as heard, and I went on in peace and joy toward the
wilderness."

The old man, though his fanaticism had generally all the calmness of
reason, was deeply moved while reciting this tale; and his unwonted
emotion seemed to rebuke and keep down that of his companion. They sat
in silence, with their faces to the fire, imagining perhaps, in its red
embers, new scenes of persecution yet to be encountered. The snow still
drifted hard against the windows, and sometimes, as the blaze of the
logs had gradually sunk, came down the spacious chimney and hissed upon
the hearth. A cautious footstep might now and then be heard in a
neighboring apartment, and the sound invariably drew the eyes of both
Quakers to the door which led thither. When a fierce and riotous gust of
wind had led his thoughts, by a natural association, to homeless
travellers on such a night, Pearson resumed the conversation.

"I have well-nigh sunk under my own share of this trial," observed he,
sighing heavily; "yet I would that it might be doubled to me, if so the
child's mother could be spared. Her wounds have been deep and many, but
this will be the sorest of all."

"Fear not for Catharine," replied the old Quaker, "for I know that
valiant woman, and have seen how she can bear the cross. A mother's
heart, indeed, is strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with
her faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks that her son has
been thus early an accepted sacrifice. The boy hath done his work, and
she will feel that he is taken hence in kindness both to him and her.
Blessed, blessed are they that with so little suffering can enter into
peace!"

The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a portentous sound; it
was a quick and heavy knocking at the outer door. Pearson's wan
countenance grew paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him
what to dread; the old man, on the other hand, stood up erect, and his
glance was firm as that of the tried soldier who awaits his enemy.

"The men of blood have come to seek me," he observed, with calmness.
"They have heard how I was moved to return from banishment; and now am I
to be led to prison, and thence to death. It is an end I have long
looked for. I will open unto them, lest they say, 'Lo, he feareth!'"

"Nay, I will present myself before them," said Pearson, with recovered
fortitude. "It may be that they seek me alone, and know not that thou
abidest with me."

"Let us go boldly, both one