraceful cowardice
at the burial of poor Harry and hif; murdered com-
panions.

It was the afternoon of tne day succeeding the capitula-
tion that Pepperrell, in company with a number of his
staff, were seated enjoying a social chat in Duchambon's

William and Mary.

285

len

with

disgrace
e Gondi
, and, in
• mother,
»ldiers as
ng in the

he grand
lad toiled
s and mo-
on in the
orks, now
3ver their
shouting,
look to be
they went
ling every
Chaplain
lonce, and
chaff and

3 idols of

5pect from
cowardice
lered com-

le capitula-
iber of his
ichambon's

old quarters. A French prayer-book was being rendered
into English by one of the number, while the others in-
terjected remarks or suggested doubts as to the faithful-
ness of the translation. A good dtjal of innocent mirth
was being indulged in (though, to the credit of all, let it
be recorded that no ridicule was being thrown on the
sacred words), when an orderly at the door intimated to
the general that there was a man waiting who urgently
requested a private interview.

"Let him pass," said the cominander-in-chief care-
lessly, as the reading thus interrupted was resumed.

The orderly returned in a few '■ jments saying that
the man had been a prisoner, and persisted in begging a
private interview with the general.

"Oh, send him in at once. If he don't come, force
him. He can't have anything so very private that we
can't all hear it."

A minute afterwards a shuffling step was heard, and a
soldier entered, haggard in appearance, with a wild, scared
look, but in the stealthy glance of whose eyes there was
a cunning and treachery that stamped the man at sight
as a villain. Captain Allen gazed at the figure before
him with blank amazement in every line of his handsome
face.

" In the name of the seven deadly sins of which we
have just been reading," he exclaimed, " who have we
here ?"

The stranger saluted the company, and shuffled over
against the wall as if seeking support for his tottering
body.

" Well, my good man," said the general kindly, "who
are you, and what do you want with me ?"

"Waterman — can it be — possible! I thought you
dead !" interrupted Allen in astonishment.

286

William ^and Mary.

"Not ded — oh, no, not ded, capen — purty near it
tho'. I've ben havin' a hard time of it heer 'mong th'
Monseers !" and the fellow leered at his old captain with
a look of familiarity that set every one in a roar.

"Well, well, I think I remember the name," put in
Pepperrell when the merriment had in part subsided ;
' ' now tell us quick whatever you have to say, and be
off!"

" I wunt ter say suthin' ter yerself alone ! "

" N(jnsense ! Out with whatever you have to say, and
beoff !"

The man looked at Captain Allen, then at the general,
then back again at the captain, and finally blurted out :

" Wal, ef 'taint no yeuse in tryin' ter tell it private
like, I must eout with it — thar's wan of our fellers per-
tends he wus tuk prisoner, but he's a desartar ! "

" Who — who ?" shouted all with one voice.

"William Farley!"

Captain Allen sprang to his feet : " Has my reason left
me, or what has come over me that I have never once
thought of Farley since the moment we entered the city ?
General, William Farley is one of my men. I knew him
from a child. It breaks my heart to say it, but what this
man tells is only too true. Farley deserted early in the
siege, and although I thought of him every day for weeks
on account of his dejected parents — a God-fearing couple,
his father a deacon fit to preach the gogd news — I have
forgotten him till this moment with the excitement
attending the victory 1 "

Allen was always cool, but now he was unusually excited.
The general's face took on a grave and severe look.

" Captain Allen, have Farley placed under immediate
arrest," he commanded. " I will question this man while
you are seeing to it."

y near it
'mong th'
ptain with

e," put in

subsided ;

ay, and be

to say, and

he general,
rted out :
L it private
fellers per-

, 1"

J reason left
never once
•edthe city?
I knew him
ut what this
early in the
ay for weeks
iring couple,
ews— I have
excitement

lally excited.
3 look.

jr immediate
lis man while

William and Mary. 287

As the officer tlms addressed strode from the apartment
the general continued :

'' Waterman, how come you to be taken prisoner ?"
" Wal, yew see, I went eout fur a walk and thort I'd
keep clus tew th' boys, but afore I knowed whar I wus I
wuz nowhar ! Lost me way. Furst thing I know'd a
duzen big Monseers sprung eout of th' bush and, as quick
ez nothm', I straightened wan eout, an' was tryin' tew
straighten 'notJier wan, when a ciueer feelin' cum inter me
hed, and next thing I knows I was heer ! "
" Yes, what day of the month was that ?"
"What day-I forget th' day. Lemme see ; jest th' day
f arley wus let go ! "

" Yes ; now tell us how you know Farley deserted ? "
" Wal, I see'd him cum in ! "

"You saw him come in ? You a prisoner, and saw a
deserter come in ?"

" Wal, I wuz-lemrae see-they wuz jest takin' on me
ter th dunjun when I heers a noise. I looks areound
an what shuld I see but Farley ahandin' of a paper to th'
sentry ! "

"A paper?"

" Yez sur, shure's yer live, I see him ahandin' a paper
tew th sentry. Next thing I knows I wuz in th' duniun
whar th' boys fund mo ! " '

" Was Farley put in the dungeon, too ? Do you know
what was done with him ?"

" Dunjun ! Oho ! dunjun, indeed ! Not he. I doan't
want ter say tew much agen him, b. I'll die fust afore
1 11 be telhn lies. He never see'd th' in'ards of a dunjun
all th time he wus heer ! "

" How do you know that ?"

" Heow dew I kno' it ? Beggin' yer parding fur bein'
80 bold, hamt I got eyes 'n ears ter see and heer ? Didn't

288

William and Mary.

he be atullin' on mo huow ho hez spent his time with th'
Monseors ! "

The officers looked at each otlier incredulously. For
some minutes there was silence. The bare thought that
any of the army should have acted the part of traitor had
in it something so exasperating to the brave men who had
borne the heat and burden of the day that for the moment
no one could utter a word.

"Well, well, gentlemen," at lastbiui^-e in Pepperrell, but
clearly as agitated as he ever permitted himself to be ;
"well, well, we'll settle this sad aflfair to-morrow. It
grieves my heart to hear such a story about one of my
brave boys. But we'll see, we'll see."

Waterman was removed to the guard-hcuse, and the
party broke up.

CHAPTER LI.

LIGHT ON DARK PLACES.

