“Yea, Edith,” said her father, “the sword of the Spirit is quick and powerful. The Lord has given us a sufficient weapon in giving us his Word--and this is not the age of miracles.” “Yet it is a wondrous time,” said Defoe, “much sin provoking this terrible judgment, and withal, though we look for this judgment so certainly, so great continuance in sin. There is need of you, Master Field; there is need of all faithful men who will speak the truth in boldness; and I pray God you be preserved to see the ending of this visitation.” The house of Master Field’s parishioner upon the quiet road to Hampstead, was an antique building of wood, with picturesque gables and low-roofed, angled rooms. It had a considerable garden round it, and was bright with the fresh suburban look, trim and well-cared for, which strikes the eye so pleasantly in contrast with crowded streets, and noise and bustle. The inmates were a brother and sister, ancient, lonely, widowed people. John Goodman was childless, and had been faithful all his lifetime to the memory of a girlish wife whom he had buried, long years ago. His sister, Dame Rogers, was a widow, having one sole daughter, who bore the gracious name of Mercy, a simple girl of sixteen years. John Goodman was a gardener, supplying with his vegetable stores, the chief dealers in one of the large city markets, and was able to sustain himself and his family comfortably. It was a religious, godly house, simply pure, and observant of the worship and ordinances of God. In a little fresh bed-chamber, with budding honeysuckle and young roses looking in at its small lattice, Edith took grateful rest, the first night after their arrival. “Has it come near you yet?” she asked, as Dame Rogers and the bashful Mercy attended her into her apartment, on a little pallet in which Mercy herself was to sleep. “Nay, thank goodness, it hasn’t come thus far,” said Dame Rogers, “but forsooth, Mistress Edith, it comes further every day, and one can’t reckon on an hour. ’Twas but yesternight that Alice Saffron, the laundry-woman’s daughter came in, as white as that sheet, to tell us how her mother had gone to carry home the clean linen to Master Gregory’s, the great silk mercer in Eastcheap. There were ten of a fair family, besides apprentices and porters, and such like; and all were as life-like as you or I (save us, we know not when it may be our turn) when she went with the great basket for the things a week afore. And look you, Mistress Edith, when Dame Saffron came to the house yestermorning, they were all gone; every one of the fair children, and the mother, dead of the plague; and Master Gregory himself, poor man, wandered out raving into the fields, mayhap to die there by himself as like as any thing; and the serving people fled. Lord bless us! it makes one’s blood freeze to hear such tales; and they say ’tis but beginning yet.” “And the people are all afraid?” said Edith.