It was a sad story he told of his poor, persecuted people, how, in the very heart of winter, six stout Catholic regiments had broken in upon their quiet homes, to overpower and destroy; how the innocent children had been dashed from the icy pinnacles—the fathers and mothers beheaded—their villages burned to the ground—and those who fled for safely to the mountain-caverns, were hunted like wild beasts by the Pope’s minions; and Cromwell—the lion warrior and the dauntless regicide—the unflinching patriot, and the powerful sovereign, clasped the poor fugitive to his heart, and loudly bewailed the fate of these martyred Christians. “Had you parents, and were they victims of this terrible slaughter?” weepingly inquired Mary Cromwell, one of the Protector’s daughters. “Yes, lady—parents; and a sweet little blue-eyed sister, like the little girl by your side;” and he pointed to a beautiful child that had been listening with a sorrowful face, and eyes brimfull, to his sad recital. “We called her our mountain violet; but in one night I was left alone—for they burned our cottage, and slew both parents and child. I was away, but came next morning and sat awhile by the mouldering embers of my home, and then rose up determined to seek the shores of Christian England, and plead for succor. I hid myself among the rocks and cliffs by day, and at night wandered, hungry and alone, until I reached the sea-coast, lest I should fall into the hands of the soldiers, and none escape to carry aid to my suffering nation.” “You are a brave, blessed boy, and you shall not go hungry any more,” said little Anna Temple, forgetting her childish timidity; and going up close to him, she gazed earnestly and lovingly in his face. “Stay here, and we will _all_ love you, because you have no sister—wont we, Mary?” said the child, in the warmth and innocency of her heart. “Yes, darling,” replied she, “and he shall go to school, if he wishes, with you and Robert, and Eugene.” The heart of Francois Waldo was nigh to bursting, as the gentle accents of the child fell on his ear—so like the tones of his own Christine, which had so often gladdened him in their happy home—and he bowed his head and wept for the first time since his bereavement; and every member of that lordly household wept in sympathy. Months went by, and the Vaudois youth was still an inmate of the Protector’s family—a calm, intellectual, devoted student, destined as a preacher of that faith for which his kindred had suffered martyrdom. He went not back to his native valley, for here he might better fit himself for the work of the glorious mission he felt desirous of fulfilling; and Cromwell had been true to his word—the arm of oppression had been unnerved, and peace and plenty secured to the faithful survivors.