Old Jacob took his staff, and tottered out into the little church-yard He did not know he was praying, when his soul cried out, “Lord help me;” but still his lips kept murmuring it, as he passed down the grassy road, and under the drooping lindens, for each time he said it, his heart seemed to grow lighter; each time it seemed easier for old Jacob to “come.” And so he entered his low doorway, and as he stooped to kiss his daughter’s cheek, the bitterness seemed to have gone from out his heart, and he felt that he could forgive even Percy, for His sake of whom he had just so recently craved forgiveness. “What is it?” asked Lucy, awed by the strange expression of Jacob’s face, and laying her hand tenderly upon his arm; “what is it, Jacob?” “Peace!” whispered the old man, reverently; “God’s peace--here Lucy;” and he laid his hand on his heart. Lucy took old Jacob’s staff and set it in the corner. Good, kind Lucy! She did not think when she did so, that he would need it no more. She did not know when the sun went down that night, that death’s dark shadow fell across her cottage threshold. She did not know, poor Lucy, when she slumbered away the night hours so peacefully by his side, that, leaning on a surer Staff, old Jacob had passed triumphantly through the dark valley; and when at length the little twittering sparrows woke her with their morning song, and she looked into the old man’s cold, still face, the pale lips, though they moved not, seemed to whisper, “Peace, Lucy--God’s peace.” CHAPTER VIII. “Is it possible you care for that girl yet, Tom? A rejected lover, too? Where’s your spirit, man? Pshaw--there’s many a fairer face than Mary Ford’s; besides, she is more than half crazy. Are you mad, Tom? You wouldn’t catch me sighing for a girl who had cried her eyes out for the villainy of my rival.” “Curse him!” said Tom Shaw, striking his boots with a light cane he held in his hand; “_he_ is safe enough, at any rate, for some time to come; good for a couple more years, I hope, for striking that fellow in prison. When he comes out, if he ever does, he will find his little bird in my nest. Half-witted or whole-witted, it matters little to me. I am rich enough to please my fancy, and the girl’s face haunts me.” “Pooh!” said Jack; “you are just like a spoiled child--one toy after another, the last one always the best. I know you--you’ll throw this aside in a twelvemonth; but marriage, let me tell you, my fine fellow, is a serious joke.” “Not to me,” said Tom, “for the very good reason that I consider it dissolved when the parties weary--or at any rate, I shall act on that supposition, which amounts to the same thing, you know.” “Not in law,” said Jack.