“Well,” continued the dwarf. “You are not ripe for the great secret yet. But remember one thing. Back of the old oven there are some loose bricks. If I die by violence, look there. You may do my bidding yet.” By this time we had reached his mother’s cottage. Miriam was seated by the bed near which she had placed lighted candles. At our entrance she rose and said that she would go home if I would take her. We set out alone. The air blew very keen and chill in our faces as we passed among the trees of the park. Little was said by either of us till the first cold from leaving the house began to wear away by our brisk walking. Then she began to speak of Meg and of how she seemed happier before she died. “She said that it was I who made her happier. In truth, I was so happy myself. I had heard some soldiers talking about my father and saying what I could never believe; though it distressed me so. Meg told me how it was, and made me feel ashamed of myself. I had heard that he was expelled in disgrace from the governor’s council. But it cannot be so. Have you heard anything of it?” “I know,” said I with hesitation, “that he is no longer a member of the council. I have heard that when he left it he behaved with a dignity that carried the day for honor.” “How could it be otherwise? The Earl deals with doubtful means. My father must have become disgusted with his dishonest practices and resigned.” I said nothing to contradict her, nor had I said aught but what was strictly true. I remembered well the day we had baited him before the great carved table in the fort, and how much dignity he had shown at the end. Even then, for the moment, I had felt sorry for what I had done. But my good impulses were short-lived; I had much to lead me astray in those days. “Mistress Van Volkenberg,” I said after a pause, “there is something on my mind to say to you. You know that I am a Protestant. I have had bitter feelings towards people of your faith and bitter treatment from them for many years. But it has been my lot to meet only the worst. I had a sister once”—here my voice trembled and I was fain to stop for a moment—“I had a sister once who tried to teach me better things. I was slow to profit by what she said. But of late your example has made me see the wickedness of my ways.” “Do not follow me,” she replied. “I am so sinful; but I pray to the blessed Virgin every night, and she sends me strength. I know that she will give me heart to do my duty.” “Do you really believe that?” I asked. “Of course, if I pray. I shall get everything I pray for if I ought to have it.” She spoke with a simpleness of faith that I had never felt in spite of my confident pretensions. “I wish that I could share your belief. But there are things I have prayed so for without result.”