ASHCLIFFE HALL (continued 6)

"Mother!"

Lady Ingram dropped her work, and looked into Celia's face.

"My dear," she said, her voice slightly trembling, "you have bad news to tell me. At once, if you please—I do not like things broken gradually."

At once Celia told her: "Philip is killed."

With a wild shriek which rang through the house, Philip's mother flung up her arms—as Celia remembered that, once before in her life, Claude De L'Orient had done—and then fell back heavily and silently in her chair. Celia, ignorant and terrified, threw open the door and called for Patient and Thérèse. They came in together, the former quiet and practical, the latter screaming and wringing her hands.

"Eh, my faith! Madam is dead!" shrieked Thérèse.

"'Tis but a dwawm, Madam," was the decision of Patient. "Please to open the window. Thérèsa, cut her Ladyship's lace[18] whilst I fetch her water."

"But, my dear friend," remonstrated Thérèse, with an invocation in addition, "that will spoil her figure!"

"Go down-stairs and fetch a glass of water," said Patient, with a spice of scorn. "That's all you are fit for. Madam, will you please to hold her Ladyship's head while I get at her lace and cut it?"

Patient's remedies applied, Lady Ingram partly recovered herself in a few minutes. Edward was by her side when she again opened her eyes. They rested for an instant on him and on Celia, and closed again with a long tremulous sigh which seemed to come from her heart.

"If you will please to give me orders, Madam," said Patient, quietly, to Celia, "I think her Ladyship will be best in her bed, and she scarce seems knowledgeable to give orders herself. Will I and Thérèsa lay her there?"

Celia spoke to Lady Ingram, but received no answer, and she gave Patient the order. So Patient and Thérèse undressed the still figure and laid her to rest. Lady Ingram continued to sleep or swoon, whichever it were; she seemed occasionally sensible to pain, but not to sound, nor did she appear to know who was about her.

About ten o'clock, Celia, seated at her step-mother's bed-side, heard a regular tramp of soldiers' feet below, and knew too well what they must be bringing. A few minutes afterwards her brother softly entered the room.

"Celia, they have brought Philip here. Will you come and see him?"

She hesitated a minute, half for Lady Ingram, and half for herself.

"There is nothing painful or shocking, dear; I would not ask you if there were. Would you like to see him again or not?"

Celia rose and gave Edward her hand. He led her silently down to the dining-room, leaving her to go in the first by herself and kneel beside the still, white clay which only five hours earlier had been Philip Ingram.

Ah! if she only could have known, what might she not have said to him! Had she said enough? Had she done her duty?—her utmost? Had she pressed Christ and His salvation on him as she ought to have done? Where was Philip now?

Oh, that might have been! how much sadder!

Edward and Harry came in and stood by her.

"Can either of you tell me anything more?" she faltered, her eyes riveted on the calm, fixed, white face which would never tell anything more to her.

"I can," answered Harry Passmore, softly. "I heard his last words."

"O Harry, tell me!" pleaded Celia.

"I was stationed just opposite," he said, "and it was my regiment that received the charge. A shot killed the horse of the officer in command, and he too fell. I knew not whether he had received injury himself, and I was so much struck by his youth and bravery that I pressed forward to aid him. But as soon as I saw his face, I found that the shot had struck more than the horse. At this moment my adjutant spoke to me, calling me 'Colonel Passmore.' When he heard that, he saith from where he lay, 'Are you Harry Passmore of Ashcliffe?' 'Yes,' I said, wondering that he could know me. 'You are Celia's brother, then,' quoth he, with the ghost of a smile, 'and so am I. Take this to her. The address is on the fly-leaf.' I was so amazed that I could but utter, 'Are you Philip Ingram?' 'I am,' he saith, his breathing now very quick and short. 'Tell my mother gently. Take care of Celia.' His voice now failed him, and I bent my head close that I might hear anything more. I heard only as if he whispered to himself, 'The uttermost!' Then came a long sobbing sigh, and then all was over."

"God forbid that we should limit that uttermost!" murmured Edward, softly.

"O Edward!" sobbed his sister, "do you think he is safe?"

"My sister," he replied, very gently, "can I tell you more than God does? 'To the uttermost'[20] and 'he that believeth.'[21] But if you had known Philip as I knew him, you would feel with me that something must have happened to him, which had made an immense difference between what he was and is. I cannot think that something anything short of the redeeming love of Christ. God knows, dear, what are the boundaries of His uttermost. I can scarce think they are closer than our uttermosts."

"Yet outside the fold is outside," said Celia, falteringly.

"I did not mean for one moment to deny that," said he; "I expressed myself ill if you thought so. But we are told—'According to your faith be it unto you,'[22] and of what may come from 'faith as a grain of mustard-seed.'[23] And it seems to me that the words on that leaf had never been penned by such a hand as Philip's, unless his faith were at least equal to a grain of mustard-seed. Remember, dear heart, that in His hand who will not break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax,[24] are the keys of Death and of Hell.[25] I can trust Him to do right, even to the brother I loved so well."

Lady Ingram returned to consciousness on the following day, but Thérèse reported that she was very weak and low, and desired to see no one but herself. On the Sunday morning she suddenly sent for Celia and Edward. They found her lying propped up by pillows, her eyes sunk and heavy, and her face very pale. She recognized her step-children with a faint smile.

"Come and kiss me, Edward," she said, in a low soft voice: "I have scarce seen you yet. And Celia, too. You loved him, both of you. Now listen to me, and I will tell you what I shall do. As soon as my health and strength admit, I shall take the veil at the convent of Sainte Marie de Chaillot. I have no more to live for. You are both old enough to take care of yourselves. And, after all, life in this world is not everything. I shall make my retreat, and after some years of penance and prayer, I trust I shall have grace to make my conversion. You, Edward—do you propose to remain in the army?"

"I do not think I shall, Mother."

"You will keep up your estates?"

"I should prefer living in England."

"And Celia; what will you do, my dear?"

"I shall go back to Ashcliffe if nobody want me. If Edward wish me to live with him I will willingly do so, especially in England; but even then I should like to pay a long visit to Ashcliffe before settling anywhere else."

"I should be very happy to have you with me, dear," said Edward, quietly, to this; "but I do not wish to be any tie to you. There is no necessity for your living with me, for I am about to marry. So pray do which you prefer."

"Whom are you about to marry, Edward?" asked Lady Ingram, turning to him with a look of some interest in her languid eyes.

"None whom you know, Mother. One with whom I met on my travels."

"I am glad you are marrying," she said, "And how is Celia to return to Ashcliffe?"

"Oh! with Harry," replied Celia, quickly.

"He is not at liberty yet," observed Edward, gravely.

"But you will set him free to go with me?" entreated his sister.

"I have nothing to do with it. You will, I suppose. I make you a present of my prisoner."

"Oh, thank you! If Harry's liberty depends on me, he shall have it directly."

"Edward," said Lady Ingram, "I have a favor to ask from you."

"Name it, and take it, Mother."

"Will you see that a small pension is settled on Thérèse; and, should she wish to continue in her present position, interest yourself in obtaining for her another situation?"

"I will attend to her interests as honestly and thoroughly as I think you would yourself."

"I do not recommend Patient to you, since she is already rather your servant than mine, and you will be careful of her, I know. Celia has a great liking for her: I dare say she will wish to take her to England."

"Do you object to that, Madam?" asked Celia.

"Not in the least," replied Lady Ingram.

"Do you?" continued Celia, this time addressing Edward.

"For a time, certainly not. I should not like to part with her altogether; but, on the other hand, I should not allow you to travel to England without a woman in your company. Patient shall go with you, and after my marriage let her return to me, wherever I may resolve to dwell."

"Thank you. You will write to me, then?"

"I will come to you, if you are willing to receive me. We have seen very little of each other yet."

"Very little," said Celia, rather sadly.

"Now, my children, leave me," requested Lady Ingram, faintly. "I am too weak to converse much. Send Patient to me."

Ten days later saw them journeying in company by easy stages to Paris; and ten days after that witnessed a solemn ceremony in the convent chapel of Sainte Marie de Chaillot, at which Queen Maria Beatrice, Madame de Maintenon, and a brilliant crowd of distinguished persons were present, when Claude Ingram took upon herself the white veil of a postulant. Edward and Celia were there, the latter with a slight misgiving whether she were not sanctioning idolatry to some extent, even by her appearance: a suspicion not laid to rest by the manifest disapproval and uncompromising speeches of Patient. "'Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?'"[26] asked she. But Celia was determined to see the last of Lady Ingram; and Edward promised to lead her out before anything objectionable began. To her it was an inexpressibly mournful ceremony. The different stages of the rites—the shearing off of the glossy hair, the taking of the vows, the white veil of the postulant—all seemed to her as so many epitaphs on the grave of a living woman. When the brother and sister went down to the guest-chamber to take leave of the novice, Celia was sobbing hysterically.

Lady Ingram parted from both with a very warm embrace. She appeared much softened.

"Farewell, my child!" she said to Celia. "And you will not live always in England? You will come and see me at least once more? And when you pray to God in your prêches, do not quite forget Soeur Marie Angélique."

Celia turned from the convent-gate with a sadder heart than she ever thought she could have felt at her parting from Claude Ingram.

Only for three days longer did she remain in Paris. The house was very painful to her now. In everything Philip lived again for her; and she became very anxious to get home to Ashcliffe. Of the warmth and cordiality of her reception there it never occurred to her to doubt. So on the 14th of August, Celia, Harry, and Patient left Paris on their way to England, escorted by Edward as far as Havre.

