“They are not many: these papers, which one broken hour of the night will give me time enough to seal, I would have conveyed by a safe hand to New England; and perhaps one line from you might comfort my father’s heart. These few books I would also have sent to him. This, Katharine, is my Psalter: take it; and till we meet in a better world use no other. Now hear me; and, for both our sakes, observe my last directions strictly. To-morrow morning, from the hour of eight to nine, keep closely to thy chamber, and shut thy door, and do not look abroad; but make this Psalter thy companion, and read therein the choicest words of praise and thanksgiving. Yes, praise and thanksgiving:--remember this. If that I am a pardoned sinner, and that I am pardoned a humble voice within me whispers, and visionary hands do point to him the blessed of the Father, who hung on the accursed tree, and died that we might live. If it be so, then to-morrow I shall cross Jordan at the narrowest point, and see that heavenly Canaan where happy spirits dwell: there we shall meet again. Hark! there be footsteps. One last embrace:--farewell.” The door was unlocked, and a minister of a countenance most kind and holy did softly enter. He paused, irresolute at the sight of Katharine, and would have withdrawn till their interview might end. “Nay, my reverend and dear friend, come in, I prithee:--this is the lady of whom I spoke to you: my only relative in England. She hath come to do me the last charitable offices of earthly love. You are prepared, I see, to comfort and refresh me. My cousin will keep this feast with us.” At these words the good man entered, bearing a salver and a cup, over which a white napkin was decently spread; and when the door had again been closed, and the clank of the keys at the gaoler’s girdle had died away in the long passages, and the world and the world’s sounds were all shut out, that dull and grated prison became a temple,--and they three in a mournful humility did make their meek confession, and in faith, hope, and charity, did feast upon a Saviour’s love. CHAP. XXI. Dear beauteous death, the jewel of the just, Shining nowhere but in the dark: What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark! VAUGHAN. The good old vicar of Cheddar, and the aged partner of his trials and his consolations, survived the melancholy war which brought so much public misery on the nation, and so much private affliction on themselves, for many years. They continued to dwell in the same small cottage, in which, after the ejectment of Noble, they found their first refuge, unknowing and unknown. Their means were slender, but their wants were few; and they were rich in the graces of divine contentment.