and
sorrows; poor Ilbrahim to pine and droop like a cankered rosebud; his
mother to wander on a mistaken errand, neglectful of the holiest trust
which can be committed to a woman.

* * * * *

A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over Pearson's
habitation, and there were no cheerful faces to drive the gloom from his
broad hearth. The fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a
ruddy light, and large logs, dripping with half-melted snow, lay ready
to be cast upon the embers. But the apartment was saddened in its aspect
by the absence of much of the homely wealth which had once adorned it;
for the exaction of repeated fines, and his own neglect of temporal
affairs, had greatly impoverished the owner. And with the furniture of
peace, the implements of war had likewise disappeared; the sword was
broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away forever; the soldier had
done with battles, and might not lift so much as his naked hand to guard
his head. But the Holy Book remained, and the table on which it rested
was drawn before the fire, while two of the persecuted sect sought
comfort from its pages.

He who listened, while the other read, was the master of the house, now
emaciated in form, and altered as to the expression and healthiness of
his countenance; for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary
thoughts, and his body had been worn by imprisonment and stripes. The
hale and weather-beaten old man, who sat beside him, had sustained less
injury from a far longer course of the same mode of life. In person he
was tall and dignified, and, which alone would have made him hateful to
the Puritans, his gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed hat,
and rested on his shoulders. As the old man read the sacred page, the
snow drifted against the windows, or eddied in at the crevices of the
door, while a blast kept laughing in the chimney, and the blaze leaped
fiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind struck the hill at
a certain angle, and swept down by the cottage across the wintry plain,
its voice was the most doleful that can be conceived; it came as if the
Past were speaking, as if the Dead had contributed each a whisper, as if
the Desolation of Ages were breathed in that one lamenting sound.

The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining however his hand between
the pages which he had been reading, while he looked steadfastly at
Pearson. The attitude and featur