“I thank thee, Mistress Edith,” said the preacher, more calmly, “for thy good and gentle wishes; and I think oft that I would I could look on the broad sea once more ere I go hence; but that is of slight import, seeing it concerneth no mortal thing save mine own longing. Thou hast done bravely, Mistress Edith; the Lord give thee double for thy valor; but I wist not wherefore gentle Mary Chester should be less brave than thou.” “Less brave! nay, Master Vincent, say not so,” exclaimed Edith, eagerly; “only I have naught in this wide earth but my father, and Mary hath the little ones in charge. They have no mother, the little children; and Mary Chester hath been braver in patience and waiting than I.” “Sayest thou so?” said the minister, dreamily, “sayest thou so? Yet shall we all meet in yonder fair land where the Lord dwelleth. Would it were come: would we were all there! And thou wilt carry my greeting to thy friend, Mistress Edith. The Lord be her dwelling-place! And so, young sister, fare thee well.” She stood still, looking after him. He was a young man, though worn with toils and sorrows; no ascetic, but with a heart beating warm to all the kindnesses of life; with human hopes vehement as his own nature; with human affections ardent above most. Imprisoned in an unwholesome jail because he could not choose but preach, the seeds of disease had been sown in his delicate frame a year or two before; and it was thus he had spent the remnant of his life. The delicate fire, that might have burned on longer with careful tending, blazed up in one bright flash, and only one, before it sank into darkness; and now he had but to die. Gentle Mary Chester, in yonder quiet house in Surrey, knew all this. What then? he had his labor, she had hers. It was no question of what either wished or hoped; for who, born of those godly households, and nurtured in that simple constancy of faith, could put mortal design, or joy, or purpose, before the work of the Lord? But Edith Field turned away with a heavy heart; so sad alway, be the spirit strung ever so strongly, is that eclipse of human expectation, of youthful joy and hope. The inner man in strong life, counting with stern composure the last grains of his mortal existence, as they passed one by one away--the falling of those numbered days which, but for that blight, would have been the brightest. It was a sad sight to look upon. “Please you, Mistress Edith,” said Mercy, when they had gone on some little way in silence, “does the young cavalier dwell always at Westminster?” “Who is that, Mercy?” asked Edith. “Sir Philip, madam; the gentleman that hath done so graciously, as people say, to the sick and to the poor.” “Nay,” was the answer; “he dwells in Cumberland, Mercy.”