XII. TRAITORS—HUMAN AND CANINE.

"Thy way, not mine, O Lord, However dark it be! Lead me by Thine own hand, Choose out the path for me." —DR. BONAR.

The Naws-Letter had just come in, posted from London, and Squire Passmore sat down in the parlor to read it. It was a warm, but wet, autumn afternoon. The embroidery frame was covered with a wrapper, and Isabella and her mother were tying up preserves and labelling them. Two large trays of them stood on the parlor-table, and Cicely came slowly in with another.

"Well, sure, that's main heavy!" said she. "If you please, Sir, is there aught by the post from Master Harry?" she added, with a courtesy.

"Nothing, Cicely, nothing," said the Squire, looking up from his newspaper. "I don't know what has come to the lad. He did scribble one line to let us know that he was not killed, but not a word have we had from him since."

"Mayhap he's a-coming," suggested Cicely.

"I wish he were," sighed Madam Passmore.

A merry laugh outside announced somebody, and the door sprang open to the united attacks of Pero and Lucy.

"Anything from Harry?" was her question too, and she received the same answer.

And "Anything from Harry?" asked Charley, sauntering in with his hands in his pockets.

"These are done, Cicely," said Madam Passmore. "Take them hence, and fetch another tray; and bid Dolly, if any should come on such a wet day, to have a care that she brings them not hither, but into the drawing-room—unless, of course, it were Harry," she added in a doubtful tone.

"Oh dear, Mother!" exclaimed Isabella, who had gone to the window, "here is a coach coming up but now."

Lucy was at the window in a second.

"Well, who is coming out?" she soliloquized. "An old woman—at least, no—she's not old, but she's older than I am"—

"You don't say so!" commented Charley, incredulously.

"Have done, Charley!—and the fattest little yellow dog—oh, such a funny one!—and—why, 'tis Harry! and Celia! Celia herself!"

An announcement which sent the whole family to the door at different paces, Lucy heading them. Celia felt herself obliged to greet everybody at once. Lucy was clinging to her on one side, and Charley on the other; Madam Passmore was before her, and the Squire and Isabella met her at the parlor-door.

"I am fain to see thee once more, child!" was the Squire's greeting; "but what a crinkum-crankum that woman has made of thee!"

"She looks quite elegant," said Isabella, kissing her with a little less languor than usual.

"Don't tease her, Charley; she is very tired," said Harry, when he could get in a word. "We have had a long stage to-day."

So Celia was established in an enormous easy-chair, and propped up with cushions, until she laughingly declared that she would require all the united strength of the family to help her out again; and Lucy was busy attempting to divest her of her out-door apparel, without having the least idea how to do it.

"Shall I take your hat and cloak up-stairs, Madam?" said Patient, entering with a general courtesy.

"Celia, what have you done with your yellow dog?"

"O dear!" cried Celia, in a tone of distress. "I was so taken up with you that I forgot her. Where is he, Patient?"

"'Tis a-sniffling and a-snuffling about, Madam," said Patient.

"Call her," replied Celia.

"Dog!" summoned Patient—for Patient scorned to pollute her lips with the heathen name which it had pleased Lady Ingram to bestow upon her pet. But Venus was accustomed to the generic epithet from Patient, and came trotting up at her call. Patient shut the little animal in and herself out. Venus waddled slowly up the room, sniffing at every member of the family in turn, until she came to Celia, at whom she wagged her curly tail and half her fat body, and coiled herself in peace upon a hassock at her feet.

"Celia," asked the Squire, "did you search all Paris, or offer a reward, for the ugliest dog that could be brought you?"

"By no means, Father. The dog is a bequest from my step-mother. It was her special pet, and I have not the conscience to discard it, if I had the heart."

"Is she dead, my dear? I see you are in black for some person," asked Madam Passmore.

The glad light died out of Celia's eyes, and her voice sank to a low, saddened tone.

"No, Mother; she has taken the veil at Chaillot. I am in black for Philip—my brother Philip—who died at Denain."

"Are you then come to us for good, my dear?" asked Madam Passmore, tenderly.

"For good, Mother, if you will have me, and I think you will. Only that I have promised to see my step-mother again, but my visit to her cannot last above a day, and will not be for some time to come."

"Have thee, my dear child!" murmured Madam Passmore, as if the reverse were the most preposterous notion of which she had ever heard.

"Do widows make nuns of themselves?" asked Charley. "I thought they were always girls, and that they walled them up alive when they had done with them!"

"And your woman, my dear?"

"I want to plead with you for her, Mother. She has been the best friend I have had—except Philip: and she is but lent to me for a time. She was my brother Edward's nurse, and when he wants her again he will come and fetch her. I thought you not mind my bringing her with me."

"What should I mind, my dear? If you have found her a true and faithful waiting-woman, and love her, let her by all means abide with you and serve you. Such are not to be picked up everywhere."

"My dear," asked the Squire, uneasily, "I hope they have not made a Tory of you, Celia?"

"I don't know, really, Father," was the answer. "I scarce think there is much difference between Whigs and Tories. They all seem to me devoid of honesty."

The Squire looked horror-struck.

"Nobody has made a Papist of me, if that be any consolation to you. I return as true a Protestant as I went."

"Is this woman a Tory?" gasped the Squire.

"Patient? No, Father," replied Celia, smiling, "she is a little on the other side of you. She calls Oliver Cromwell 'His Highness the Lord Protector,' and won't allow that King Charles was a martyr."

"Celia, child, thou hast been in ill company!" solemnly pronounced the Squire.

"I was afraid you would think so. But I thought I was bound to obey my step-mother in all things not wrong"—

"Surely, child, surely!" assented Madam Passmore.

"Therefore, Father—I hope you will forgive me, but I cannot in honesty keep it from you—I did not refuse her wish that I should be presented to Queen Mary."

The Squire gasped for breath. "Presented!" was the only word he could utter.

"I was afraid that it would vex you, when you came to know, dear Father," said Celia, very gently; "but you see, I was placed in such a position that I could not help vexing either you or my step-mother; and I thought that perchance I ought to obey that one in whose charge I was at the time. I did not like to go, I assure you; but I wished to do right. Do you think I did wrong, Father?"

"Now, John," said Madam Passmore, before the Squire could speak, "I won't have the child teased and made unhappy, in particular when she has only just come home. She meant to do right, and she did right as far as she knew. You must pocket your politics for once."

"Well, well, child," confessed the Squire at last, "we none of us do right at all times, I reckon, and thou art a good child in the main, and I forgive thee. I suppose there may be a few Tories who will manage to get into Heaven."

"I hope so," replied Celia, gravely.

"So do I, child—so do I; though I am a crusty old Whig at the best of times. But I do think they will have to leave their Toryism on this side."

When Celia went up-stairs, to give a longer and fuller greeting to old Cicely Aggett than she had the opportunity of doing before, she heard the unusual sound of voices proceeding from Cicely's little room. She soon found that Cicely and Patient were in close converse on a point of theology, and paused a moment, not wishing to interrupt them.

"Well, truly, I ben't so much troubled with pride as some other things," Cicely was saying. "You see, Mrs. Patient, I hasn't got nothing to be proud of. That's where it is. If I was a well-favored young damsel with five hundred pounds in my pocket, and a silk gown, and a coach for to ride in, well, I dare say I should be as stuck-up as a peacock. But whatever has an old sinner like me to be proud of? Why, I'm always doing somewhat wrong all day long."

"I am afraid I am a greater sinner than you, Mrs. Cicely," said Patient Irvine's quiet voice in answer. "You have nothing to be proud of, and you are not proud. I have nothing to be proud of, and I am."

"Well, surely, a white devil is the worst devil," responded Cicely.

"Aye, he is so," answered Patient. "If He was 'meek and lowly in heart'[1] which 'did no sin, neither was guile found in His mouth,'[2] what should we be who are for ever sinning? I tell you, Mrs. Cicely, some of the worst bouts of pride that ever I had, have been just the minute after I had been humbling myself before the Lord. Depend upon it, there is no prouder man in all the world than the man who is proud of his humility."

There was no audible answer from Cicely. Celia came softly forward.

"Eh, my dear!" cried old Cicely, looking up at her. "I am so fain to see you back as never was! Sit ye down a bit, Mrs. Celia, dear heart, and tell me how it has gone with you this long time."

"Very well, dear Cicely, as concerns the Lord's dealings with me, and very ill as concerns my dealings with Him."

"That's a right good saying, my dear. Ah! the good between Him and us is certain sure to be all on His side. We are cruel bad, all on us. And did you like well, sweetheart?"

"That she did not," said Patient, when Celia hesitated. "She has not had a bit of her own way since she left you."

Celia laughed, and then grew serious. "My own way is bad for me, Patient."

"I never knew one for whom it was not, Madam, except the few who were so gracious that the Lord's way was their way."

"Well, I'd lief be like that," said Cicely. "The King couldn't be no better off than so."

"So would I," Celia began; "but I am afraid that if I say the truth, it will be to add 'in everything but one.'"

"Now, my dear young lady," said Patient, turning to her, "don't you go to grieve in this way for Mr. Philip, as you have been doing ever since. I had no thought till then how he had twined himself round either your heart or mine. Do you think, my bairn, that the Lord, who laid down His life for him, loved him so much less than we?"

"O Patient! if it were only my loss!"

"Whose then, Madam?"

"I mean," said Celia, explanatorily, "if I could be sure that it was his gain."

Patient did not reply for a moment. "I ask your pardon, Madam," she said at length; "I did not know the direction in which your fears were travelling. The less, perhaps, that I had none to join them."