Immediately upon the fall of Louisburg General Pep-
perrell despatched a cruiser to Boston to apprise Gov.
Shirley of the news. The vessel had been at sea but a
few hours when she spoke another from Portsmouth,
New Hampshire, on its way to the seat of war. It was a
joyful meeting on the waters, and cheer followed cheer as
long as the two vessels were within hailing of each other.
When the events recorded towards the close of our last
chapter were transpiring within the city, the New Hamp-
shire cruiser was casting anchor in the harbor. The
troops were wild with excitement at the thought of hear-

IVilliam and Mary. 289

ing frcni home, and the wharves were crowded to greet
tlie boat that had rapidly put off for the shore.

General Pepperrell had scarcely stretched himself upon
his camp-bed after the departure of his officers than an
orderly entered bearing a packet of letters.

''Has there a vessel arrived?" he asked eagerly
" How fortunate ! "

•' Yes, sir, dropped anchor a few minutes ago ! "

" Well, God be praised," he soliloquized when he was
again alone. "God be praised for his great mercy ' The
dear ones at home little imagine what news is on the
way to them ! "

He opened letter after letter, smiling as he read some,
while the tears trickled down his cheeks at the contents
of others. Precious ones were these last, and precious
were they to the noble man who, after the shock of
battle, was lying here in peace enjoying the much-needed
rest after weeks of torturing anxiety. He laid these
sweet epistles by themselves on the bed beside him ;
they were too dear to his manly heart to mingle with the
others as he proceeded to read. As he glanced at one he
did so with considerable curiosity. It was in a lady's
hand and the writing unknown to him. He opened it
and glanced at the signature. Then he read.

"Can this be true— am I in a dream?" The always
calm and imperturbable officer sprang to his feet.

"Impossible ! I have fallen asleep a#l was reading.
Let me see," and he sat at the table and spread out the
letter before him. He read it over twice, then bowed
his head upon his hands. It was fully an hour before he
moved, and when he lifted his facd a groan escaped him
as if wrung from the deepest depths of his heart.

" I see it all now ! Heaven help me to do my duty."
Calling an orderly he sent him off for Capt. Allen.

290

Williani and Mary.

•

"Tliis JH HHtoiinding," lio imirmurod to hiinsulf pacing
the Hoor, " this is jistouiuling. This is the bhickost deed
of vilUiiny by man ujion his fellow-man I ever heard of."
He walked the apartment with rapid strides, appalled and
confused. He was still excitedly muttering when Capt.
Allen abruptly entered. The general turned towards
him, all his emotion gone.

" Well, captain, any news of the deserter ?" he asked
carelessly.

*' We have got him, general ; we have got him ! ''

** We shall try this man immediately, captain. Let all
the ofhcers be summoned at once. See to this, if you
please."

" I will, sir, instantly. It is a disgrace to our flag that
must be dealt with most summarily ! "

"Certainly, certainly ! " was the calm reply.

Scarcely half an hour subsecjuently the general is seated
in the midst of his officers with all that dignity and grace
for which he was so distinguished. No one who looked
at the pale, serious face would have imagined it possible
that but a few moments ago he had been swayed by the
deepast emotion. The court was formally opened.
Private Farley stood before them charged with desertion.
Waterman again told his story, mainly as at first. Capt.
Allen, who appeared much agitated, was the object of
general sympathy. The prisoner belonged to his com-
pany, and had#)eeii the only man in the whole army who
had acted disgracefully during the siege. The captain
appeared to feel keenly that one of his brave lads, of
whom he was so justly proud, should stand here arraigned
for so foul and infamous a crime. The prisoner and
Waterman were at length removed by the guard, and the
general proceeded to read the evidence.

"Gentlemen (there was an unnatural huskiness in his

.«■■ I

Williaui and Mary.

291

voice as he spoke), you liave lieiinl tin; evidence. I wish
each now to express liimself fully, freely, frankly ! "

But there did not api)ear to be anything to express.
All were of one mind — h'arlny wdn worthji of dcdth I St)n»e
were in<leed for reconnnending the unfortunate youth to
mercy, now that the war was over ; but Capt. Allen,
with tears in his eyes, thought he shoidd be shot without
delay, as a warning to the troops. The war was over, lie
said, but he would remind the court that the army might
have to remain here for some months yet, and it would
be a salutary lesson to have the deserter shot at once,
lest, when the excitement of the siege had died away,
others might be tempted by their clemency in some
measure to follow his examjJe. Yes," he concluded with
trembling voice, " it is the will of God according to His
purpose — Farley must die I "

"Gentlemen, are you all d(me ? " asked the general in
subdued tones.

Yes, they were all done ; they had nothing to say.

' ' Orderly, have the sergeant of the guard turn out his
men and await further orders."

When again he spoke it was with extreme difficulty.
He admitted the evidence to be overwhelming. ' ' Nothing
can save the prisoner from death — and," he paused, fixing
his eyes upon his officers with that indescribable look
they had so often seen in the hour of battle, ' ' and he
shall be put to death if the evidence be true ! "

There was profound silence.

'* If the evidence be true, gentlemen, nothing can save
die prisoner !"

Then silence again as of the grave.

" Captain Allen," and Pepperrell turned abruptly to
that officer, "Captain Allen, have you any theory by
which you would explain to this court the treachery of
the prisoner?"

I
ft

292

William and Mary.

Tlie captain had none — it was to him a mystery.

"None?"

"No, none!"

Then silence again as- of the grave.

" Captain Allen ! "

Thfe general's voice was thick, and he spoke with
labored difficulty.

" Captain Allen, I place you under an est. Deliver up
your sword ! "

Every officer sprang to his feet instantaneously, while
pallid, and as if frozen to his seat, the astounded captain
glared wildly from one to another.

"Be seated, gentlemen ; be seated !" thundered Pep-
perrell. " Orderly, call the guard ! "

In a moment the sergeant and his men filed into the
apartment. " Sergeant, Captain Allen is under arrest.
Remove him to his quarters, and place a guard at the
door. The captain w511 deliver up all letters, papers, and
documents of any kind and every description which you
may find, mark me — which you may find in his possession ;
and you will deliver them to me without a moment's
unnecessary delay. Remove the prisoner ! "

Amazed, stupefied, without uttering a word, the dis-
graced man was divested of his sword and marched out
surrounded by the guard.

William and Mary.

293

ery.

CHAPTER LII.

poke with

Deliver up

a sly, while
Led captain

lered Pep-

d into the
ider arrest,
lard at the
papers, and
which you
possession ;
i moment's

d, the dis-
larched out

MORE LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.

" Gentlemen, this is the saddest hour of my life ! "

All who looked upon Pepperrell's blanched face, the
muscles of which were now nervously twitching, realized
the truthfulness of his words. Gen. Waldo was the first
to speak :

''This astounds and overwhelms us, sir. Will vou
please explain?"

Pepperrell bowed his head on the table and groaned
aloud as he had previously done when alone.

