“And wherefore should’st thou, my child Mercy? And why would’st thou go break thy poor mother’s heart, because the young lady will put herself into danger? I trow it is none of thy blame; and would’st thou leave us desolate in our old age, all for the sake of Mistress Edith? Ah! Mercy! Mercy!” “But mother, there will be no danger. Please you, Mistress Edith to tell my mother, how you have promised to Master Field to have care and caution; and there will be no peril; I am sure there will not, mother. I do not fear.” “Hush! Mercy,” said Edith, gently; “you must not go, be there danger, or be there none. I desire not to peril your daughter, Dame Rogers. I pray you believe me so.” Dame Rogers’s heart smote her. “I would go with thee myself, Mistress Edith, but indeed I am frighted; and I would do thee more harm than good, truly, for I am but a weak body; and Mercy--I have but one, Mistress Edith--none but she! and the two of ye, girls that might be dealing with gentler matters than this life and death. Ah! Mistress Edith!” “Do not fear, dame,” said Edith; “Mercy must not go with me. I will peril no life but my own.” But therewith the timid and tender-hearted Dame Rogers, burst into a flood of tears, bewailing feebly the danger into which the young lady was about to thrust herself, in the midst of which Edith withdrew, eager to begin her labor, and adding to the good dame’s tears and remonstrances, her own injunction to Mercy, not to follow her. The ribbon-weavers, were a full mile away, nearer the bounds of the stricken city. Edith had a general knowledge of all her father’s parishioners, though the two years which she had spent in Cumberland had made her less familiar with them individually; but Ralph Tennison, a man more intelligent than his class generally were in those days, had always been a favorite with Master Field. Looking through the open doors of those cottages, as they stood on the margin of the hot and dusty high-road, she could see the painful marks of listless indolence within. In one of the little gardens, indeed, Ralph Tennison, the stouter-hearted of the three, was gravely at work, tending some simple flowers, now that there was nothing else to tend; but within, unshaven, unwashed, and slovenly, she saw the other men. One was lounging over the fire, hot June morrow as it was, in the busy housewife’s way as she went about preparing their homely meal; while the other, leaning upon the window-frame, was poring over one of those uncouth broadsheets, threatening unheard-of calamities to the city and nation, which had so considerable a part in exciting the fears of the common people of London. Edith could hear the rising of a quarrel as she approached,