“She loves me,” was his first thought; “to me she would never own it. But Adam Olliver knows it, and misreads my heart as much as one man can misread another’s. Lucy, my darling, for love of you I would barter Waverdale Hall without a sigh; I would harden my hands at the anvil, and hammer and sing as merrily as Blithe Natty, if you might brighten my cottage home! What shall I do? My proud and stately father will never permit such an unequal match but, with all his pride, he loves me dearly, and I cannot, will not, be disloyal to so great a love, and disobey his will.” He heaved a sigh from the depths of his perplexed and anxious spirit; then his mind reverted to Adam Olliver’s words, “The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin.” And again the refrain heard in the cottage service rung in his ears,-- “To you is it nothing that Jesus should die?” “What _does_ it mean? I would give the world to know and feel that cleansing power, to know and feel that Jesus died for me.” Slowly, but definitely and surely, the young patrician was being led by Providence and Grace to the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world. Nor were the cogitations of the grand old hedger less interesting. His shrewd, observant mind had noted the clear, transparent character of the youthful squire, had been struck with the honest ring of his manly disclaimer, and lapsing into his old habit of making Balaam his confidant, he said,-- “Balaam, thoo an’ me’s a cupple ov aud feeals. What business hae we te jump te conclusions aboot uther fooaks’ faults? We mun try te leeak at yam a bit mair. Here ah’ve been at it fotty year an’ mair, talkin’ aboot an’ praisin’ t’ charity ’at thinks nae evil, an’ here ah’ve been bleeamin’ that yung fello’ withoot judge or joory. Oh, Adam, Adam! Thoo mun gan te skeeal ageean an’ larn t’ a-b ab’s o’ Christian charaty! Them ’at’s fost te fling a steean had better keep their aun winder-shutters in, or they’ll hae plenty o’ brokken glass, an’ ah feel as meean as though I hadn’t a woll payne left i’ mahn. Ah’s waintly misteean if that’s nut as feyn a young chap as ivver rayd a hoss, an’ ah’ll pray ’at the Lord may mak’ him a bonnin’ an’ a shinin’ leet.” Adam Olliver’s prayers were not wont to be in vain. CHAPTER XV. NATHAN BLYTH IS THE VICTIM OF A GUNPOWDER PLOT. “As woods, when shaken by the breeze, Take deeper, firmer root, As winter’s frosts but make the trees Abound in summer fruit; So every bitter pang and throe That Christian firmness tries, But nerves us for our work below, And forms us for the skies.” _Henry Francis Lyte._