"You must wait, gentlemen ; you must wait," he mut
tered, not looking up. - I must have a few hours rest
now. At nme of the clock to-morrow morning, after
guard-mounting, the court will reassemble. You must
leave me now-leave me, I pray you, without further
questions ! "

All arose, deeply touched by the general's emotion, and
retired. ,

The consternation among the troops, when it became
known that Capt. Allen had been placed under arrest
amounted almost to frenzy. For a time there was danger
of an outbreak. He was a popular officer. His own
men idolized him. He was respected by his fellow-
officers. He had proved himself brave. He had been
faithful in the discharge of every duty. Mutterings
deep and loud were heard ; but all at length came to
remember that the commander-in-chief was known to be
incapable of a rash or an unjust action.

Long before the time appointed the officers, the foil- w-
mg morning, were pacing up and down in front of the

294

William and Mary.

• III

general's quarters. Each one had a theory of his own on
the startling events of yesterday, a theory to be dismissed
as soon as broached. The hour arrived and every officer
was in his i)lace. Deep anxiety was depicted on their
faces. The galhmt Wahlo gave evidence by his worn
k)ok and bloodshot eyes that he had passed a sleepless
night. Pepperrell was now sternly calm. Every trace of
his former emotion was gone. Commodore Warren sat
by his side, with the frank open face of a soldier of the
sea.

*' Let the prisoners be brought before us," commanded
the general.

Pale, haggard, and wretched, Capt. Allen, escorted by
two soldiers, entered, followed soon after by Farley and
and Waterman. Pepperrell arranged a formidable pile of
papers before him on the table.

"Gentlemen!"

The agony of suspense had become paralyzing, and, as
each officer bent toward the speaker, their deep breathing
sounded stmngely unnatural.

" Gentlemen," commenced the general slowly and as if
to weigh every word, '* I have ordered Captain Allen
under arrest for being guilty, as I at present judge, of an
act, the basest and most dastardly that ever blackened
the fair name of a soldier !"

The officers gasped and bent forward over the table,
the connnodore alone, with the habits of the service upon
him, remaining perfectly unmoved.

*' The prisoner Farley," continued the general, "before
leaving home was betrothed to a young woman in his
native village. They had been brought up together as
children. Deeply attached to him, this young woman
refused an offer of marriage, privately made to her by
Captain Allen, a few weeks previous to starting for the

is own on
dismissed
)ry officer

on their
his worn

sleepless
y trace of
arren sat
ler of the

mmanded

corted by
'arley and
ble pile of

g, and, as
breathing

jT and as if
;ain Allen
idge, of an
blackened

the table,
rvice upon

il, "before
lan in his
ogether as
ng woman
to her by
ng for the

William aiid Mary. 295

seat of war. Incensed at her refusal, Allen vowed ven-
geance on her lover, exacting at the same time from the
gir. a promise of secrecy, with the threat tliat if divulaed
It would be worse for all parties. Immediately upon tlie
arrival of the troops at Canso, in order to carry out the
more etfecually his base designs, he sent a letter to this
young woman by the hands of a sailor whom he hadliberally
paid, no doubt, for the service. This letter was a, demand
for a lock of her hair to be sent by her, accompanied by a
letter breathing love and devotion. Her letter was to be
an exact copy in her own hand of one which he enclosed for
that purpose. It seems amazing that any sensible youncr
woman should have complied with such a request, but
with that we have nothing to do. Here are the letters ;
this, the original, in Capt. Allen's handwriting, and this,
an exact copy, in the handwriting of the young woman,
having been found last night among Capt. Allen's papers.
1 will read it :

•' WooDsiDE, April ]2th, 1745.
" My Dearest Captain Allen :
"I embrace an unexpected opportunity of sending vou these

^ve. Be true to me, as I will be true to you until death
No one stands, or can stand between us. William Farlev's

youi own ^ o' '"^^ ^^'T '""^T"''^ '^^ ^'^^ -" claim mels
youi own On your return from the war I will be vours
forever. In great haste, bat with deepest love, ^

" I am affectionately,

" Mary Oliver. "

A wild, piercing shriek followed the reading of the
otter, and William Farley, swaying from side to side,
tell senseless on the floor between his guards. He was
quickly removed, and the general proceeded :—

" No woman would or could write a letter like that. It

;

III

296

William and Mary.

bears on its face the proof of its forgery, e'/en if we had
not the original here in Allen's own hand."

Passing the letters to the commodore he continued : —
"The girl did as she was commanded, foolishly, but
perhaps fearing that a refusal would bring ruin upon her
lover. With a woman's instinct, however, she appealed
to the heart of the sailor who had been Allen's agent.
She wrote a letter to her brother, who, it appears, was
aware of the captain's attenti(ms to his sister, as well as
of the threats that had been made against young Farley.
In this letter the girl exposed Allen's treachery and
warned her brother to put Farley on his guard. The
sailor, it would seem, was false to his promise, for this
letter, addressed to Harry Oliver, is here before me. In
the meantime the late, and deeply lamented. Rev. John
Fenwick, of Woodside, realizing from the state of the
young woman's mind that her lover must be in danger,
wrote two letters about the matter, one to Capt. Allen,
the other to Chaplain McDonald. Both letters are here
at my hand, and I shall take care to find out how the
chaplain's letter came into Allen's possession."

CHAPTER LIII.

THE DARKNESS GONE.

Not a word was spoken, and Pepperrell, after a momen-
tary pause, resumed : —

" Mr. Fenwick's letter to Allen is an earnest request
to look after William Farley. That the request was never
acted upon we all have evidence in the fact that the cap-
tain took sides against Farley in the matter of this Wacer-

if we had

binued : —
lishly, but
upon her
3 appealed
sn's agent,
pears, was
as well as
ng Farley,
ichery and
lard. The
,e, for this
re me. In
Rev. John
ate of the
! in danger,
apt. Allen,
ers are here
)ut how the

er a momen-

nest request
3st was never
that the cap-
f this Water-

William and Mary. 297

be cleared up." At a sign to the guard the now trembling

Waterman was led forward. ^

*j Private Waterman, you have been engaged in this

'l:7T'j. "^^^ ''-''' ^^- ^'- -— ^^

telling tJie truth now if vou can T of „a v i ^

have to ,ay for yourself r "' '"■■"■ "'"" ^"'

he'^Iour"'','""""-*" '" ''" "''• "''P*"'"- >-•'* -"ing that.
f".sc»k his companion ,n crin.e, as hu wliin.d out :

muh besides n.e pay ef I did well, an' ef I didn't dew

cf oo^ir ., ""V'r P"' ^* ^»^'^y ""• g"^* >-"» t" strike
tf I could, an then ef I could kill hin, th' capen promised

o «.t me orf I did th' best I could, the capen «'"

ni^ h;:n 'ih f ■"'^^'^l^"*"' '" -ch'a wfy e. tew
nmsh hu... Th last tnue Parley bruised me, the capen

dun. I d dn t like tew kill him in cold blood for fear th'

barley eo^ut o' th^'jayniow^ir. Te'rke:;"hf.::

ez clus up tew Looisburg ez we ken, sez I, an' Z h m-
tew a tree whar he'll die ef the Monseers do^n't g him

