houses of some and the workshops of others: all this we heard, and more." "Patient, how dreadful!" said Celia. "Why, 'tis near what they did in the days of Queen Mary." "They only went a little further then on the same road--that was all, methinks," answered Patient, calmly. "When the Lord readeth in the Books before men and angels the stories of the persecutions in England and in Scotland, He will scarce forget the Dragonnades of France." "I did not know that there had been any persecution in Scotland, Patient--except what King Charles did; I suppose that was a sort of persecution." "Did you not, Madam?" asked Patient, quietly turning down a hem. "I was not thinking of King Charles, but of the earlier days, when tender women like Helen Stirk and Margaret Wilson perished in the waters, and when the bloody Cardinal brent Master George Wishart, that true servant of God and the Evangel, in his devil's-fire at St. Andrews." "I never heard of all those people, Patient." "Ay, perchance so, Madam. I dare say their names and their sufferings scarce went beyond their own land," replied Patient, in a constrained voice, as if her heart were a little stirred at last. "But the Lord heard of them; and Scotland heard of them, and rose and bared her arm, and drave forth the men of blood from off her soil. The Lord is their Avenger, at times, in this life--beyond this life, always." "Tell me something more about them, Patient. Who was Master Wishart?" "He was a Scottish gentleman of good birth, a Wishart of Pitarrow, Madam, who, giving himself up unto the service of God and the Evangel, in Dundee and other towns, and bringing the blessed Word and the blessed hope unto many a poor hungered soul, was seized by the bloody Cardinal Beaton, and brent to death as the reward of his labors, in the year of our Lord, 1546. They that did know him at that time, and Master John Knox afterward, did say unto divers persons, as I have heard, that even Master John was not fit to stand up with George Wishart. He was a true man, and one that spake so good and sweet words as did move the hearts of such as heard him. I think the Lord knew how to ease him after his sore pain, and that, now that he hath had rest in Heaven for one hundred and seventy years, he accounts not that he bare too much for the Lord's sake, that one bitter hour at St. Andrew's." "And who was Helen--what did you say her name was?--and Margaret Wilson?"