e in his boyhood ever asked his
mother what the French words meant, Mary Fox, who was, we are told,
'accomplished above her degree in the place where she lived,' may have
been able to tell him that they mean, in English, 'Pure faith is my
Joy'; or that, keeping the rhyme, they might be translated as
follows:--

'MY FAITH PURE, MY JOY SURE.'

Then remembering what had happened in her own family, surely she would
add, 'And I, who come of martyr stock, know that that is true. Even if
you have to suffer for it, my son, even if you have to die for it,
keep your Faith pure, and your Joy will be sure in the end.'

Then Righteous Christer would take the little lad up on his shoulder
and show him the broken spear above the tomb, the crest of the
Purefoys, and tell him its story. Hundreds of years before, one of the
Squires of this family had defended his liege lord on the battle-field
at the risk of his own life, and even after his weapon, a spear, had
been broken in his hand. His lord, out of gratitude for this, had
given his faithful follower, not only the right to wear the broken
spear in token of his valour ever after as a crest, but also by his
name and by his motto to proclaim to all men the PURE FAITH (PUREFOY)
that had given him this sure and lasting joy. Ever since, for hundreds
of years, the Purefoy family had handed down, by their name, by their
motto, and by the broken spear on their crest, this noble tradition of
loyalty and allegiance--enshrined like a shining jewel in the centre
of the muddy village of Drayton-in-the-Clay.

This was not the only battle story the boy must have known well. A few
miles from Fenny Drayton is 'the rising ground of Market Bosworth,'
better known as Bosworth Field. As he grew older George loved to
wander over the fields that surrounded his birthplace. He 'must have
often passed the site of Henry's camp, perhaps may have drunk
sometimes at the well at which Richard is said to have quenched his
thirst.' But although his home was near this old battlefield, the boy
grew up in a peaceful England. Probably no one in Fenny Drayton
imagined that in a very few years the smiling English meadows would
once more be drenched in blood. George Fox in his country home was
brought up to follow country pursuits, and was especially skilful in
the management of sheep. He says in his Journal: 'As I grew up, my
relations thought to have made me a priest, but others persuaded to
the co