“Alas! I can not tell,” said the Puritan, “for thou may’st think, Edith, how it would fare with one stricken with any sickness, if those about him rushed forth from his bedside in affright, and fled from his presence in terror of their lives. It is thus now--for where this fearful malady goeth, he carrieth another spectre behind him--fear, Edith, terror, panic--fear, which brings our humanity down, and strips it of its boasting--so great cowards are we all, and with so much thought of self. Whither this plague comes, Edith, it snaps all tender bands of kindred; and when a man is stricken, he is straightway, as we say in our worldly speech, without hope, for all forsake him.” They proceeded on in silence--the pale girlish face was changing--her lips quivered, her nostril dilated, her eyes were looking far into the clear blue air of the hills, in the vacant earnestness of thought--but her father observed not the change. He himself was mightily absorbed. Some such swelling of the heart as the brave soldier may have on the eve of a great battle--a noble, grave, chivalrous bravery, that yearned to be in the thickest combat, the deadliest jeopardy, if need were, for his Lord’s sake, and his people’s, was rising within the stout breast of the Puritan--nor was it unmingled with the “climbing sorrow,” the “hysterica passio,” of the old king. His strong affections were but intensified by their concentration, and to leave his one child, his sole treasure, in the world, alone! “And now, Edith,” he said gently, as they paused at the end of the ravine, and turned toward the cottage, “I must speak to these humble guardians of thine. It is a sad lot for thee, my poor child, in thy first youth--but we must yield us, Edith, to His will who knoweth our weal best. They are very kind, and very true, and thou hast the hills and the heavens to commune withal, and the word and presence of our Lord--blame not thy father, Edith, that he can add nothing more. I would have thee keep thyself from the maidens of the village yonder--save in so far as thou canst serve them, they are not fellows for thee. I can leave thee with but One sure companion, Edith; and thou wilt seek Him, my child, continually?” Her head was bent--she did not answer. “Nay, nay,” said the minister, his lip quivering as he tried to smile, “I can not have thee make thy sacrifice grudgingly, Edith, or with weeping. The Lord’s soldier must depart hopefully, with joy and trust in the magnificent name of his king. Thou knowest that men march to temporal battles with the gay sounds of music, and if mirth would ill become us, Edith, hope is fittest of all moods for a servant of the Lord. Let us go down to speak to this good dame of thine, and then, Edith--then we must part.” She lifted her head--she had not been weeping--there were traces in her face of an emotion too great for tears.