"I am surprised to hear you, Patient!" said Celia. "Only the last time that we saw him before he bade us adieu, you seemed to feel so doubtful about him."

"That was not the last time that I saw him, Madam. The next morn, ere he set out, I heard him conversing with Mr. Colville. They were on the stairs, and I was disposing of your linen above. Now I knew that all his life long the one thing which Mr. Philip could not bear was scorn. It was the thing whereof I was doubtful if he would not stand ill, 'and in time of temptation fall away.'[3] And that morn I heard Mr. Colville speaking to him in a way which, three months earlier, would have sent his blood up beyond anything I could name;—gibing, and mocking, and flouting, taunting him with listening to a parcel of old women's stories, and not being man enough to disbelieve, and the like—deriding him, yea, making him a very laughing-stock. And Mr. Philip stood his ground; John Knox himself could have been no firmer. He listened without a word till Mr. Colville had ended; and then he said, as quietly and gently as you could yourself, Madam,—'Farewell, Colville,' saith he; 'we have been friends, but all is over now betwixt you and me. I will be the friend of no man who is the enemy of Christ. He is more to me than you are—yes, more than all the world!' Madam, do you think I could hear that, and dare to dispute the salvation of a man who could set Christ above all the world? Now, you understand why I had no fear for Mr. Philip."

"He never said so much as that to me," replied Celia, with her eyes moist and glistening.

"He would have done so presently, Madam."

"But, Patient, it was so short a time after he had spoken so differently!"

"Ah, Madam! doth that offend you? The Lord can ripen His fruit very fast when He sees good, and hath more ways than one to do it. He knew that Mr. Philip's time was short. We can scarce tell how sweetly and surely He can carry the lambs in His bosom until we have been borne there with them."

The next morning Isabella brought forward her embroidery-frame, occupied just now by a brilliant worsted parrot and a couple of gorgeous peacocks, the former seated on a branch full of angles, the latter strutting about on a brown ground. The most important shade in the parrot's very showy tail was still wanting.

"Have you any work for me, Mother?" asked Celia. "I do not wish to sit idle."

"I can find you some, my dear. Here is a set of handkerchiefs and some cravats for Father, which all want hemming, and I have been obliged to work at them myself till now: Lucy scarce does well enough, and Bell is too busy with yonder birds."

"I will relieve you of those, Mother."

And Celia took the basket and established herself near the window.

"Mr. John Rowe to speak with Madam," was Dolly's announcement directly afterwards, and Madam Passmore left the room.

Charley and Lucy were learning their lessons. In other words, Charley was sitting with his Æneid and the Lexicon open on the table before him, bestowing his attention on everything in the room except those two volumes; while Lucy, seated at the window on a hassock, was behaving in much the same way to a slate.

"What a constant plague that man is!" said Isabella, as she sorted her wools. "There is no doing anything for him. I do believe he has been here every day for the last fortnight."

"Oh, I say!" commented Charley; "take that cum grano salis, Celia. I think he has been three times."

"Don't dispute with Bell, Charley; it doesn't signify."

"My dear, he won't dispute with me," observed Isabella, calmly, selecting different shades of scarlet. "I never dispute—it is too much trouble, takes my attention from my work."

She went on comparing her scarlets, and Charley, on receiving this rebuke, buried himself for five minutes in the adventures of Æneas. For a time all was silence except for the slight sound of Celia's needle and Lucy's slate-pencil.

"Where is Father?" inquired Madam Passmore, coming into the room with a rather troubled look.

Charley was up in a second. "He is in the stable; I saw him go. Shall I run and fetch him?"

"Ask him to come to me in the dining-room."

And both Charley and his mother disappeared.

"What is the matter now?" asked Lucy; but as nobody answered her, she went back to her arithmetic.

In about half an hour more, Madam Passmore entered, looking grave and thoughtful.

"Isabella, my child," she said, "I have something to tell thee."

Isabella looked up for a moment, and then went back to her wools. "Well, Mother?" she queried, carelessly.

"My dear, I will not disguise from thee that John Rowe's visit concerneth thee. He hath asked leave of thy father and me in order to his becoming thy servant. Now, dear child, neither I nor thy father desire to control thy choice; thou shalt speak for thyself. What sayest thou? Wilt thou marry John Rowe, or not?"

"My dear mother!" responded Isabella, still busy with the wools, "he will come to the wedding in a blue coat and a lilac waistcoat and lavender small-clothes!"

"I dare say, if thou art so particular, that he will dress in what color thou wouldst," said Madam Passmore, smiling. "But what is thy mind, child? Dost thou like him?"

"I don't care anything about him, but I cannot abide his suits," returned the young lady, comparing the skeins.

"Mother isn't asking you to marry his clothes, Bell!" exclaimed Charley.

"My dear, I am not asking her to marry him," said Madam Passmore; "I only wish to know her mind about it. If thou dost not care about him, child, I suppose thou wilt wish us to refuse his addresses?"

"No, I don't say that exactly," replied Isabella, undoing one of her two skeins.

"Then what dost thou wish, my dear?" inquired Madam Passmore, looking rather puzzled.

"Oh! do wait a minute, till I settle this red," said Isabella. "I beg your pardon, Mother—yes, that will do. Dear, 'tis quite a weight off my mind! Now then for this other matter."

"Child, the other matter imports rather to thee, surely, than the colors of thy worsteds!"

"I am sure it does not, Mother, asking your pardon. I have been all the morning over these reds. Well, as to John Rowe, I don't much mind marrying him if he will let me choose his suits, and give me two hundred pounds a year pin-money, and keep me a coach-and-pair, and take me up to London at least once in ten years. I don't think of anything else. Please to ask him."

"Don't much mind!" repeated her mother, looking dissatisfied and perplexed. "Bell, dear child, I fear thou dost not apprehend the import of that thou dost. 'Tis a choice for thy whole life, child! Do think upon it, and leave thy worsteds alone for a while!"

"If you want a downright answer, Mother, you shall have it," returned Isabella, with the air of one ending an unpleasant interruption. "I will marry John Rowe if he will keep me a coach-and-pair, and give me two hundred a year pin-money, and take me to London—say once every four years—I may as well do it thoroughly while I am about it—and of course let me drive in the Ring, and go to Ranelagh and Vauxhall, and see the lions in the Tower, and go to St. James's, and all on in that way. There! now that is settled."

Madam Passmore looked scarcely more satisfied than before, but she said, "Well, my dear, if that be thy wish, thou hadst better go and speak with John Rowe, and let him know thy conditions."

"O Mother! with all these worsteds on my lap!" deprecated Isabella, raising her eyebrows.

"Put them here, Bell," interposed Celia, holding her apron.

Isabella reluctantly disposed her worsteds and rose.

"I wish John Rowe were far enough!" she said, as she left the room.

"Dear, dear, child!" murmured Madam Passmore, looking doubtfully after her daughter.

"She is very like my step-mother," said Celia, quietly. "She reminds me of her many a time."

"Now then!" said Isabella, triumphantly re-entering. "I have sent him away, and told him he must not come teasing when I am busy. When I had just found the right shade of red! Look at this bracelet he has given me—pretty, is it not? He has promised all I asked, and to give me a black footman as well. I shall not repent marrying him, I can see."

"Is that happiness, my dear Isabella?"

"Happiness!" replied Bell, stopping in her business of transferring the wools from Celia's apron to her own. "Of course! Why, there are not above half a dozen families in the country that have black servants! I wonder at your asking such a question, Celia."

"I say, Bell," queried Charley, just before taking himself and Virgil out of the room, "I wonder which of you two is going to say the 'obey' in the service?"

"That boy's impertinence really gets insufferable," placidly observed Isabella, seating herself at the frame. "Now to finish my parrot's tail."

The wedding of John Rowe and Isabella Passmore was celebrated in the following spring. Thanks to the bride's taste and orders, the bridegroom's attire was faultless. The black footman proved so excessively black, and rolled the whites of his eyes to such an extent, that Lucy declared she could not believe that he was no more than an ordinary man. At the end of the summer, the absentees returned to Marcombe, and Isabella came over to Ashcliffe in her carriage, attended by her black Ganymede, in order to impress her relatives duly with a sense of her importance: herself attired in a yellow silk brocade almost as stiff as cardboard, with an embroidered black silk slip, and gold ornaments in her powdered hair. And once more Celia was vividly reminded of Lady Ingram.

"I am going to have the black baptized," the young lady languidly remarked. "I shall call him"—

"Othello," suggested Charley.

"Cassibelaunus—O Bell! do call him Cassibelaunus!"

"Nonsense, Lucy. I shall call him Nero."

"Then he is a Christian, my dear?" asked her mother.

"I don't think he knows anything about it," replied his mistress, with a short laugh. "But you know 'tis scarce decent to be attended by an unbaptized black; and he will be a Christian when 'tis done."

"I am not so sure of that, Bell," said Madam Passmore, quietly.

It was the first time that Madam Passmore had been known to express any individual opinion upon religious subjects.

"All baptized people are Christians," answered Mrs. John Rowe, a little more sharply than was respectful.

"All baptized are called Christians," corrected her mother. "I scarce think, Bell, that if thou hast left thy black completely untaught in matters of religion, that pouring a little water on his face will cause him to become suddenly learned. And whether it will suddenly cause anything else of a deeper nature may be to be questioned."

Celia listened with the greater interest because the tone of Madam Passmore's observations was alike unexpected and unprecedented.

"But, Mother," said Isabella, a little more deferentially as well as reverently, "the Holy Ghost is always given in baptism?"

