e tears trickling down her sweet, placid
face, stifling her sobs lest the sound of them make my leave-taking more
bitter. The children are in the sleeping-room upstairs, and we hear the
patter of their bare feet upon the floor. The man Saxon sprawls across
one of the oaken chairs, half kneeling, half reclining, with his long
legs trailing out behind, and his face buried in his hands. All round
in the flickering light of the hanging lamp I see the objects which have
been so familiar to me from childhood--the settle by the fireplace,
the high-back stiff-elbowed chairs, the stuffed fox above the door, the
picture of Christian viewing the Promised Land from the summit of the
Delectable Mountains--all small trifles in themselves, but making up
among them the marvellous thing we call home, the all-powerful lodestone
which draws the wanderer's heart from the farther end of the earth.
Should I ever see it again save in my dreams--I, who was leaving this
sheltered cove to plunge into the heart of the storm?

The prayer finished, we all rose with the exception of Saxon, who
remained with his face buried in his hands for a minute or so before
starting to his feet. I shrewdly suspect that he had been fast asleep,
though he explained that he had paused to offer up an additional
supplication. My father placed his hands upon my head and invoked the
blessing of Heaven upon me. He then drew my companion aside, and I
heard the jingling of coin, from which I judge that he was giving him
something wherewith to start upon his travels. My mother clasped me to
her heart, and slipped a small square of paper into my hand, saying that
I was to look at it at my leisure, and that I should make her happy if
I would but conform to the instructions contained in it. This I promised
to do, and tearing myself away I set off down the darkened village
street, with my long-limbed companion striding by my side.

It was close upon one in the morning, and all the country folk had been
long abed. Passing the Wheatsheaf and the house of old Solomon, I could
not but wonder what they would think of my martial garb were they afoot.
I had scarce time to form the same thought before Zachary Palmer's
cottage when his door flew open, and the carpenter came running out with
his white hair streaming in the fresh night breeze.

'I have been awaiting you, Micah,' he cried. 'I had heard that Monmouth
was up, and I knew that you would not lose a night ere starting. God
bl