in his path? Did not the sweet clamour of the wild-fowl, gathering
for one rich paean ere they sank into rest, seem to him as God's
bells chiming him home in triumph, with peels sweeter and bolder than
those of Lincoln or Peterborough steeple-house? Did not the very
lapwing, as she tumbled, softly wailing, before him, as she did years
ago, seem to welcome the wanderer home in the name of heaven?

Fair Patience, too, though she was a Puritan; yet did not her cheek
flush, her eye grow dim, like any other girl's, as she saw far off
the red coat, like a sliding spark of fire, coming slowly along the
strait fen-bank, and fled upstairs into her chamber to pray, half
that it might be, half that it might not be he? Was there no happy
storm of human tears and human laughter when he entered the courtyard
gate? Did not the old dog lick his Puritan hand as lovingly as if it
had been a Cavalier's? Did not lads and lasses run out shouting?
Did not the old yeoman father hug him, weep over him, hold him at
arm's length, and hug him again, as heartily as any other John Bull,
even though the next moment he called all to kneel down and thank Him
who had sent his boy home again, after bestowing on him the grace to
bind kings in chains and nobles with links of iron, and contend to
death for the faith delivered to the saints? And did not Zeal-for-
Truth look about as wistfully for Patience as any other man would
have done, longing to see her, yet not daring even to ask for her?
And when she came down at last, was she the less lovely in his eyes
because she came, not flaunting with bare bosom, in tawdry finery and
paint, but shrouded close in coif and pinner, hiding from all the
world beauty which was there still, but was meant for one alone, and
that only if God willed, in God's good time? And was there no
faltering of their voices, no light in their eyes, no trembling
pressure of their hands, which said more, and was more, ay, and more