"I was taught so, my dear. But I am come to feel unsure that God's Word saith the Holy Ghost is always given in baptism. And, Bell, I am not sure that He was so given to all my children."

"You mean me, I suppose, Mother?" asked Isabella, returning to her former tone.

"I fear so, my child," responded Madam Passmore, so sadly and so tenderly that Isabella could make no scornful answer. "I have feared, indeed, for months past that I have taught you all wrong. God amend it! Indeed, I hope He is Himself teaching some of you. But I did not mean thee only, Bell. I have as much fear for all of you, except Celia, and, perhaps, Harry. Have we feared God, child, as a family? Hath there not been mere form and habit even in our devotions? Have we not shown much unevenness, and walked unequally? Have we cared to serve or please Him at all? Ah, my children! these are grave questions, and I take bitter shame to myself to have lived as many years as I have, and never thought of them. God forgive you—and me!"

"Aye, to be sure, my dear!" said old Cicely upstairs, afterwards. "To be sure, Madam, she's a-coming home to the Lord. I see her reading the Book at odd times like, making a bit of a secret of it, very soon after you went; and by and bye, a little afore you came back, she came to make no secret of it; and since then I've seen many a little thing as showed me plain where she was a-going. And Master Harry, my dear, he reads the Book too—he does, for sure! Can't say nothing about Master, worse luck! Then Miss Lucy and Master Charley, you see, they're young things as hasn't got no thought of nothing. But as for Mrs. Bell"—

Celia quite understood, without another word. "O Cicely!" she said, many thoughts crowding on her mind, "surely I shall never distrust God again!"

"But you will, Madam," said Patient, looking up from her work. "Aye, many and many a time! 'Tis a lesson, trust me, that neither you nor I have learned yet. We are such poor scholars, for ever forgetting that though this very lesson be God's a-b ab, for us, we need many a rod to our backs ere we can spell it over. Aye, Madam, you'll not be out of school for a while yet."

"Celia," asked Madam Passmore that evening, "when do you expect your brother, my dear?"

"I don't know, indeed, Mother," replied Celia. "I expected him ere now. I know not what is keeping him. Surely he will be here before summer!"

Edward Ingram was not at Ashcliffe before summer.

The summer passed, and he did not come. The winter passed, and he did not come. Nay, the whole spring, and summer, and autumn, and winter of another year passed, and the third summer, of 1714, was fading into autumn—still Edward did not come.

But when the dusk was gathering on the 5th of August in that year, a horseman galloped into Ashcliffe village with news which he was carrying post-haste to Tavistock and Launceston—news which blanched in my a cheek and set many a man looking to his aims—which called forth muffled peals from the church-towers, and draped pulpits and pews in mourning, and was received with sadness and alarm in well-nigh every English home. For the one thread was snapped on which England's peace had hung—the one barrier standing between England and anarchy was broken. The last Stuart whom the nation acknowledged lay dead in Kensington Palace.

So long as Queen Anne lived, the embers of discord had been only smouldering. The Jacobites felt a half-satisfaction in the thought that the old line still held the sceptre; the Whigs rejoiced in their Whig and Protestant Queen. Not that the private political views of the Queen were very Whiggish ones. On the contrary, granted one thing—her own personal rule—she was at heart a Tory. For all the years of her reign she had been growing more and more a Tory. She would never have abdicated the sceptre; but very little indeed was wanted to make her say, when the cold grasp of the Angel of Death was laid upon her, "Let my brother succeed me." Such a speech would have given the Jacobites immense vantage-ground. For in 1714 the State was still the Sovereign, and "La Royne le veut" was sterling yet in England. This the partisans of the exiled family knew well; and to their very utmost, through their trusted agents, of whom Abigail Lady Masham was the chief, they strove to induce the Queen to utter such words. Her decease now was the signal for the division of the country into two sharply-defined parties. The Tories strove for King James, triennial Parliaments, removal of Popish disabilities, peace with France, free trade, and repeal of the union with Scotland. The Whigs battled as fiercely for King George, septennial Parliaments, Test and Corporation Acts, war with France, protection, and centralization.

A dreadful struggle was expected between these two parties before George Louis, Elector of Hanover, could seat himself on Anne Stuart's vacant throne. His character and antecedents were much against him. All who knew him personally were aware that he was a man of little intellect, and less morality. Moreover, from both demoralized parties there was a cry for money, and hands were eagerly stretched out to the Elector, less for the purpose of welcoming him than for the hope of what he might put into them. George Louis gave not a stiver. He had not many stivers to give; but what he had he loved too well to part with them either to Whigs or Tories. He sat quietly at Hanover, waiting for Parliament to vote him supplies, and for his disinterested supporters to secure his unopposed landing. Parliament—from a Whig point of view—did their duty, and voted liberal aids within a week or two after the Queen's death. James was up and doing at St. Germains, while George slumbered in his arm-chair at Herrenhausen. At length, on the 18th of September, the gentleman of doubtful, or rather undoubtful, morals, who was facetiously styled the Hope of England, condescended to land upon our shores. He formed his Cabinet, allowed himself to be crowned, dissolved Parliament, and leaving the country to take care of itself, returned to silence and tumblers of Hock.

The English people in the main were irreparably disgusted with the man of their choice. They were ready to welcome the grandson of their "Queen of Hearts," Elizabeth of Bohemia, but they looked for a royal Prince, a true Stuart, graceful and gracious. And here was a little stupid-looking man, who cared nothing about them, and was a stranger alike to their language, their customs, their manners, and their politics. A new edition of Charles II.'s vices, deprived of all Charles II.'s graces—this was their chosen King. Neither Celtic Cornwall nor Saxon Lancashire could bear the disappointment. West and North rose in insurrection. There were riots throughout England, and many a Dissenting chapel was levelled by the mob. The Riot Act was made perpetual, the Habeas Corpus Act suspended; a price of £100,000 was set upon the head of King James's exiled son; and his Hanoverian Majesty, meeting his Parliament on the 21st of September 1715, civilly requested the arrest of six Tory members of the House of Commons.

While all this was doing in England, in a quiet corner of Scotland a little cloud was rising, which had increased to goodly proportions by the 6th of September, when Lord Mar unfurled in Braemar the standard of King James the Third. On the 13th of November were fought the battles of Sheriffmuir and Prestonpans; and on the 22nd of December, a little group of seven men landed at Peterhead, one of whom was the royal exile, now generally known as the Chevalier de St. George. On the 7th of January 1716, he reached the ancient Palace of his forefathers at Scone; but by the 30th his cause was lost, and he retreated on Montrose, whence, on the 4th of February, quitting his native land, he returned to France.

The vengeance taken was terrible. Head after head fell upon the scaffold, and the throne of the House of Hanover was established only in a sea of blood.

On the evening of the 8th of March, the family at Ashcliffe were gathered in the parlor. The Squire was playing draughts with Harry, the ladies working, and Charley and Lucy engaged in the mutual construction of an elaborate work of art.

"Sea-coal any cheaper yet, Mother?" asked the Squire.

"Not yet," said Madam Passmore.

"Monstrous dear, is it not?" inquired Harry.

"Nothing to what it was in my young days," answered his father. "Forty or fifty years ago, at the time of the Dutch war, charcoals went up to one hundred and ten shillings the chaldron, and those were lucky who could get them even at that price."

"Was not that about the time of the Great Plague?"

"Yes—two or three years later."

"Then you remember the Plague, Father?"

"Remember it!" said the Squire, leaning back in his chair and neglecting his draughts. "Men don't forget such a thing as that in a hurry, my lad. Aye, I remember it."

"But there was no plague here, was there?"

"Not just in this village; but well-nigh all communication was stopped between Tavistock and Exeter, and in the King's highway the grass was growing. It was awful at Tavistock. The town was shut up and declared in a state of siege, and none allowed to approach nearer than three miles. Watchmen were appointed, the only men permitted to hold communication with the infected town; and when any provisions were needed, they made proclamation, and the neighboring villages brought such things as they asked to the high ground above Merrivale Bridge, where the cordon was drawn."

"And how did they pay for their provisions?"

"A pitful of vinegar was dug there, in some hole in Dartmoor,[4] and the money dropped into it. None in healthy places were allowed to touch money coming from infected places without that provision."

"Surely money could not carry the infection?"

"Money! aye, or anything else. You have scarce a notion how little would carry it. Harry, lad, throw another log on the fire; 'tis mightily cold."

Harry obeyed orders, resumed his seat, and the game between him and his father proceeded for a few minutes in silence.

"Hark!" cried Madam Passmore, suddenly, "what was that?"

"I heard nothing," said Lucy.

"What was it, Mother?" asked Harry, looking up.

"Some strange sound, as if one were about on the terrace," she answered in a suppressed voice. "There again! I am sure I hear a footstep on the gravel."

Charley rushed to the window, and endeavored to see through the darkness.

"'Tis as dark as pitch; I can see nothing at all!" observed that young gentleman.

"I will go out and see what it is," said Harry rising.

He took his sword from where it lay, and left the room.

"Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow!" said Venus, running after him, as her contribution to the family excitement.

Harry opened the front door, desiring Charley to guard it till his return, and Venus, after sniffing under it, rushed out of the house with him, barking loudly on the terrace, in a state of great perturbation. Harry came back after an absence of twenty minutes, during which the Squire had several times "wondered what on earth was keeping the boy."

"All right," he said, laying down his sword; "there are no robbers about."

"It has taken you a precious time to find it out," growled his father.

