There was a long silence. On hill and rock and river there was a stillness and peace as if nowhere in the world could blood ever have flowed, or wrangling been heard, or men been cruel one to another. So soft and warm the sunlight brooded, and the dry leaves hung still on the trees and not a breath moved them, and the liquid lap of the water against the rocks far down below just came to the ear with a murmur of content. There was nothing else to hear; and the silence was so exquisite that it laid a sort of spell on everybody's tongue, while the mild sunlight on the warm, hazy hills seemed to find out everybody's very heart and spread itself there. A spell of stillness and a spell of peace. All the party were hushed for a good while; and what broke the charm at last was a long-drawn breath of little Maggie, which came from somewhere much deeper then she knew. Mr. Murray looked up at her and smiled. "What is it, Maggie?" "I don't know, Uncle Eden. I think something makes me feel bad." "Feel bad!" echoed Esther. "I don't mean feel _bad_ exactly--I can't explain it." "I suppose she has been thinking, as I have been," said Meredith, "that it does not seem as if this day and my story could both belong to the same world." "Ah!" said Mr. Murray, "this is a little bit of God's part, and the other is a little bit of man's part in the world; that is all." "But, Uncle Eden, in those dreadful times it don't seem as if there could ever have been pleasant days." "I fancy there were. Don't you think the people of Hermannsburg must have enjoyed Tiefenthal, sometimes in the early starlight dawn and sometimes in the fresh sunrise?" "Uncle Eden, I should always have been afraid the soldiers were coming." "On the other hand, those people always knew that God was there. And there is a wonderful sweetness in living in His hands." "But yet, Uncle Eden, He did let the soldiers come." "_He_ did not go away, Maggie." "No; but those must have been dreadful times." "Well, yes. They were no doubt hard times. And yet, Maggie, it remains true--'When _He_ giveth quietness, then who can make trouble?' Think of Paul and Silas, beaten and bleeding, stiff and sore, stretched uncomfortably in the wooden framework which left them no power to rest themselves or change their position; in the noisome inner dungeon of a Roman prison, and yet singing for gladness. People cannot sing when they are faint-hearted, Maggie. The Lord keeps His promises." "I wonder how many people would stand Pastor Harms's test?" Meredith remarked. "They are not obliged to stand it," Flora rejoined. "There are no persecutions now; not here, at any rate. People are not called upon to be martyrs." "Do you think the terms of service have changed?" said Mr. Murray looking at her. "Why, sir, we are _not_ called upon to be martyrs." "No, but are you not called to have the same spirit the martyrs had?" "How can we?" "What is the martyr spirit?"