A hundred yards more and we came to the little cottage nigh hid among the trees. John Paul paused a moment, his hand upon the latch of the gate, his eyes drinking in the familiar picture. The light of day was dying behind Criffel, and the tiny panes of the cottage windows pulsed with the rosy flame on the hearth within, now flaring, and again deepening. He sighed. He walked with unsteady step to the door and pushed it open. I followed, scarce knowing what I did, halted at the threshold and drew back, for I had been upon holy ground. John Paul was kneeling upon the flags by the ingleside, his face buried on the open Bible in his mother's lap. Her snowy-white head was bent upon his, her tears running fast, and her lips moving in silent prayer to Him who giveth and taketh away. Verily, here in this humble place dwelt a love that defied the hard usage of a hard world! After a space he came to the door and called, and took me by the hand, and I went in with him. Though his eyes were wet, he bore himself like a cavalier. “Mother, this is Mr. Richard Carvell heir to Carvel Hall in Maryland,--a young gentleman whom I have had the honour to rescue from a slaver.” I bowed low, such was my respect for Dame Paul, and she rose and curtseyed. She wore a widow's cap and a black gown, and I saw in her deep-lined face a resemblance to her son. “Madam,” I said, the title coming naturally, “I owe Captain Paul a debt I can never repay.” “An' him but a laddie!” she cried. “I'm thankful, John, I'm thankful for his mither that ye saved him.” “I have no mother, Madam Paul,” said I, “and my father was killed in the French war. But I have a grandfather who loves me dearly as I love him.” Some impulse brought her forward, and she took both my hands in her own. “Ye'll forgive an auld woman, sir,” she said, with a dignity that matched her son's, “but ye're sae young, an' ye hae sic a leuk in yere bonny gray e'e that I ken yell aye be a true friend o' John's. He's been a guid sin to me, an' ye maunna reek what they say o' him.”