Harry sat down again to his game. "I walked round the terrace to make sure," he said.

"Which you might have done in five minutes," grumbled the Squire again. "Now then, 'tis your move."

Harry placed one of his three kings in dangerous proximity to his adversary's forces.

"Thank you, Sir," said his father, satirically, capturing the imperilled potentate.

Harry tried to retrieve himself, and succeeded in placing the second king in the same position.

"Harry, lad, what has come to you?" asked the Squire, looking at him. "You were playing better than usual till just now, but your walk round the terrace seems to have destroyed your skill."

"I beg your pardon, Sir," answered Harry, uncomfortably. "I will endeavor to play better."

And he carried out his attempt by placing in imminent peril his last remaining piece.

"Nay, nay," said his father, leaning back in his chair, "'tis no use going on, lad. Did you see a ghost on the terrace?"

"I did not, Sir, I assure you," returned Harry.

"Well, I wonder what is the matter with you," said the Squire. "Here, Lucy, come and let me see if you can do any better."

Lucy took her brother's vacated seat.

"Celia," said Harry, a quarter of an hour afterwards, turning to her, "would you mind bringing your needle and thread up-stairs? I want you to help me with something which I cannot well bring here."

"Oh yes, Harry, I will come with you," answered Celia, re-threading her needle, and following Harry out of the room with it in her hand.

Harry led her up-stairs, motioned her into her own room, and, much to her surprise, locked the door, and pocketed the key.

"Harry, something is the matter," she said.

"Something is the matter, Celia," repeated Harry. "I have brought you here to tell it you."

"What did you see on the terrace?" she asked, fearfully.

"Sir Edward Ingram," was the answer.

"Harry! where is he? why did you not tell me?"

"Nobody must know, Celia, except you and me—and, perhaps, Patient. But I would rather not tell even her if we can avoid it. Sir Edward is in hiding, having fled from Sheriffmuir, and a party of men have been riding him down, he says, since last night. They know he is somewhere in the neighborhood, and will most likely be here to search the house in an hour or less. I will readily risk my life for the man who saved it at Denain; and I know his sister will help me."

"But where can we hide him?" faltered Celia.

"Here," was Harry's short answer, opening the closet-door.

"In the closet? O Harry! that is not safe enough. They would find him in a minute."

"My dear little Celia, you don't know half the secrets of your own chamber. Look!"

A touch of the secret spring caused the panel-door to spring outward, and Celia's eyes to open very wide indeed.

"I never knew there was such a place!" she cried.

"I believe no one knows but myself, and now, you. I discovered this room five years ago, but I did not wish to alarm you, for I had reason to believe it was then inhabited. 'Tis one of the old priests' hiding-holes. Now, watch how the door is opened, and then contrive as best you can to procure food for Sir Edward. He says he is well-nigh famished. While you are with him, I will go to the outlet, where a passage leads to the garden, and remove the logs which I put at the door five years since, as silently as I can. Make haste, every minute may be priceless."

Celia ran down-stairs, feeling utterly bewildered by the position in which she was suddenly placed. Entering the larder, she possessed herself hastily of a large loaf and a jug of milk,—making some excuse—she scarcely knew what—to Patient, whom she found there; and discovered Harry and a lamp waiting for her at the closet-door. He had some carpenter's tools in the other hand. A hurried greeting was exchanged between Edward and Celia, who conversed in whispers until Harry returned, announcing that the passage was now open to the garden, and that, to avoid suspicion, both had better go down again to the parlor.

"You must talk in the night," he said.

Harry and Celia went back to the parlor. The latter sat down to her work, hardly seeing a stitch she set. They had not been down-stairs many minutes, when Lucy sprang up, triumphantly exclaiming that she had won the game; at the same moment the sound of horses' feet was audible outside, and a loud attack was made on the great bell which hung in front of the house.

"Open to His Majesty's troops!"

The cry could be distinctly heard in the parlor.

"Goodness me!" gasped Madam Passmore, dropping her work in terror.

The Squire had recourse to stronger language than this. Harry, whose composure seemed quite restored, went to the door and opened it with every appearance of haste.

"Oh!" said he, in a cordial tone, "how do you do, Wallace? Pray come in, my father will have infinite pleasure in making your acquaintance. Father, here is an old comrade of mine."

"Your servant, Mr. Passmore," said Captain Wallace, bowing, with his hat in his hand; "yours, ladies. I am very sorry for the ill errand I come on. There is a Jacobite hiding in this neighborhood, a Colonel in the rebel army, and a man of rank and influence—one Sir Edward Ingram. I am in charge to search all the houses hereabouts, and I am sure you will not take it ill of me if I ask leave not to omit yours, though the loyalty of Mr. Passmore of Ashcliffe must ever be above suspicion."

"Jacobites be hanged!" burst from the Squire. "Sir, you do me great honor. No Jacobites in my house—at least not if I know it. Pray search every corner, and cut all the cushions open if you like!"

"Thank you, Mr. Passmore. Only what I expected from a gentleman of your high character. I may begin at once?"

"By all means!"

Captain Wallace called in one of his men—leaving the others to guard the house outside—and after an examination of the parlor, they proceeded up-stairs, Harry loyally volunteering to light them. In about an hour they returned to the parlor.

"Mr. Passmore," said Captain Wallace, "'tis my duty to question every person in the house, to make sure that this rebel has not been seen nor heard of. You do not object? A form, you know—in such a case as this, a mere form."

"Question away," said the Squire; "I have neither seen nor heard of him, and don't want to do either. Now for the ladies."

Madam Passmore answered the question with a quiet negative.

"It can scarcely be necessary to trouble the young ladies," gallantly remarked the Captain. "But if they please to say just a word"—

"We have seen and heard nothing at all, Sir," said Lucy, innocently replying for both; and the Captain did not repeat his question, neither he nor the Squire apparently noticing the suspicious silence of the elder sister.

"I must, if you please, ask leave to examine the servants."

Madam Passmore rang the bell, and ordered all the household up. They assembled in wonder, and each in turn responded to the Captain's queries by a simple denial of any knowledge on the subject. Patient stood last, and when Captain Wallace came to her, he accidentally put his first question in a different form from before.

"Do you know Sir Edward Ingram?"

"Ay do I," said she.

Celia listened with a beating heart. The innocent ignorance of Patient might work them terrible harm, which she would be the last person in the world to do wittingly.

"You know him?" repeated the Captain, in surprise.

"Do you think I shouldna ken the bairn I nursed?"

"Oh! you are his nurse, are you?"

"I was so, twenty-five years back."

"When did you see him last?"

"Four years past."

"Where?"

"At Havre, in France."

Celia breathed more freely

"Have you heard anything of his movements of late?"

"What do you mean?" inquired Patient, cautiously.

"Well, did you hear that he was likely to come into this neighborhood, or anything of that sort?"

"I cannot say I havena heard that," was the quiet answer.

"When did you hear that?"

"He was expecting to come four years past, but he didna come; and I heard a short space back that he might be looked for afore long." Patient spoke slowly and thoughtfully.

"Who told you that?"

"My kinsman, Willie M'Intyre."

"Are you a Scots woman?"

"Ay," said Patient, with a flash of light in her eyes.

"Humph!" muttered the Captain. "Difficult folks those mostly to get round. When did you see Willie M'Intyre?"

"An eight days or two since."

"Cannot you tell me the day?"

"I dinna keep a diary book," responded Patient, dryly.

"Whence had he come?"

"Whence should he come but from Scotland?"

"Where was he going?"

"I didna ask him."

Patient's information appeared to have collapsed all at once, and her Scotticisms to increase.

"What is Willie M'Intyre?"

"A harper."

"How long was it since he left Scotland?"

"You are a learned gentleman, Sir; ye ken better nor me how many days it would take."

"What else did he tell you about Sir Edward Ingram?"

"He told me he was looking unco sick when he saw him."

"Anything more?"

"I have na mair to say, Sir, without you have."

"You are a clever woman," involuntarily admitted the Captain, passing his hand across his forehead as if in thought. "Well, and when did he tell you to expect Sir Edward?"

"He didna tell me to expect him."

"What did he say about him?"

"The twa things I've told you."

"When did he say he was coming?" asked the Captain, impatiently.

"Afore lang."

"But when?"

"He didna name ony day."

Captain Wallace was no match for Patient, as might be seen.

"Have you seen Sir Edward since you saw M'Intyre?"

"No, Sir."

"Have you heard of his being here since then?"

"Being where?"

"Anywhere in this neighborhood."

Patient's answer came slowly this time, as if she were considering something before speaking. But it was, "No, Sir."

"Are you telling me the truth?" asked Captain Wallace, knitting his brows.

"I couldna tell ye aught else," answered Patient. "'Tis no lawful to do evil that good may come. But no good will come, Sir, of your hunting a man to death to whom Christ hath given power to become one of the sons of God."

"Oh dear! a Puritan!" murmured Wallace—"a Covenanter, for aught I know. Mr. Passmore, these are the most impracticable people you ever meet—these Puritans; particularly when they are Scots. There is not much loyalty among them; and what little there is is sacrificed to their religion at any moment."

"I'm loyal, Sir," said Patient, softly—"to any covenanted King: but needs be to the King of Kings the first."

"I fear you are a dangerous character," said Captain Wallace, severely. "I am surprised to meet with such an one in this house. However, you won't lie to me, being a Puritan—that is one good thing. They never tell lies. Now listen! Do you know where Sir Edward Ingram is at this moment?"

The "No Sir," came readily enough this time.

