“Because, an’ please you,” continued Mercy, “Dame Saffron do tell sad tales of the great lady, the cavalier’s mother; and how she did speak of you in her raving, Mistress Edith, and called you Edith Dacre, and angel, and blessed one, and did not cease until she died.” “Not I,” said Edith hastily; “it was not I the lady meant, but my mother, who was her kinswoman.” “Then Sir Philip is of kin to you, Mistress Edith?” said the curious Mercy; “and truly that was what Dame Saffron said.” “What did Dame Saffron say?” asked Edith. “Nay, madam, nothing worth talking of--only that the young cavalier did not come always to have counsel with Master Field; but she knew not he was of kin to you, Mistress Edith; and forsooth she is but a gossip, and a great talker, as my mother says.” Edith went on in silence: the pure blood flushing to her face. Before that great Death visibly present among them, who could think of the brighter things that cluster about the brow of youth; but now the weight was lifted off, and the young heart, strong in its humanity, began to send its first timid glances forward into a new future--a future rich with peradventures, and beautiful to look upon--fairer, perhaps more real, in its joy of anticipation, than if its dreams were all fulfilled. CHAPTER X. “Good brother rest--the toil is overpast The weariness, the travail, and the tears--. All that did trouble thee--and now beholding From the high heaven how we lay up thy garments In the safe treasure-house of Death, thou smil’st Upon our pains. So, till we follow thee. Farewell!” It was a blustering, boisterous day in March; strong-handed winds, errant and violent, were roaming waywardly through London. The city had resumed its former look; the grass-grown streets were again filled with busy crowds. The terror of the great enemy had passed into other places, before himself was gone. In the Hampstead cottage Edith Field, arrayed for a journey, sat waiting for her father. She looked very sad and downcast, and there were tears in her eyes. Dame Rogers went about her household business with loud lamentations over the departure of her guests. Mercy sat in a corner, silently weeping. At that time the bells of Aldgate Church tolled mournfully for one dead. By a new grave there, Master Chester and Master Field stood together. The funeral procession had departed--the grave was closed; they were looking down solemnly upon the resting-place of a brave captain in their brotherhood; a manful and loyal servant of God. By-and-by Master Chester put his arm through his friend’s, and silently they turned away; they had emerged from the din and bustle of the city before either spoke. “We have left him to his rest, good brother,” said Master Chester then; “and we who leave him, what remaineth for us? God knoweth--the Lord help us I pray, for there seemeth nothing left for us but to become wanderers and vagabonds on the face of the earth.”