On that September even, so soft and mellow and harvest-like, with the full eye of its serene moon looking down peacefully upon the quiet world, the inhabitants of London, such of them as were not stretched on hopeless sick beds, or hopelessly watching by the same, lay down in reckless and wild despair, assured of early death. On the next day the weekly bill of mortality would be published, and the hearts of the people sickened within them, as they anticipated the further progress of the pestilence which its fatal record would make known. That day was a fast-day in Master Chester’s church of St. Margaret’s in Westminster, and Master Field was engaged to preach there. The little household had assembled in Dame Rogers’s sitting-room for their morning worship. The father and daughter sat side by side; their host was at a little distance, and Dame Rogers and her child, Mercy, were timidly withdrawn near the door. They were about to commence their simple service. Suddenly there came a low knock to the outer door of the cottage. They had all learned to know the light hand of Sir Philip Dacre, and John Goodman rose to admit him. He stood still on the threshold in their sight, with a strange quivering look of joy about him, at which they marveled mightily. Joy! its very name had become an unknown word in London. There were tears standing in the young man’s eyes, and a tremulous, unsteady smile upon his lips, which looked as though it would fain run over in the weeping of a glad heart. He lifted up his hands, but he said nothing, except “Thank God! thank God!” “Amen!” said Master Field, gravely; “but for what special mercy, Sir Philip? Enter and let us share your thanksgiving, as you have shared our trouble.” “It ebbs--it ebbs!” exclaimed the young man; “the tide has turned, Master Field--the fury of the pestilence has abated--there is hope!” They all rose; the timid Dame Rogers, who had shrunk from him before, pressing nearest now to the bearer of good tidings--and gathered round him in an eager ring, with the same fit of tremulous, uncertain joyousness upon themselves, to learn the particulars of this unlooked for gladness. “Near two thousand less in this one week,” said Sir Philip, more agitated now than he had been in the greatest horror of the darkness. “The last wave was a mighty one, but the tide has receded far already. Let us thank God! when there was neither help nor hope, He hath done it of His own grace. The pestilence that hath stricken so many is itself stricken, blessed be the day!”