While he is yet in prison, and his sentence yet unpassed, although certain, Margaret—for she has now been for some time the wife of good William Roper—loses her baby; for when do sorrows ever fall singly—can any thing than this be more beautiful, more true? “Midnight. “The wild wind is abroad, and, methinketh, _nothing else_. Sure, how it rages through our empty courts! In such a season, men, beasts, and fowls cower beneath y^{e} shelter of their rocking walls, yet almost fear to trust them. Lord, I know that thou canst give the tempest double force, but do not, I beseech thee! Oh! have mercy on the frail dwelling and the ship at sea. “Dear little Bill hath ta’en a feverish attack. I watch beside him while his nurse sleeps. Earlie in the night his mind wandered, and he told me of a pretty ring-streaked poney noe bigger than a bee that had golden housings and barley-sugar eyes; then dozed, but ever and anon kept starting up, crying ‘Mammy, dear!’ and softlie murmured, ‘Oh,’ when he saw I was by. At length I gave him my fore-finger to hold, which kept him ware of my presence without speaking, but presentlie he stares hard toward y^{e} foot of the bed, and says fearfullie, ‘Mother, why hangs yon hatchet in the air, with its sharp edge turned towards us!’ I rise, move the lamp, and say, ‘Do you see it now?’ He sayth, ‘No? not now,’ and closes his eyes. After a good space, during the which I hoped he slept, he says in quite an altered tone, most like unto soft, sweet music, ‘There’s a pretty little cherub there now, alle head and noe body, with two little wings aneath his chin; but, for alle he’s soe pretty, he is just like dear Gaffer, and seems to know me . . . . . and he’ll have a body agayn, too, I believe, by-and-by . . . . . . . Mother, mother, tell Hobbinol there’s such a gentle lamb in heaven!’ And soe, slept. * * * * * “He’s gone, my pretty . . . . . ! slipt through my fingers like a bird! upfled to his own native skies, and yet whenas I think on him, I can not choose but weepe . . . . . Such a guileless little lamb! . . . My Billy-bird! his mother’s owne heart. They are alle wondrous kind to me . . . .