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 VVI] 
 
 lONTRKJ 
 
F. 
 
 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. 
 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 nove 
 
 
 and 
 
 il 
 
 ever 
 
 
 ill t] 
 
 iM 
 
 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 
 
iv 
 
 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 
 
Ta 
 
 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 
 
a 
 
 I'AtlK 
 
 99 
 
 ■ lor. 
 
 , 114 
 
 ■ 120 
 
 ■ 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 
 
 2 
 
lO 
 
 Williain and Mary, 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 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 
 
12 
 
 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. 
 
 13 
 
 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 
 
H 
 
 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, 
 
 15 
 
 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, 
 
 '7 
 
 lie, for 
 jiili— a 
 of the 
 ! more 
 Cer- 
 je floor 
 Duelled 
 thy of 
 
 he 
 
 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 
 
i8 
 
 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 
 
20 
 
 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. 
 
 21 
 
 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- 
 
22 
 
 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, 
 
 23 
 
 !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" 
 
24 
 
 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. 
 
 ^5 
 
 ()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. 
 
 3 
 
26 
 
 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 
 
 27 
 
 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. 
 
28 
 
 Wiliiaai and Alary. 
 
 CHAPTER TV. 
 
 ii 
 
 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, 
 
 29 
 
 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 
 
30 
 
 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. 
 
 31 
 
 (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 
 
32 
 
 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 
 
36 
 
 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' 
 
 J/ 
 
 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. 
 
38 
 
 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. 
 
 39 
 
 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 
 
40 
 
 WilliaDi a} id Mary. 
 
 |H 
 
 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. 
 
 41 
 
 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 
 
42 
 
 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. 
 
 43 
 
 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. 
 
 45 
 
 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. 
 
46 
 
 ]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 
 
 47 
 
 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 
 
48 
 
 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, 
 
 49 
 
 " 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 !" 
 
so 
 
 ] 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. 
 
 5' 
 
 "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 
 
52 
 
 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\. 
 
 Do 
 
 "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 
 
54 
 
 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 
 
 55 
 
 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 
 
^6 
 
 
 
 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. 
 
 57 
 
 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 . 
 
 59 
 
 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- 
 
6o 
 
 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 
 
 6i 
 
 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 
 
62 
 
 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. 
 
 ^3 
 
 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 ?" 
 
64 
 
 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. 
 
 65 
 
 " 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 
 
66 
 
 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. 
 
 67 
 
 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." 
 
68 
 
 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. 
 
 69 
 
 "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 
 
o 
 
 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 
 
 71 
 
 ^crii)- 
 
 sak, 
 
 the 
 
 shoe 
 
 "V 
 
 (0(1 (- 
 
 mt: 
 
 rht. 
 
 Lot 
 
 lay 
 
 yet 
 
 ing 
 
 yot. 
 
 : on 
 
 L his 
 
 do 
 
 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. 
 
72 
 
 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. 
 
 n 
 
 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 
 
 () 
 
74 
 
 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. 
 
 75 
 
 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 
 
76 
 
 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, 
 
 11 
 
 " 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. 
 
78 
 
 ]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. 
 
 79 
 
 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 
 
So 
 
 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- 
 
82 
 
 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. 
 
 83 
 
 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 
 
84 
 
 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. 
 
 85 
 
 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 
 
86 
 
 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, 
 
 87 
 
 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 
 
88 
 
 ]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. 
 
 89 
 
 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 
 
go 
 
 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, 
 
 91 
 
 " 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, 
 
 93 
 
 (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 
 
94 
 
 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 
 
 95 
 
 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 
 
96 
 
 IVilliam a J id Mary. 
 
 If 
 
 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. 
 
 97 
 
 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- 
 
98 
 
 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. 
 
 99 
 
 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 
 
 8 
 
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 
 
'M 
 
 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 
 
l 
 
 ^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, 
 
 6b 
 
 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, 
 
 ^M 
 
 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. 
 
 t 
 
 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 
 
 7' 
 
 ; 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. 
 
 ij 
 
 
 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. 
 
 m 
 
 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. 
 
 I 
 
 "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 
 
 m 
 
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 
 
I 
 
 II 
 
 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 
 
"i 
 
 I 
 
 * 
 
 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 
 
 ^;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. 
 1.3 
 
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 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WFST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
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1 86 
 
 William and Mary. 
 
 tm 
 
 "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," 
 
 T. 
 
 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 
 
TI 
 
 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 
 
 t 
 
 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 
 
^1 
 
 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. 
 
 1 
 
 
 " 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 
 
 : ■'■! 
 
 "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 
 
 1" 
 
 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 
 
 1 
 
 ! 
 
 I 
 
 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. 
 
I 
 
 ; 
 
 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 
 
 a[ 
 
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,' 
 
:v 
 
 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 ! " 
 
t 
 
 i 
 
 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 
 
 1^ 
 
 " 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 : 
 
 1 
 
I 
 
 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 
 
 I 
 
Williani and Mary. 
 
 23 
 
 •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 
 
 \r 
 
 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 
 
 y 
 
 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, 
 
 i 
 
 ll 
 
 , 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. 
 
1^ 
 
 2 4-6 
 
 Williafn and Mary. 
 
 it 
 
 m 
 
 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, 
 
 J. 
 
 put in his 
 
 uz. How- 
 a sayin' t' 
 t listen ef 
 
 at's kinder 
 
 m boy, an' 
 igh tho'." 
 peak eout, 
 
 m 
 
 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, 
 
 17 
 
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"'' 
 
 yl 
 
 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 
 
 t 
 
 "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 
 
t 
 
 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. 
 
 ii 
 
 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. 
 
 I 
 
 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. 
 
 w 
 
 !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 
 
 o 
 
 t?" 
 
m 
 
 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," 
 
 m. 
 
 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. 
 
 If 
 
 I 
 
 ^% 
 
 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 
 
 so 
 
 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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 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- 
 
 19 
 
I 
 
 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 
 
f 
 
 I 
 
 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 
 
 r. 
 
 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. 
 
 I 
 
 • 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 
 

 H 
 
 
 M 
 
 
 ; 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 
 ; 
 
 
 " 
 
 1 
 
 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, 
 
 if 
 
 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. 
 
 I 
 
 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 
 
 t 
 
 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 
 
3H 
 
 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 
 
h* 
 
 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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