^ Ef ™w U T, "" " "^ '"' O^'"^"'- Of coo^rse, sez
rte. th' ^ T """ " ">' -"y J«-'" g«'' «' much

h n- SoTe , y«-/»n't. -ys he, yew'll get no-

,'u /^ ? ^ "'•' " ''"PP'« «' ^loi- chaps, an' we
watched Farley a.i' th' boy Oliver st'irt an' 3 ■

iirf K„* ii , ' wiiver stdit, an we runned

orf, but we thort we hed lost them. Heowsumever
buneby we heerd th' tew atalkin' purtv leoud »n",f

irrb r ;-■ "-^^ -- --^n » air. s^

inter th bush whar we wus, an' I guv him a knock on th'
hed an deown he went. We hed orfnl work of it apullin'

298

William and Mary,

an' aliaulin' on him along, hevin' t' give him a knock neow
an' agen fur tew keep him still. Jest ez we thort we had
him fur 'nough, bang goes a gun, and abeout twirty Mon-
seerti wus clus on us quicker'n wink. The tew sailors
runned faster'n chain-lightnin' an' got orf, but th' Mon-
seers guv me a prod with a bagnot so I stopt aninnin'.
They kerned Farley in, but druv me at th' point o' th'
bagnot. I lied hard times in heer, but then I allers did
hev hard times, and neow I s'pose I'll be shot !"

" Shot ! You shot, yon wretch ?" cried Pepperrell,
purple with suppressed rage at the cold-blooded malignity
of the brute ; "shoot you, you fiend, — give a soldier's
death to you ? You shall be flogged like a dog and
drummed out of the army forthwith ! Remove the animal,
sergeant, his presence is pollution !"

In a moment the general was as calm as before, and
proceeded to still further unfold the case. Picking up a
letter from the table, he said :

" Now here is the young girl's letter to her brother. It
was also found among the prisoner's papers :

"WooDSiDE, April 12th, 1745.
"My Dear, Dear Hal:

*' For the love of God and all you hold dear, watch Wil-
liam now and warn him. Capt. Allen has made me write
him a letter which I know he means to show William so as
to turn him against me. I have no time now to explain.
Warn William and tell him it's false.

" Your loving sister,

"Mary."

" There it is !" cried one of the officers ; " there it is.
That explains one point to me. Here is another link in
the chain ! This, no doubt, is the letter Captain Allen
took from a sailor in my presence at the Grand Battery.
The sailor was flogged, I believe, through the prisoner's

William and Mary.

299

)ck ncow
^t we had
pty M<m-
j\v sailors
th' Mon-
arunnin'.
oint o' th'
allers did

>epperrell,
L malignity
a soldier's
I dog and
the animal,

before, and
•icking up a

brother. It

,2th, 1745.

watch Wil-
a,de me write
William so as

to explain.

3ter,
"Maby."

there it is.

Ither link in
Eiptain Allen
ind Battery.

he prisoner's

instrumentality. I never could understand why he was
so vindictive towards the poor fellow •. I understand it all
now ! "

"Yes," went on the general, " I am sorry for the poor
sailor, but glad to find there was one honest man in tliis
disgraceful business. But," and he glanced at a paper
which he had just selected from the heap before him,
"the chain is now to be completed. Here is a letter
received last night direct from New Hampshire. It is an
agonizing appeal to myself from the young woman to save
her lover, if alive. It came just at the n^ut juncture,
evidently ordered by Him who doeth all things well."

" WooDSiDB, New Hampshire, June 9th, 1745.

" To General Pepperrell :

" You must pardon the liberty which I, a perfect stranger,
take in addressing you. I am only a young girl — you are a
great soldier ; but I know that you will listen to my story,
for I have prayed long and earnestly about it. My mother
is dead, my father's heart is broken, my darling only brother
has been killed in the war, and my lover and intended hus-
band is charged with being a deserter. Oh, general, for the
love of heaven, save him. His name is William Farley. He
is not a deserter. He loves me, and I love him with all my
heart. Captain Allen swore to me he would ruin him.
Captain Allen made love to me, and then made me promise
with fearful threats never to tell. He swore he would mur-
der William if I told it. My darling brother went to the
war to try and save William, and now he is dead — murdered,
and they say William is a deserter. No, general, no, Wil-
liam is not a deserter. Whatever has happened to him has
been planned by Captain Allen, that I know. I send you
the letter he made me copy and send him. Oh, general, if
William dies my heart must break, my mind must give way.
Will you save him, general ; for the love of God, will you
save him ? I can write no more.

"Respectfully,

••Mary Oliver.

300

William and Mary.

When the general laid down the letter on the table
there was not a dry eye before him. The foul baseness
of the heartless conspiracy shocked their high sense of
manhood, while the child-like pleadings of the broken-
hearted girl called away their thoughts to their own
homes. There were daughters there, dearly beloved,
longing for their return. What if it was my own child ?
many a one of them said to himself. And the tears
coursed down their bronzed cheeks. The commander-in-
chief alone was composed. He had schooled himself for
the ordeal.

CHAPTER LIV.

BROUGHT TO BAY.

When the excitement had m some measure subsided,
the general, looking at the disgraced and fallen officer
before him, asked him if he had anything to say in de-
fence of his foul and baseless conduct ; if so, he was at
liberty to speak.

*'I have played a desperate game, general, and have
lost. I have ruined myself for this world — blasted my
fair name, and disgraced my office, because my head was
turned by a pretty face. I fought against it long, but a
man can't resist what has been ordained from all eternity.
I have lived for weeks in a state bordering on insanity.
Now the crash has come. Let it come ! I couldn't help
it. I but followed my destiny. Not an act of mine in
all this business but had been ordered. This thought
only keeps me from madness — I but followed an irresist-
able fate ! "

William and Mary.

