“It is for my soul,” says Mrs. Endicott again; and so he must be persuaded, and take her up behind him through the darkling lanes to Gamlingay. And the chance was that they had not gone a mile before they passed the man Farry standing by the cross roads, who closely looked at them. Mr. Bunyan did not salute him, not being of his acquaintance, and Mrs. Endicott stared at him with eyes that might have been of glass, so blank they were; thereupon Gilbert Farry went softly to Edworth and spoke to George Endicott, and said– “I have seen your daughter riding pillion with John Bunyan to Gamlingay as if they were man and wife.” Now whether or no she pictured Mr. Farry poisoning her father, Mrs. Endicott stayed to the end of the meeting and seemed wrapt in the ecstasy of worship and the joy of the moment. Yet when the meeting was over her sorrows began again; Mr. Bunyan was riding another way, and there was no manner of means for her to get home. There was much delay and argument, and then she found a woman who had a cart and who would take her as far as her sister-in-law’s house, but from there was no convenience, yet mindful of her promise to her father Mrs. Endicott set out on the dark, miry and rough roads and so came to her home, spent with walking and affrighted with loneliness. Still it was not more than eleven of the clock, and it caused her amaze to see the windows dark and the door locked. With trembling hands she knocked at the door, and her father came to an upper window with a candle in his hand and demanded who was there. “It is I, father, come home wet and dirty,” replied Mrs. Endicott. “I pray you let me in.” “Nay,” he answered. “Where you have been all the evening you may go all the night–and never do you cross my threshold until I have your promise not to see John Bunyan again.” “That is to give up my soul’s life,” she said; “and I cannot.” Thereupon he shut the window and took away the light. Mrs. Endicott did plead desperately and tearfully but to no avail, for the bitter night winds took her words away and her father heard not. Then, the storm coming up apace, she was fain to go into the barn, and there to lay her down on the straw till the morning. When her father made his round he saw her there, with her clothes frozen on her and her eyes wet and wild. “Good morrow, father,” she said. “I have had a dreary night, but it had been worse had not God sustained me.” “No matter for that,” he answered; “here you stay until you promise never to frequent meetings again and never to speak to John Bunyan.” Thereupon she hung upon him with vain tears and entreaties, but he would have none of it without her promise, and that she would in no wise give; so at length he flung her from him roughly, and she lay along a byre and wept for comfortlessness.