"Well, I suppose you can go," said Captain Wallace, doubtfully. "But I am not at all satisfied with you—mark that! Your witness is very badly given, and very unwillingly. I may want you again. If it should be needful to search the house a second time, I certainly shall do so. You have only just escaped being put under arrest now."

"I've told you the truth, Sir," said Patient, pausing. "I will tell you the truth any day. But if it were to come to this—that my dying could save you from finding my bairn Sir Edward, I wouldna haud my life as dear as yon bittie of thread upon the floor!"

She courtesied and departed.

"Ah! that shows what the woman is," said Captain Wallace, carelessly. "An enthusiast—a complete fanatic. Well, Mr. Passmore"—

"Sir," said the Squire, energetically, "I am by no means satisfied with this. The house shall be searched again, if you please, and I will join the party myself. Harry, fetch a longer candle—fetch two! That woman may have hidden the fellow anywhere! I'll have every corner looked into. There shall be no question of any hiding of Jacobites in my house. Charley, go and get a candle too. You girls have a lot of gowns and fallals in that closet in your room. Go and bundle them all out! Make haste!"

"Oh, I say, what fun!" remarked Charley, to whom any connection between the hunted man and his favorite sister never occurred.

Lucy left the room laughing to execute her father's behest, and Celia dared not but follow, lest her absence should be remarked. The two girls went hastily up-stairs, and at the top they found Patient standing.

"I'll help you, Mrs. Lucy," said she. And as Lucy passed on,—"You ken something, Madam Celia. Don't let those bloodhounds read it in your eyes, as I do. And be calm. The Lord reigneth, my bairn."

"Yes, dear Patient, I know," was Celia's faltering answer: and she went quietly into her own room.

XIII. LADY GRISELDA'S RUBY RING

"He looketh upon us sweetly, With His well-known greeting, 'Peace!' And He fills our hearts completely, And the sounds of the tempest cease; But we know that the hour is come, For one of us to go home." —B.M.

Celia found Lucy already engaged in emptying the closet. Patient came in and helped her until the bed was covered with cloaks and dresses. They heard the searchers coming slowly toward them on the other side of the passage, the Squire especially urging that not the smallest corner should be left unsearched. At length they tapped at the door for admittance. Charley came in first, holding his candle high above his head, as if his mission were to explore the ceiling.

"You be off!" said the Squire roughly, as soon as he saw Patient.

"Why, Father!" interposed Lucy, "she has only been helping us to move these things. You told us to make haste."

Lucy was unconsciously proving a useful ally.

"Wow!" came in a little smothered bark from somewhere, and Venus waddled from under the valance and the dresses overhanging it.

"Go down, Veny!" said Celia, adding apologetically, "she will get in the way."

She felt a terrible secret fear lest Venus should prove a more able searcher than any other of the party.

"I'll carry her out of the way,"—and suiting the action to the word, Lucy caught up the little dog and shut her outside.

A close examination was made of the room. Charley got into the closet, and held his candle up.

"Nothing there, thanks to the young ladies," said Captain Wallace, laughing, as he looked in.

"No—he'd be a clever fellow who could hide there," added the Squire, in blissful ignorance.

"Why, here's a nail," said Charley, "close to the wall. You'll tear your gowns on it. I'll pull it out."

Celia's very heart sank.

"Leave it just now, Charley," said Harry, coolly; "we shall want you and your candle."

Charley sprang down and rejoined the searching party. Outside the door they were also joined by Venus, who followed them into the next room, which had been the bed-chamber of Isabella. She picked out Captain Wallace, and followed close at his heels, paying no attention to anybody else. The room was searched like the others, the last thing which the Captain did being to look up the chimney. No sooner did he approach the fireplace than Venus gave an angry growl and made a futile attempt to bite him through his thick boots.

"What is the brute growling at?" demanded the Squire.

"I don't know, indeed," said Harry.

The growling continued so long as Captain Wallace was near the chimney, but nobody except Venus knew why. As soon as the party turned from Isabella's room to Henrietta's, which was the next, Venus trotted back to Celia. At the close of the inspection, both Captain Wallace and Squire Passmore were forced to acknowledge that no trace of any hidden fugitive could be discovered. They went down-stairs.

Five minutes later Harry came lightly up again, and called to Celia, who was helping Lucy to replace the dresses in the closet. She found him in Isabella's chamber.

"Let us look at this chimney, Celia," he said. "It must be very near the hiding-place. What made Veny growl?"

He had brought a small ladder from the housemaid's closet, with which he mounted as far as he could go inside the wide old chimney. When he came down, he looked pale and excited.

"Celia, we must get him out of the house. If either Wallace or my father should think of returning to see the cause of Veny's growling, he will infallibly be discovered. The chimneys join, and every sound from one room can be heard in the other. Venus is wiser than we are. The dog knew, though I did not, that there was a shorter passage to the concealed chamber from Bell's chamber than from yours."

"What shall we do?" whispered Celia.

"Go down-stairs, and fetch from the buttery such provisions as you can take to Sir Edward, of any portable kind. Converse with him if you will, but let it be in the lowest tones; and if you hear any noise in this chamber be as mute as mice. I will go down and set my father and Wallace at some game, and get my mother to prepare Henrietta's chamber for him, as it is too late for him to think of leaving to-night now. Then I shall go and have a horse ready saddled as near as is safe. When the clock strikes nine, lead Sir Edward down to the well door. You cannot miss it, if only you keep going down. I will meet you with a lantern at the well, at nine or as soon after as possible."

"Is the well low enough, with all this rain?"

"Water up to the ankles, but he will not care for that."

Harry and Celia left the room softly, departing on their several errands.

"Wallace," said the former, coming into the parlor, "do you think it is necessary to keep your men on guard outside? 'Tis a bitter cold night, and if they may come into the kitchen, the poor fellows would be none the worse for a hot supper."

"I do not think it is necessary," said the Captain.

Captain Wallace having called the men in, Harry took them to the kitchen, and desired Molly the cook-maid to give them as good a supper as she could, with hot ale, for which Robert was despatched to the cellar. This done, Harry went up-stairs to his own room. Silently opening his window—which, fortunately for his project, was at the north-east corner of the house, away from both parlor and kitchen—he climbed down the lime-tree which stood close beside it, and took his way noiselessly to the stable. Meanwhile Celia, who had concealed in her pocket and by means of the dressing-gown over her arm, two standing pies, came back to her own room, and descended to the concealed chamber.

"See what I have brought you!" she said to the fugitive. "The troops are here, and have searched the house twice, and Harry thinks that we must get you away to-night. He will have a horse ready for you, and will meet you at the well at nine o'clock. Do you mind going through a foot of water?"

"I should be a Sybarite if I did," smiled Edward in reply. "Celia, I am bringing you into danger, and I am very sorry for it. I begin to think now that it was but a cowardly act to seek shelter here; yet when a man is riding for life he scarce pauses to choose his course."

"You have brought me into no danger, dear, into which I did not choose to be brought," she answered. "But if they found you, Edward, what would they do to you?"

"What they did but a few days since on Tower Hill to my friend Lord Derwentwater,"[1] he said, gravely.

Celia shuddered as the agony and ignominy of that horrible scaffold came up before her eyes.

"They will not do it without the Lord's permission," added he, quietly. "Celia, I am in grave doubt whether I have done right in this matter. Not that I could ever see it right to fight against King James, nor that I doubt which would have been the right side to take at the time of the Revolution. I cannot quite see—what I know would be Patient's view, and is the view of many good men—that we had no right to fight for a Popish King. I do not judge those who thought so—to our own Master we all stand or fall. But I see the matter in another light. It was not that King James, being a Papist, was made King out of his turn, but that, being heir to the throne, he became a Papist. I see an immense difference between the two. God, not we, made him our King; God made the present King James his son, knowing that he would be brought up a Papist. What right had we to cast him off? Now the case is altered; he is cast off; and, considering the danger of Popery, have I, now, any right to bring him in again? This is my difficulty; and if I can leave England in safety, I do not think I shall draw my sword in the Jacobite cause again, though I never could take the oath of allegiance to any other King. I will never dare to attempt the prevention of the Lord's will, if only I can be certain what the Lord's will is in this matter."

"Well, I do not see the question quite as you do. It seems to me that they were right to cast off a Popish King. But we have no time to discuss politics to-night. You will leave England, then, at once?"

"There is no hope of life otherwise. The Elector of Hanover and his Ministers can have no mercy for us who fought at Sheriffmuir."

"And when am I likely to see you again, Edward?"

"When the Heavenly Jerusalem descendeth out of Heaven from God," he answered, softly.

"No sooner?" responded Celia, tearfully.

"God knoweth," he said. "How do I know? I have a fancy sometimes—a foreboding, if you will—that my life will not be long. So much the better. Yet I do not wish to be longing selfishly for rest ere the Lord's work for me is done. Look here, Celia! Look well at this ring, so that you will know it again in any place after any lapse of time."

He drew the ring from his finger and passed it to her. It was an old-fashioned gold ring, set with a single ruby. Inside it was engraved in obsolete spelling, a "posy"—

"I shall know this again," said Celia, returning the ring after a close inspection. "'Tis an old jewel."

"A family heirloom," said Edward. "Our mother was married with that ring. It came into out family as the wedding-ring of Lady Grissel Fleming, our grandmother. I will endeavor to contrive, dear Cicely, that by some means this ring shall reach your hands after my death. When you next see it in the possession of any but myself, it will signify to you that I have entered into my rest."

"Edward, where is your wife?" asked Celia, suddenly.

A spasm of pain crossed Edward's face.

