"Sure," cries _Ned_, "you have less Need than any blind Man to complayn, since you have but closed your Eyes on Earth to look on Heaven!" Father paused; then, stedfastly, in Words I've since sett down, sayd:-- "When I consider how my Light is spent, Ere half my Days, in this dark World and wide, And that one Talent, which is Death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true Account, lest He, returning, chide; 'Doth God exact Day-labour, Light denied?' I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That Murmur, soon replies,--'God doth not need. Either Man's Work, or his own Gifts. Who best Bear his mild Yoke, they serve him best. His State Is kingly; Thousands at his Bidding speed, And post o'er Land and Ocean without Rest, They also serve who only stand and wait.'" . . . We were all quiet enough for a while after this . . . _Ned_ onlie breathing hard, and squeezing Father's Hand. At length, Mother calls from the House, "Who will come in to Strawberries and Cream?" "Ah!" says Father, "that is not an ill Call. And when we have discussed our neat Repast, thou, _Ned_, shalt touch the Theorbo, and let us hear thy balmy Voice. Time was, when thou didst sing like a young Chorister." . . . Just as we were returning to the House, _Mary_ ran forth, crying, "Oh, _Deb_! you have not seen our Cow. She has just been milked, and is being turned out, even now, to the Pasture. See, there she is; but all the Others have gone out of Sight, over the Hill." Mother observed, "Left to herself, she will go, her own Calf speedily seeking." "My Dear," says Father, "that's a Hexameter: do try to make another." "Indeed, Mr. _Milton_, I know nothing of Hexameters or Hexagons either: 'tis enough for me to keep all straight and tight. Let's to Supper." _Anne_ had crushed his Strawberries, and mixed them with Cream, and now she put his Spoon into his Hand, saying, in jest, "Father, this is Angels' Food, you know. I Have pressed the Meath from many a Berry, and tempered dulcet Creams." "Hush, you Rogue," says he; "_Ned_ will find us out." "Is Uncle still at his great Work?" whispers Cousin to Mother. "Indeed, I know not if you call it such," she replies, in the same Undertone. "He hath given over all those grand Things with hard Names, that used to make him so notable abroad, and so esteemed by his own Party at Home; and now only amuses himself by making the _Bible_ a Peg to hang his Idlenesse upon."