uch have interrupted that hymn.
Perhaps the singers scarcely knew the risk they ran, for had any Romish
priests heard them they might have recognised the hymns as those of the
Protestant poet of France; he whose verses had afforded consolation to
many a persecuted Christian, to many an exile from his native land. At
length the hymn ceased. Overton knocked gently at the door. It was
opened by a woman, the light from within falling on her person, showing
by her costume that she was a Fleming.

"I am a friend," said Overton; "you know me. I have come to see you,
and ask a few questions."

"You are welcome, Master Holt," she said in broken English. "Come in,
for I know you to be a friend to the people of our faith."

We entered. The woman looked at me. "He is trustworthy," said Overton.
"I saw a young girl in your company the other day," he continued; "I am
anxious to talk with her, for a strange communication has been made me,
and I think I know more about her than you may suppose." The woman
listened attentively.

"She is in the back room," she said; "I will call her. I told you that
she is not my child, but I love her as if she were. I would not part
with her, unless it was greatly to her benefit."

"If she is the child I believe her to be, she is my niece," answered
Overton, "and a lady of wealth and distinction is ready to take charge
of her. A sound Protestant, moreover. Would you not then yield her
up?"

"I would not selfishly prevent the dear girl from doing anything which
would advance her interests. But you may be wrong; perhaps she is not
the child you seek. However, I will call her, and you can speak to her
yourself."

The Flemish woman, opening a door, called, and in an instant a girl
eleven or twelve years old came bounding into the room. She was very
fair, with blue eyes, her countenance full of animation, her light-brown
hair long and silky.

"Aveline," she said, "here is a worthy gentleman who wishes to speak
with you. He thinks he knew your dear mother. Will you describe her to
him, that he may judge whether he is right?"

Aveline ran up to Overton, and taking his hand, exclaimed:

"Oh yes! she was an angel, so sweet and loving and kind, and her figure
so tall and graceful."

"Yes, yes," said Overton, looking eagerly in the child's face; "but her
name, what was her name?"

"My dear father, before he went away, always called her Barbara."

"Ah! yes," said Overton, "that was