Dorothy Turner was engaged with her patient, the despairing woman whose violent flight into the Hampsteadfields had saved her life; and Edith sought Dame Saffron, who had also taken up, in extremity, the desperate trade of plague-nurse. The laundry-woman was fortunately disengaged, and with many inquiries after Edith’s own health, and much talk of the calamities which had come under her own notice, which Edith, in her haste and anxiety, scarcely heard, accompanied her to Westminster. Sir Philip received them at the door. He was very grave and sad. “I have brought Dame Saffron to tend the lady,” said Edith, “but perchance it were better that I entered not.” “Both for thine own sake and hers, gentle cousin,” said the young man. “Start not, for we are truly kindred; but remember her in pity and in tenderness, Edith, for she lies on a terrible death-bed, pricked to the heart--have pity on her--have pity on her, gentle Edith.” CHAPTER IX. “Speak not of grief till thou hast seen The tears of armed men.” MRS. HEMANS. Upon the evening of that day, Caleb Field and his daughter sat in Dame Rogers’s better room alone. The minister had newly returned from the strenuous labors of his vocation, and Edith had just finished telling him of the strange meeting of the morning. The simple evening meal stood untasted upon the table. The strong winds of deep emotion were sweeping over his face. The bitterest time of all his stout, laborious life was standing forth before him in its deadly coloring of cruel wrong and terrible bereavement. Not now the sanctity of tenderness wherewith her gentle memory made all things holy round it; but the bitter, blind agony of yonder dark hour of her death, was swelling in the heart of Edith Dacre’s forlorn and faithful husband. The look of her wan face as she tottered up the bare paths of yonder hills, seeking a place to die in; the last faint whisper of her voice that forgave her hard and haughty kinswoman, and bade God bless him and the child; vivid, in bitter pain and anguish, they came into his heart, as he laid his face down into his clasped hands and wept--those few terrible tears of stern manhood which express to us the uttermost agony of grief. After a time he grew calmer, though Edith started to see the pale face, still moved with its extremity of emotion, which her father raised to her before he spoke. “Edith,” he said, hoarsely, “I have never dared to tell you--never dared for terror of myself: yet I say the Lord forgive her--the Lord pardon the proud woman, as _she_ did who is in His heaven long years ago. My Edith! my blessed one!” “Father,” said Edith, “tell me not if it moves you thus: indeed I did not know any thing; but, father, spare yourself.”