\o\

I the table
il baseness
h sense of
le broken-
their own
jr beloved,
own child ?
the tears
niander-in-
himself for

e subsided,
illen ofticer

say in de-
, he was at

ill, and have
-blasted my
ly head was

long, but a
all dternity.
on insanity,
ouldn't help

of mine in
?his thought

1 an irresist-

PepperroL bit his lip. He believed in the doctrines
uniself as well .s tlie others ; but his nature recoiled
irom sucli logic.

"Remove the prisoners?, sergeant, and have Private
Parley before us ! "

When William entered the commander-in-chief rose
Ignoring all etiquette, disciplin^v and everything of that
nature, as, sinking the officer in the mr , he grasped the
youth s hand exclaiming : " You have been the innocent
victim of a base and fiendish plot. You have suffered
much, and now all tlie amends that can be made sball be
made. You will be sent home to the noble girl, of whom
1 have no doubt you are every way worthy. As soon as
the necessary papers are made out you will be honorably
discharged from the army. "

"O, general, I don't know what to say !" the amazed
lad stammered out, scarce realizing whether he was
asleep or awake.

"You need not say a word, my man, or try to now ;
you can go," and, with muttered thanks, William with-
drew. But he could not imagine he was actually free as
he emerged into the open air. He had but a few hours
ago been set at liberty, only to find himself imprisoned
again ; and now he could not, or would not, believe but
before long he might find himself shackled afresh' He
grasped Mary's letters, given him by the general, and
stared stupidly as the boys clustered around him Pale
and weak, he was but the shadow of the robust young
soldier who, but a few weeks before, had jumped into the
waves down yonder at Gabarus Bay. But he was free
Yet he was not so sure of that. He would move a step
or two, and then look awkwardly at his comrades, many
of whom, with tears of joy and pity, turned away to hide
their emotion.

302

IVilliam and Mary.

" Como with me, William; come to our quarters,"
shouted one.

' ' No sech thing, he's tew cum with mo. I hev more
right tew him ! " cried another.

"i'U tak him!" exclaimed a third, suiting the action
to the word as he led William off amidst cheers.

"Never mind, William, me boy ; never mind neow,"
as he drew him along. "Never mind neow, me lad, it's
all over at last. Yew've had a hard time o' it ; harder'n
the most o' us ; but it'll be all right neow."

William learned for the first time on his way along full
particulars about dear Harry's tragic death. He had im-
mediately, when released, when the army entered the
city, set out to find him ; but, owing to his weakness and
the unnatural excitement prevailing, all he could learn
was that Harry was not there. Now he heard it all. His
kind-hearted comrade did his best to soften the story ;
but William would hear it, every word ; nothing must be
hidden. He could not suffer more thaii he had, he ex-
claimed in anguish when the sad story was finished ; but
oh, had the dear boy died knowing the truth it would not
be so hard.

Arriving at their quarters, William read the letters he
held ill his hand, but said nothing. He could say nothing.
He laid them down beside him in the berth and wept
like a child. To think that he ever should have doubted
Mary ! The thought pierced him like a sword to the
heart. And then he recalled dear Hal's tender solicitude.
He remembered what he had said to him the morning
they sailed from Canso ; he thought of the parting in the
woods, and all the horrible events which followed thick
around him rose like a frightful dream, and he quivered
and shook in every limb, swayed by the seething agony
of his sorrow. The kindly soldier had gone out, leaving

William and Mary.

303

lUiirturs,"

hev more

the action

id neow,"
e lad, it's
; liarder'n

along full
[e had im-
itered the
tkness and
ould learn
it all. His
the story ;
ig must be
id, he ex-
shed ; but
would not

letters he
ly nothing.
1 and wept
iQ doubted
ord to the

solicitude,
le morning
ting in the
owed thick
Le quivered
hing agony
)Ut, leaving

him alone with his grief and joy. He picked up Mary's
letter to the general and read it again and again. " Oh,
my Mary ; my dearest, my darling Mary ! What would
you think of me if you knew all ? "

He was aroused by the trami)ling of foet as of running
men. He paid no attention to it at first ; but, becoming
conscious that something unusual was going on, he went
to the door. A soldier was dasliing past as he came out.

"What is the matter?" cried William, in alarm, as
thoughts of more trouble to himself rushed again into his
mind.

"They say Capt. Allen hez shot himself!" was the
hurried reply as the man dashed on.

William followed as rapidly as his strength permitted.
It was only too true. Brought to bay— his desperate
scheme frustrated— his foul plot exploded— tortured by
remorse, and maddened by unrequited love, which had
brought shame, ruin, and disgrace upon him, the fallen
officer had put an end to his blighted life, rushing unpre-
pared into the presence of Him whom he had so greviously
offended, whose laws he had so wantonly broken.

An open letter lay in his berth which he had pencilled
to his general before committing the awful deed. It was
a terrible letter, blood-curdling with the severity of its
logic. The proposition was stated in all its naked hate-
fulness—" God hath foreordained all things whatsoever
Cometh to pass," therefore he had himself but acted the
part which from all eternity it had been arranged he
should act. He had been led on, and he had passively
followed. One thing alone remained to be done which
he felt assured had been also pre-arranged. It would
soon be done, and then the tragedy of his life was over.
As to the future he had no fears. Why should he have
fears ? "By the decree of God, for the manifestation of

304

Williani and Mary.

His glory, somo men and angels are predestinated untt)
everlasting life, and others foreordained to everlasting
death." It was preposterous to suppose that anything
that he had done, or could do, should cl'ange God's im-
mutable decrees !

CHAPTER LV.

HOMEWARD BOUND !

On the third day of July the joyous news of the fall of
Louisburg reached Boston. The city went wild with
rejoicing. Every face glowed. Men hailed each other
who had never met before. They hustled along good-
naturedly. They shouted themselves hoarse. The night
following, the town was a sea of light. Not a window
but shot forth streams of gladness into the dark. The
news spread to the suburbs. Out into the country — out
over pleasant fields — out over dusty roads— out over mur-
muring brooks it flew on the wings of the wind, sending
up shouts as it flew, and songs of praise as it ran, unto
Him who had given them the victory ! As it went surging
along over hill and dale, it tarried fondly at Woodside.
The simple-hearted villagers knew not what to say or
do about it. Men embraced each other in the fields or by
the roadside, wherever they met. They had never done
the like before, and felt very sheepish and ashamed when
they thought of it. Women wept. They had often done
the like before, and did not feel a bit ashamed when they
thought of it, but wept again. The children cried and
laughed in one breath, and when they thought of it, com-

IVilliani and Mary.

