Again that knock at the door, and now a low, almost harsh voice, bade the girl come in. Sir William was hardening himself into composure, that he might tell the young girl of her bereavement, with the firmness that became his manhood. Elizabeth entered timidly, as she always did, but her face beamed with happiness. Lady Phipps looked up shocked to the heart. "Elizabeth!" The lady sat up in her bed and held forth her arms tenderly as if the girl had been her own child. "He is here--he is safe--he--" The young girl fell down upon her knees by the bed, pressing soft kisses on the lady's hand. Sir William Phipps arose and went out. It was seldom that his face betrayed any of the deep feelings of his nature, but as he went forth, that firm mouth quivered, and he turned from one object to another, searching eagerly for something. "Sir William." The governor gave an imperceptible start, controlled himself, and reaching forth his hand--the large, firm hand, which had known much toil in its day--buried that of the young man in its grasp. "I hope that Lady Phipps was not alarmed by my absence," said Norman, a little chilled by this composure. "I cannot quite say that with truth, young man," replied the governor; "but you will explain all at breakfast. From the state of your garments I should judge that you had at least been in the water." "Yes; but you see I came out safe--and that brave old minister, also, Samuel Parris. I wish you could have seen him, Sir William: he was a perfect Neptune." "Nay," answered the governor, with a smile that transfigured his face from its usual grave expression into something that made the heart leap towards him, "that is a heathenish name for one of God's ministers; but if your danger, whatever it prove, was shared by Samuel Parris, it must have been in a good cause. I am glad, boy, that your night has been spent with this devout man." With these words Sir William passed on, and entered his closet, apparently casting all thought of the youth from his mind. But no sooner was he alone and the door closed, than he fell upon his knees by the great oaken chair, which had belonged to his old father on the Kennebec. There, with bent head, he poured forth the thanksgiving that filled his soul, so earnestly that his frame shook, and his clasped hands unwove themselves, covering his face, while the tears that sprang to his eyes stole softly down the palms. It was only when alone with his God that the strong man became like a little child--alone, with the bolts drawn, and his face bowed over the oaken seat where his father had prayed with the mother and her score of children by his side.