"I have no wife," he said. "The Lord had more need of my Flora than I had, and two summers past He said unto her, 'Come up higher.' I am almost glad now that she was spared this. I saw her but twice after I parted from you at Havre. And I do not think it will be long now ere I shall see her again."

"You seem to like the prospect, Edward," said Celia, remonstratingly.

"Have I so very much to live for, my sister? I can do no good to you, especially now that we must be parted; and my sole object in life is to do and suffer all the will of God. Do you wonder if I wish at times that it would be the Lord's will to summon me home?"

There was a short pause, broken by Edward's sudden exclamation, "Celia!"

She looked up to see what was coming.

"How long have you known of this chamber?"

"Harry said he had known of it for five years; I never heard a word about it before to-night."

"Did he suspect that it was occupied?"

"I think he said it was, or had been, shortly before he discovered it."

"Would you like to know by whom?"

"Very much. Why, Edward, how do you know?"

"There is not time to explain that; but I can tell you that Father Stevens, a Jesuit priest, was in hiding here for some time, and for about two months, Gilbert Irvine."

"What were they doing here? and how did they get their provisions?"

"What Stevens was doing I cannot say; but Gilbert's object was you. He was sent here by my mother to make himself acquainted with you by sight, and to discover all he could about you and your friends here. As to provisions, he catered for himself in the village and elsewhere; but on two or three occasions, when he dared not venture out, and was very hard bestead, he supplied himself from Mr. Passmore's larder."

"How did he get there?"

"Through your room."

"Edward!"

"It was a bold move, and might have cost him dear if you had awoke."

"Do you mean to say that he did it while Lucy and I were sleeping in the room?"

"Yes," said Edward, with his grave smile.

Celia sent her memory back to the time, and a dim vision gradually revealed itself to her of one winter night when, awaking suddenly, she had fancied she heard mice in the wainscot, and the next morning the black cat had suffered at the hands of Molly for the absence of a partridge and a cold chicken from the buttery.

"But how came my step-mother to know anything about this hidden chamber?"

"Through Stevens, who at one time was among her confessors. Oh! the priests know their old hiding-places, though the owners may have lost the tradition of them."

"Have you seen my Lady Ingram of late?"

"Within the last six months."

"How does she at Chaillot?"

"The nuns say she is killing herself with austerities, and she looks as though she might be. She has her salvation to make, you see."

"What a dreadful delusion!" sighed Celia.

"One of man's hundred usurpations of the prerogative of God. If man may not save himself wholly, he will save himself in part; he will do anything rather than let Christ do everything. 'Tis just the world, the flesh, and the devil, in a peculiar shape, and of a very fair color. 'Puffed up by his fleshly mind,'[2] saith St. Paul of this manner of mortifying of the flesh. The subtlest serving of the devil lies, I think, in this kind of renouncing of the world. And the world, in whatever shape, 'passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth forever.'"[3]

As Edward spoke the last word, the old clock in the hall struck nine. Both rose, and Edward, drawing Celia to him, kissed his last farewell.

"God be brother and sister to you, dear," he said, "and keep thee in all thy ways;[4] set thee in the secret place of the Most High, that thou mayest abide under the shadow of the Almighty.[5] Christ be with thee! Amen!"

They went softly down to the door opening into the well, outside of which was Harry with a ladder. There was another figure there beside Harry's, but the moonlight was not sufficient to show who it might be.

"Say farewell to Patient for me," said Edward. "I wish I could have seen her. Adieu!"

In another minute Edward was safely landed. As soon as he touched the ground, the second figure came forward and threw its arms round his neck.

"Eh, my bairn! my bairn!" sobbed a voice which both Edward and Celia knew well. "I could never bear to let you go but a word. The Lord bless thee and guide thee! My ain bit laddie, that I nursed!"

Edward returned the embrace very warmly. Patient had always been far more of a mother to him than Lady Ingram. He seemed disposed to hesitate for a moment, but Harry urged him away, and motioned to Celia to return. She left the three on the outside of the well. Harry and Edward hastening to the place where the horse waited, and Patient, silent and motionless, watching her darling pass from her sight.

Celia was early down-stairs the next morning. Harry met her in the hall, and contrived to whisper along with his morning kiss, "All right." Further communication was impossible, for the Squire was just behind them, and the three entered the parlor together. They found Captain Wallace looking out of the window.

"Good-morning, Captain," said the Squire. "I suppose you have heard nothing of your man?"

"Nothing whatever, Mr. Passmore."

"Well, I'll have the house searched again by daylight. First thing after breakfast"—

"Your energy is most laudable, Mr. Passmore; but really, after two previous searches—is it necessary?"

"Necessary or unnecessary, it shall be done, Sir," said the Squire, warmly. "No man on earth shall have the shadow of reason for suspecting any concealment of rebels in Ashcliffe Hall. You will do me the favor to accompany me, and Harry and Charley shall come too."

"I shall be most happy, Sir," responded Harry.

"'Tis splendid fun!" commented Charley. "I only wish we could find him!"

The search took place, and not a corner was left an examined, except only the undiscovered hiding-place, which alone needed examination. The Squire pressed Captain Wallace to be his guest for another day, and so, for a different reason, did his eldest son. Captain Wallace accepted the offer, after a decent show of reluctance to save his conscience. Harry no longer pressed him to stay after the following morning, and he left the next day.

"Father," said Harry, in the evening, "I fear I am about to draw your displeasure upon me, but I have done what I thought right, and I must bear it. Sir Edward Ingram left this house at nine o'clock yesterday evening."

"Left this house!" cried the Squire and Madam Passmore, in a breath—the former adding some very powerful language, which shall not be reproduced here.

"Left the house," Harry repeated, calmly.

The Squire exploded a second time, telling his son, among other equally pleasant assertions, that he was a disgrace to his family and his country, and would come to the gallows before he was much older.

"Father," was Harry's dignified reply, "I am sorry for nothing, except that I have angered you. This man whom Wallace was seeking is a gentleman and a Protestant, and at the battle of Denain he saved my life, and gave me my liberty without ransom. Would you, as a man of conscience and honor, have advised me to give him up after that?"

The Squire growled something inaudible.

"Father!" said Celia, rising in her turn, very white and trembling, "this was my brother whom we concealed in your house last night. I will take half, or more than half, of whatever blame is due. Harry concealed him, but it was in my bed-chamber, and I brought him food, and assisted in his escape. Could I have delivered up my brother to death—the only brother I have left? Father, have you the heart to say so?"

"No, my dear!" said Madam Passmore, pouring a little oil upon the turbulent waters; "no, I am sure he never would—never!"

Madam Passmore's gentle deprecation of his wrath appeared to set the Squire free to explode a third time.

"Lucy!" he exclaimed, turning to his wife, in one of the severest tones he had ever used to her, "I am a Whig, and my father was a Whig before me, and my grandfather fought for King Charles at Edgehill and Naseby: and I have brought up these children to be Whigs, and if they aren't, 'tis a burning shame! A murrain on the day that sent my Lady Ingram here after our Celia! But, hang it all! how can I help it?" said the Squire, suddenly breaking down. "If this fellow be Celia's brother, and have saved Harry's life, as a man of honor I could not bid them do otherwise than try to save his—no, not if he were the Pope himself! 'Tis not nature for a man to take sides against his own children. Botheration!" he concluded, suddenly veering round again; "that isn't what I meant to say at all. I intended to be very angry, and I have only been an old fool—that's what I am!"

"You are a dear old father, who can't be cross when he thinks he ought to be—that's what you are!" said Lucy, coaxingly.

"Get along with you, hussey!" returned the Squire, shaking his fist at her in a manner which Lucy very well knew was more than half make-believe. "And pray, Colonel Passmore, after allowing me to search the house three times and find nothing, I should like, if you please, to know where you hid your refugee?"

"You shall see that, Father," said Harry, rising.

And he led the way to the hiding-place, followed by the whole family, Cicely bringing up the rear when she heard the noise they made. Each member expressed his or her amazement in a characteristic manner.

"Oh, my buttons! isn't that capital!" said Charley. "I wish I had known last night! It would have been ten times better fun!"

"I think you enjoyed yourself sufficiently," returned his brother, gravely.

"What a horrid, dark hole, Harry!" said Lucy.

"I never knew of such a place here!" exclaimed his mother.

"Well, Mr. Henry Falkland Passmore, you are an uncommon cool hand!" asserted his father. "And who helped you to get your Jacobite safely away, I wonder?"

"Celia and Patient Irvine."

"Did Patient know where he was, Harry?" asked his mother, gravely.

"Not when Wallace questioned her. I told her afterwards."

But the astonishment of the whole group faded before that of old Cicely Aggett.

"Well, I do declare!" was what she said. "If ever anybody did! No, nobody couldn't never have guessed the like of this—that they couldn't! I've lived in this house three-and-thirty years come Martlemas, and I never, never did see nor hear nothing this like in all my born days! Only just to think! And them things I took for rats and ghosteses was Papishes? Eh, but I'd a cruel deal rather have a hundred rats and mice nor one of them wicked Papishes, and ghosteses too, pretty nigh! Well, to be sure, my dears, the Lord has preserved us wonderful! and 'tis uncommon thankful we'd ought to be."

"You will sleep to-night, Madam, I trust," said Patient, that evening, as she bound up Celia's hair.

"And you, my poor Patient!" said Celia. "I fear you slept not much last night."

"No, Madam," answered Patient, quietly; "I watched unto prayer."

"Well, I hope Edward is quite safe by this time," sighed Celia.