305

melict'd the porfornuuice rZ« novn. Poor Mih, Furluy
could neitliur weei) nor rejoice. She had wept till the
fountain of her tears was dried uj». She could not rejoice;
for her darliny boy she might never see this side of eter-
nity, or, if she did, it would be with an indelible stain ui)on
his name. Her husband tilled a dishonored grave — pity
lier ! — how could she rejoice? But there was one who
could hoi)e and did hope ! With her heart crushed and
bleeding for her idolized Harry, Mary Oliver had come
up out of the depths of her sorrow with a profound convic-
tion that light was about to burst at last on the darkness.
She had an abiding faith that William would return, and
not only return, but return without a stain upon his
name. Her father could see nought but more trouble
ahead of them. If the war were over, the boys would
not be able to come home before next winter, and by that
time many of them would be dead. But the little woman
would rally him about his always being a prophet of evil ;
and then she would suddenly think of her darling Hal,
lying cold in an unknown grave. Then she would rush
to her chamber and her knees. Ay, her knees ! Oh,
power of faith in the unseen and eternal, thou art of
God ! Not faith in the whimsical caprices of an arbitrary
tyrant, who, with the malignity of a Nero, creates sufier-
ings and then gloats like a horrible gorgon in blood ; but
faith in the divine compassion of One, who " as a father
pitieth them that fear Him. " Why is it that instinctively
we cry out of the deep abyss of our sorrow to something
above, exterior to ourselves, though through it all we may
ignore Him who alone can help us ? Why is it ? Why,
when dashed to the earth beneath the crushing wheels of
a hostile environment, our hearts shriek aloud for aid,
for help — a help that we know our fellows cannot give
us ? Why is it ? Why not, then, cry to the gods whom

3o6

William and Mary.

we have served so faithfully ? Why not invoke their pity
in this hour of horror ? Why not ? Our god of pleasure,
of wealth, of fame, — why is it we call not upon them
when darkness comes, when the tempest smites us, and
we stand naked and alone with the hurtling storm ? Why
is it ? Where is the little fellow then who revels in
primordial germs and basks in protoplasm ? Surely, if he
can make a monkey out of an oyster and a man out of
the monkey, he can make an angel out of the man, and
thus lift him above his trouble ? ' ' Cry aloud for he is a
god!" Does he not answer? Is your heart still sore ?
Are your tears not chased away by his smiles? Cry
again ! Cry louder, "either he is talking, or he is pur-
suing, or he is in a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth,
and must be awaked ! "

Great was the excitement in Woodside. great was the
fear which followed. Some hearts were doomed to
anguish. They knew that. Whose, however, they dared
not think ; and thus they waited, unlike the deacon or
Captain Allen, but with the most reckless inconsistency,
praying and hoping, hoping and praying, that what they
dreaded but feared to breathe to their dearest friend,
might not prove true.

Meanwhile preparations for great joy to some of those
longing ones is being enacted in Louisburg. William
Farley is honorably discharged from the army, and is now
on board the vessel in the harbor waiting for the favoring
breeze to waft him to his Mary ! Had he been false to
her, he thought ? He ought to have known her better.
But the captain is on deck. William's cheek is fanned by
the warm breath of the evening breeze as it comes stealing
down from the Green Hills. The anchor is weighed. The
white sails are flung out to the wind. A cheer, and they
sweep in a graceful circle past the Island Battery, where

William and Mary.

307

their pity
: pleasure,
pon them
;e8 us, and
cm? Why

revels in
iirely, if he
aan out of
e man, and

for he is a
t still sore ?
ftiles? Cry
r he is pur-
he sleepeth,

eat was the
doomed to
-, they dared
le deacon or
Lconsistency,
at what they
arest friend,

)me of those
rg, William
^, and is now
the favoring
aeen false to
her better,
is fanned by
omes stealmg
eighed. The
eer, and they
attery, where

the boys crowd the parapet, waving their caps and sliout-
ing farewells. Away out upon the singing waves. Away
out till the grim fortress looks like a speck on the horizon.
Away, away, where the wind sighs through the rigging,
and the gallant little vessel dips gaily on. Away, away,
towards home, towards mother and Mary !

CHAPTER LVI.

HOME ! HOME !

A PLEASANT voyage with a favoring breeze, and the trim
little cruiser dropped anchor in the habor of Portsmouth.
Great was the joy in the village at seeing a live soldier
straight from the war ! William was overwhelmed with
questions as he stepped upon the wharf. He was, however,
soon rescued by the captain of the scnooner who, knowing
his weak state of health, led him unceremoniously away to
his own house. The afternoon was far advanced, but the
captain informed the now nervously-anxious youth that
there would be no difficulty in finding a conveyance in
the morning to Harmony. Agreeably surprised, then, he
was, we may be sure, when some short time later the
skipper came hurriedly into the house with the news that
there was a team ready to start, and if William wanted to
go, why, he could go. Wanted to go ! He should think
he did want to go, and the captain's good wife might
plead to the walls, William never heard a word she was
saying.
The drive along the pleasant road, if the never-ceasing

3o8 William and Mary.

flow of his friend's questions be not taken into account,
was very enjoyable. William answered the incessant
volleys of questions as well as he could ; but in sheer
self-defence at last dropped into monosyllables. They
arrived in Harmony far on in the night ; but the driver
knew well where to go. Many a time had he heard the
blacksmith and his wife speak of the two Woodside boys
who had stopped with them on their way to the wars —
glad enough will they be to see one of them back. The
waggon drew up before the door, and the man springing
out ran into the house.

''I should think so! I should think so!" William
heard a cheery voice exclaiming. Then there was a sound
of footsteps in the dark. " Whar's he ?" It was the same
honest, hearty man who had greeted him here weeks pre-
viously. There was a tremendous squeeze of the hand
in the darkness.

"Whar's them thar imajess o' Rome?" cried a voice
somewhere near.

"Oh, you rogue, Ned, are you there ?" answered Wil-
liam, greatly amused.

" Away with yew, boy; away with yew," shouted the
smith, pretending to make passes towards the apprentice.
' ' Never yew mind him. He's th' trial o' me life, allers in
mischief."

There were sundry low, chuckling noises heard not very
far off", and presently William found his hand grasped as
in a vice. The dear old woman's eyes filled with tears
as, meeting William at the door, she exclaimed, "Whar's
t'other wan ?" She saw what she had done in a instant,
but with womanly tact commenced chattering away most
vigorously about other things as she prepared supper.
The questions he had again to answer to were but a repe-
tition of what he had been answering for hours. The

William and Mary.