"You will never see him again, Madam," said Patient, solemnly.

"Patient!" exclaimed Celia, in sudden terror lest she might have heard some bad news.

"Best, my bairn," said Patient, reading her thought in her face. "I have heard nothing. But 'tis borne in upon me—'tis borne in upon me. The Lord hath said unto me, 'He shall surely die.'"

Celia listened in awe and wonder. "Patient, you are not a prophetess!" she said.

"Ah, Madam! I think more than one of us hath been a prophet where our heart's beloved are concerned. Was it not revealed unto Alexander Peden that he should die in Scotland? And did he not say unto the captain of the ship appointed to carry him unto the American plantations, 'The ship is not launched that shall carry me thither?'"

"And where did he die?"

"In Scotland, Madam, as the Lord had showed him; and they laid his dust on the Gallows' Hill of the city. I reckon the Lord can see it as easily there as in the kirkyard. It is a kirkyard now. One after another came and laid their dead beside Peden, and from a gallows' hill 'tis become a burying-place.[6] It was said, indeed, that Mr. Renwick saw further than many, but he was not known unto me, and I can say nought thereanent. But that, 'The secret of the Lord is with them that fear Him'[7] may be a deeper word than we ken. And as to George Wishart, all knew that he was called to be a prophet of the Lord, and John Knox likewise; but there were giants in their days. We be smaller men now. Yet the Lord is the same now as then, and He doeth whatsoever He will. 'Tis not the worthiness nor holiness of the man that maketh a prophet, but the breath and Spirit of the Lord within him. And I, being less than the least of all His, do know of a surety that I shall never see Master Edward any more."

Patient's lips quivered, and some seconds passed ere she could speak again.

"Ay, the will of the Lord be done!" she said, presently. "'He knoweth them that are His,'[8] and He will not let us fail of a meeting in our Father's house. Rest, my bairn; you need it!"

Two months afterwards came a letter to Squire Passmore, bearing neither date nor signature. Though Edward's hand was unknown to her, Celia claimed the precious paper at once.

"DEAR SISTER,—Last night I landed at Corunna. I shall be safe for the present, and the Lord is ever with me. Thank better than I could all who helped me. You will know from whom this comes. Love to both of you. God keep you!"

Celia carried the paper to Patient, whom she guessed to be included with herself in the "both of you."

"Thank you, Madam!" said Patient, when she had read it. "'Tis a comfort to hear that he is in safety. Yet I cannot forget that the Lord hath showed unto me that he shall die in the flower of his age."

The 5th of June 1721, was Celia's thirtieth birth-day. She was seated at work in the parlor with Madam Passmore and Lucy, when a ring at the great bell summoned Robert to the front door, and was followed by his announcement of "Mr. Colville." Celia looked up in surprise to see if Philip's friend had sought her out. No; this was certainly not her pantheist adversary. He was a smaller and slighter man, with a much pleasanter expression of face than his namesake, yet with the same pale blue eyes and flaxen hair, and some resemblance in the features.

"Mrs. Ingram?" he asked, a little doubtfully, with a smile and a low bow. "Mrs. Celia Ingram?"

Celia rose to receive him, wondering all the time who he was and what he wanted with her.

"That is my name, Sir," she said, a little timidly. "I once knew a Mr. Colville in Paris"—

"Who was my brother," said the visitor, in explanation. "It was Arthur Colville whom you met in Paris. I am David Colville. I have been commissioned to give something into your hands, and none other's, the signification of which I believe you know. I received it at Barcelona on the 18th of January last."

And he drew a pocket-book from his breast-pocket, out of which he took and held forward to Celia something which brought a pang to her heart and a cry of pain to her lips. It was the Ingram heirloom, Lady Griselda's ruby ring, which was to be the signal to Edward Ingram's sister that he had entered into his rest.

"When was this?" she faltered at last.

"At Barcelona, on the 18th of January," David Colville repeated. "I had met him, for I also was journeying in Spain, three weeks before. I saw the end was near, and I stayed with him and tended him till he died."

"Where is he buried?"

"The Spaniards allow no burial to heretics, Madam—not more than they allow to a horse or a dog. He lies in a quiet meadow near the inn at Barcelona. I took care of that."

"Thank you!" murmured Celia; "but no burial-service—O Edward!"

The soft answer from David Colville almost startled her—"'Thy brother shall rise again.'"[9]

"Yes, I know," she said. "And you, Mr. Colville—you do not share your brother's philosophical views?"

"God forbid!" was the uncompromising reply. "I have yet hope that Arthur may see the error of his ways."

"May I ask if Mr. Arthur Colville is well?"

"I have not seen him for many years," said David. "Madam, may I ask, in my turn, if Patient Irvine be yet here? I think she would remember me as an old playmate of Ned and Philip, in the days long ago when we were all boys at Paris."

Patient received David Colville very affectionately, and his news very quietly.

"I knew it would be so," she said. "'With Christ, which is far better.'"[10]

David Colville left an agreeable impression of himself on the minds of both Celia and Patient when he shook hands with them at parting.

There was sore mourning for Edward Ingram at Ashcliffe.

"If it would please the Lord to ask me also!" sighed Patient.

"No, dear Patient! I want you," said Celia, lovingly.

"So long as you really want me, Madam, I shall be kept here; but the Lord knoweth better than you what you need, and our work is done when He calleth us. Yet so much, there! My father, my mother, Roswith, Mr. Grey, and Lady Magdalene, and Mr. Philip, and now my ain bairn Maister Edward"—and Patient broke down.

"Now, Patient, my dear!" said Cicely, from her chair, for she was infirm now—"now Patient, my dear, don't you go to fret over the Lord's mercies. Can't you see, child, that He is but taking all your jewels to keep them safer than you can, and that He'll give them all back to you up yonder? 'Tis such a short time here—such a short time!"

"Ay, I ken that," said Patient; "but you're a deal further on than I am, Cicely."

"Why, my dear, if you mean I shall die sooner, I don't know who told you; and if you mean that I know more about the Lord than you, I'm sure 'tis the first time I've heard of it. Maybe, children, we can't tell which of us is the furthest—the Lord knows. The one nearest Him is the furthest on."

"And we are always straying from Him," said Celia, sighing. "It scarce seems in us to keep always near Him."

"When you were a little babe, my dear," said Cicely, "I remember, if you were frighted at aught, you used to make-believe to throw your bits of arms about my neck, and cling close to me; but after all, it warn't your clinging as kept you from falling, but me holding of you. We are all as babes in the Lord's arms, my clear. 'Tis well, surely, for us to keep clinging to Him; but, after all, it ben't that as holds us—'tis His keeping of us. It ben't always when we are looking at Him that He is closest to us. He may be nearest when we can't see Him; and I'm sure of one thing, child,—if the Good Shepherd didn't go a-seeking after the lost sheep, the lost sheep would never turn of itself and come home to the Good Shepherd;—it would only go farther and farther in the great wilderness, until it was wholly lost. 'He calleth His own sheep by name'—ben't that it?—'and leadeth them out.'[11] Deary me! what was we a-talking about? It seems so natural like to get round to Him."

Celia smiled sadly as Philip's remark occurred to her—"There you come round to your divinity!"

For eleven years longer George Louis of Hanover sat on the throne of England. Every year he sank lower and lower in the estimation of his subjects. When he first landed, in 1714, in tones more deep than loud, England had demanded her Queen, and had no answer. Now, through these thirteen years, she had seen her King, chosen out of all the Princes of Europe, living apart from every member of his family, and keeping up a Court which only the complete demoralization of her nobles made them not ashamed to visit. And though very dimly and uncertainly, yet reports did reach England of a guarded prison in Hanover, and of a chapel in it where, every Communion Sabbath, a white-robed prisoner knelt down before the holy table, and, laying her hand upon it, solemnly protested in the presence of God that she had done no wrong deserving of that penalty. And England began to wonder if she had spoken well in summoning to her helm the husband and gaoler of this woful, white-robed captive. If the grand question of Protestantism had not been at stake—if she could have retained that and yet have had back her old line—the throne of George Louis would have trembled and fallen under him. Not "The Fifteen," nor "The Forty-five," brought so near a second Restoration as the evil and miserable life of that crowned sinner from Hanover.

So early as 1716, George had persuaded Parliament to repeal that clause of the Act of Settlement which made obligatory the perpetual residence of the Sovereign: and no sooner had the clerk[12] said Le Roy le veut to the repeal, than George set out for Hanover, with extreme delight at his release. After that, he spent as little time in England as was possible.

On the 7th of June 1727, George Louis landed from England on the Dutch shores. He was travelling onwards towards Osnabrück, when, on the night of the 11th, an unknown hand threw a letter into his carriage. The King, who was alone, opened it in the expectation of seeing a petition. There were only a few lines in the letter, but they came from the dead, and were written as with fire. What met his eyes was a summons from Sophia Dorothea of Zelle, written on her death-bed in the preceding November at Ahlden, calling on him in God's name to meet her before His tribunal within a year and a day. The King was intensely superstitious. What more happened in that carriage where he sat solitary, holding in his hand the open letter from his dead wife, none ever knew: but when the carriage stopped at the gates of the Palace of Osnabrück, George Louis was dead.

There were no mourners. Least of all could England mourn for the man who had so bitterly disgraced her, and had made her feel ashamed of her choice before all the world. On the contrary, there were bonfires and bell-ringings and universal rejoicings for the accession of George Augustus, whom England welcomed with hope in her heart that he would restore the honor which his father had laid in the dust.

A vain hope, and a groundless joy.