309

) account,
incessant
b in sheer
es. They
the driver
heard the
dside boys
the wars —
)ack. The
L springing

" William
ras a sound
IS the same

weeks pre-
)f the hand

:ied a voice

jwered Wil-

tiouted the

apprentice.

ife, allers in

ard not very
i grasped as

with tears
d, "Whar's
in a instant,
g away most
tared supper.

but a repe-
hours. The

Rev. Donald McDonald was here, however, the principal
theme. The villagers had learned during his absence
that the sun rose and set just the same as if he had never
gone away. AVilliam found from sly hints and mys-
terious insinuations that Ned was not now alone in his
scepticism " abeout them thar imajess o' Rome !"

It was long past midnight before the tired youth dropped
asleep. The exciting experiences of the last few days
made him wakeful. He knew n<jthing of the state of
affairs at home. He had not heard of his father's death,
but the boys had told him how suddenly the dear old
pastor had died. He could not bring himself to believe
it possible that he was so near his dear ones. As he began
to doze some new thought would strike him, and he would
be as wide awake as ever. Bright and early, however, he
was moving in the morning and, after a slight breakfast,
was again seated in the same waggon that had conveyed
him from Portsmouth. The rough but honest driver had
determined to have all the honor to himself of carrying
home " the first man from the wars !"

" I'll send yew sum o' them thar imajess o' Rome when
tliey cum areound ! " were the last words that floated
after them as they rattled down the street on the road to
Woodside.

Mary has caught sight of a waggon coming up the lane
from the village. Why shouldn't she ? She has been
looking out of that window a hundred times every day.
She had gone to the window once more and, then !
*****

Who dares desecrate the sacredness of that meeting by
an attempted description ? Two hearts throbbing with
love, two souls thrilled by the touch of an all-conquering
affection. Leave them alone in their tears — tears of joy,
sorrow, hope — a holy baptism !

3IO

William and Mary.

Abijah was not at home. What business had he to be
at home at such a time ? Who wanted him to be at home ?
Who wanted chronic grumbling now \ William was
saved, and his Mary was in his arms. Then they wept
together again. They knew well why they wept this
time, though neither spoke. Each heart went out to the
lonely grave in the wilderness somewhere, and dear
Harry's name was whispered in the heart of One who
pitieth His children.

The good-natured driver was considerably taken aback
after having waited seated in his waggon what he thought
a most unconscionable time, to see William at length
come out of the house, occasionally pausing in his walk
to imprint a kiss on the lips of the blushing girl by his
side. But then he quickly remembered when he was young
himself, and had been guilty of the same foolishness, no
doubt ; and all at once he saw the harness wanted adjust-
ing, a strap having to be taken up a bit here, and another
let out a bit there. He was busily engaged in this useful
occupation when the young couple came up to the wag-
gon. Then he was very much surprised to see them —
of course — why not ?

" Can't you leave your horse and waggon here ?" asked
William. "It's only a step over home, and I would
sooner walk. Tie him here to the tree, and come on and
get some dinner."

No, the driver would do just nothing of the kind. He
had brought back " the first man from the wars," and he
was going to carry him every step ! Then they all got
into the waggon and went rattling up the hill, the driver
in a fearful state of alarm all the way, but more especially
once in a while, as to the stability of his harness.

Had she told him ? Yes, she had told him, but not all,
and she shuddered as they passed the brook. He thought

William and Mary.

311

ad he to be

)e at home ?

illiam was

they wept

wept this

out to the

and dear

t One who

aken aback
he thought
I at length
n his walk

girl by his
} was young
ishness, no
ited adjust-
,nd another

this useful
to the wag-
jee them —

jre ?" asked
id I would
3me on and

kind. He
rs," and he
hey all got
, the driver
e especially

3SS.

but not all,
He thought

her mind was going back to the long-ago, when she had
fallen in there as a child, and he drew her closer to him
while the driver, this time becoming nervous about the
tire on one of his wheels, cast wild and scrutinizing
glances in that direction. But Mary had been thinking
of something else, something that froze the blood in her
veins as she thought of it, praying as she thought, that
William might never know it. He never did for years.
But they have passed the brook and some one is at the
door. Shall we blame the boy, if Mary is being helped
out of the waggon by the stranger as William clasps his
mother in his arms ?

CHAPTER LVII.

CONSIDERATIONS AND PREPARATIONS.

The driver bustled around the horse and waggon at a
great rate ; but at length satisfying himself as to the
efficiency of the harness for the homeward journey,
thought he might venture into the house. Some one had
caught sight of the waggon coming along up the hill, and,
thinking there might be news, followed on. Then
Abijah's woe-begone face was seen at the door, and before
an hour had elapsed the old kitchen was pretty well
crowded by the neighbors. William, fortunately for him-
self, knew not with certainty 'who was missing from his
company, and was thus spared the pain of wounding
some loving heart. He had, however, seen many of the
boys before leaving, and had many a fond message to

312

William and Mary.

deliver. Then there was general rejoicing and the usual
amount of weeping, till the somewhat dazed Jehu, who
with great satisfaction looked upon himself as the cause
of all this happiness, thought he must be going. Then
they all thought they must be going. And they all went.
All but the Olivers. There was no going for them. No
one would hear of it. Abij all's proposition refused tt) be
entertained. They had wept and rej(jiced together again,
and a peace from God came down upon each heart to
which for weeks they had been strangers.

William had been at home for nearly a month before
the thought that all along was uppermost in his mind
found utterance in words. Mary had ccmstantly baffled
him. When he imagined that he had skilfully led up to
the (question, by some inexplicable stroke of girlish
strategy he would suddenly find himself as far off as
ever. He at last determined to precipitate matters, and
for this purpose we find him one gloriously beautiful
evening in August sitting under the beech tree, where
they had so often in the old time played or recited their
lessons together. Poor dear little Mary! The tears
would come, do what she would, as she thought of the
one who used then to be with them. William knew
what it all meant, and he also knew that he would be
unmanned again if he thought of the dead for a moment.
He di'ew her closer and whispered :

" My Mary ! "

She looked up at him through her moist eyelashes.
He felt a choking in his throat as reminded by her look
and action of the beloved Harry the last time he had
seen him in the wood. He recalled to-day, as he never
had done before, that if he had then acted differently

Williarn and Mary.

3^3

the visual
ehu, who
the cause
ig. Then
r all went,
hem. No
used to be
:her again,
[i heart to

3uth before
n his mind
,ntly baffled
y led up to

of girlish
3 far off as
natters, and
ly beautiful
tree, where
recited their

The tears

)Ught of the

illiam knew

he would be

)r a moment.

with the sweet-spirited lad he might still be alive. The
thought pierced him. He was all but giving up again.

' ' My Mary ! You remember your promise before we
went away ? We — we — were — to be — to be married —
when I came back ! "

He had said it, got through with it, he never knew how.
But he had got through with it. And it is nobody's
business what followed. It may be whispered, however,
that poor old Abijah was not in the house or visible any-
where in the fields, nor was there any great lumbering
driver feeling called upon to look after his harness by
what was going on under the tree. But as William
walked home in the dusk of the evening he walked on
enchanted ground. He was so enswathed with the bliss-
ful dream of love that he was afraid to speak, lest it
might vanish at the sound of his voice. He did speak,
however, as he entered the house, and it didn't vanish
either. It rather increased in its blessed intensity as he
bashfully told his mother what was to come off a month
from that day.

" God bless yew, me boy ! "

And, as in duty bound, she wept — for she could weep
now.

CHAPTER LVIII.

st eyelashes.

by her look

time he had

r, as he never

;d differently

WHAT ALWAYS HAPPENS

It would seem as if the month never would come to an

end. So at least thought William. He was certain there

never had been such length of days in all his life, not

\'en when he was lying siok at heart, nigh unto death) a

William and Mary.

prisoner in Louisburg. Mary thought just the very
reverse of all this, and begged for an extension of time.
The days, she protested, were just no days at all, and she
could get nothing done as she wished it to be done. But
long days or short days, or whatever sort of days they
were, like all other days, they came to an end, and the
long-expected morn dawned gloriously. Two of the
truest hearts that ever beat in unison were united in holy
bonds till death should them part. The mother had one
long cry to herself when the young couple came home.
Her thoughts were back to the day when, as a young
bride, she had sat down here for the first time with her
noble husband. Now she was alone. The light of her
eyes had gone out in blackness. She wept long and
hysterically. She felt that relief now in tears that before
had been denied her. And she was the better for it. The
sunshine burnt through the cloud. At eventide it was
light. She wiped her eyes with the conviction that the
cup of her sorrow would never for her be refilled. Hence-
forth there were to be no more tears except of joy. Nor
were there. God was good. That she had proved. She
knew He had heard her prayers. Always dissatisfied
with the cast-iron creed in which she had been nurtured,
the fearful fate of her beloved husband created a loathing
against it which she carried to her grave. Profoundly
convinced that he had been driven to madness and a
suicide's death by erroneous conceptions of the divine
government, her strong common sense as profoundly
convinced her that God was good, and no capricious de-
crees could ever dry up the fountain of His goodness.
She knew her two darling children entertained the same
views, and henceforth the doctrines, decrees, and mys-
teries would be at a discount where once they had reigned
gupreme.

William and Mary.

3^5

;he very
of time.
, and she
3ne. But
lays they
and the
) of the
ed in holy
f had one
,me home.
,s a young
I with her
|ht of her
long and
}hat before
or it. The
:,ide it was
)n that the
Bd. Hence-
joy. Nor
Dved. She
dissatisfied
nurtured,
a loathing
Profoundly
iiess and a
the divine
profoundly
)ricious de-
s goodness,
d the same
and mys-
lad reigned

Poor old Abijah was there, too. Where else should he
be ? He even forgot for the time that the wgrld and
everything in it were in a vile conspiracy against himself
as he glanced at the blushing face of his little Mary. He
reconciled himself to her marriage with William on the
ground that it was one of the " 'pinted " things against
which he had butted his head to no purpose for years.
He had been the first among them to almost burst the
shackles, but only to let them sink into his soul afresh.
He kept on " athinkin' an' athinkin','' however, about
the "deekrees," with occasional diversions into the
realm of more mundane affairs. Whatever the latter
were about, unlike the former they must have done him
good, for it began to be whispered around the village that,
a month or so after the marriage, he was actually seen
to smile at something that was said to him in the store
about his handsome son-in-law. Of this last, however,
nothing definite can be written. He had never been
known to do the like for years, so scepticism was pretty
general in the matter of the smile.

Tenderly attached to each other, the young couple en-
tered upon their married life with high hopes thrilling
their hearts. If at times they wept together in Mary's
old home during one of their daily visits to comfort her
father, who positively refused to leave it, it always ended
by drawing them closer and closer to each other and to
God. For they believed in God ! Not in an arbitrary
tyrant who revelled in blood and gloated in tears, but in
a God of love, who hears the cry of His trusting child.
William had burst the shackles of the old theology many
years ago, and he now rejoiced over his deliverances like
a giant refreshed with new wine. He laid at the door of
the inexorable creed, which bound his neighbors in fetters
of iron, all that he had suffered himself and all that his

316

William and Mary.

dear parents had suffered for him. He remembered with
a pain in liis heart the horrible blasphemy contained in
Capt. Allen's letter. He knew that his beloved father's
reason had been dethroned from dwelling on the logical
consequences of his creed. From profound study of the
Scriptures, coupled with a wonderfully keen and analy-
tical mind, he revolted from the theory that a merciful
God had capriciously elected a certain portion of mankind
to eternal life, while He as capriciously passed by the
remainder. "Jesus Christ by the grace of God tasted
death for every man." This was the one article of the
new creed which unaided he had evolved from the Bible,
and upon which he dwelt long and earnestly, till even
the beclouded father-in-law '"low'd it looked kind o'
nateral, but he couldn't make it well eout."

The young wife could make it out though. She had
found it a source of never-failing consolation to her, when
alone in her grief she prayed, and felt that she was not
praying against unalterable fate. And now husband and
wife, remembering that God had promised never to cast
away those who called upon Him, consoled themselves
with these words. He had not turned away from them in
the past, nor would He turn away from them in the
future if they were faithful. His hand alone had brought
them together. And they would dry their tears as they
remembered that the same hand would yet bring them
nigh unto the one whose mouldering body lay some-
where in a far-off grave. Then Abijah, as he heard them
talk and saw their happy faces, would again "'low it
looked a kind o' nateral ; " but always had to add the
qualifying clause, that he couldn't "jest make it eout."

But when the months rolled by, winter had come and
gone, and summer was round once more with its perfumed
breath, there came to William and Mary one day a little

William and Mary, 317

stranger, wlio boisterously refused to he ignored and per-
sistently demanded their attention. He got it, too God
bless the baby ! They called him Harry, after the dead
one ; and the more than ever bewildered Abijah, "'lowin'
he couldn't jest mak it eout," was set agoing again at his
old "thinkin' an' athinkin'" by all these outrageous
goings-on, and had nothing for it now but to be over at the
"deekin's," as he still persisted in calling it, where he would
hold the little rogue by the hour on his knee. And they
said— indeed it was more than once whispered in the
store— that lie had been seen, when he thought no one
was looking on, kissing the dimpled cheeks of the child
over and over again while the big tears trickled down his
face. God bless the baby !

THE END.

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