"Hush, my son!" said my mother reprovingly. "'Tis a besetting sin of yours to speak evil of dignities." Andrew shrugged his shoulders, but he had too much respect to answer my mother back again. But I am going back in my story. That very afternoon we returned to our lodgings. Our friends took leave of us cordially enough, and my aunt made me several very pretty presents, especially of a pocket working equipage, containing scissors, needles, thimble, and other implements, beautifully wrought, and packed in a very small compass. Besides these she gave me a volume of plays and poems, which last, I am ashamed to say, I did not show to my mother. My mother presented her with a handsome clasp of Turkey stones and pearls, and my uncle with a gold snuff-box, which had belonged to her husband's father, and had a picture of some reigning beauty—I forget whom—enamelled on the lid; so we all parted friends. The next day being Sunday, we went to a French Protestant church, where the worship was carried on according to the forms used by us in our own country. There had been an attempt made in the days of Charles the First to compel the French Protestants to conform to the Church of England, but it had not been carried out in the present reign. Great numbers of the refugees did in fact conform to the church, and indeed take orders therein, not considering the differences as essential; but others preferred the ways they were used to, and these had chapels of their own. It was to one of these churches, in Threadneedle Street, that we went; and here a great surprise awaited us. We were no sooner seated than I began to have that feeling we have all experienced, that some one was looking earnestly at me, and turning my head about I saw in the gallery Simon and Jeanne Sablot. I could hardly believe my eyes; but there they were, decent as usual, though poorly dressed enough, and sadly changed since I had seen them last. Simon's hair was white as snow, and Jeanne's ruddy cheeks were faded and sunken. They both smiled, and then Jeanne's face was buried in her hands and her frame shaken with sobs. I had no time to direct my mother's attention to them, for the minister at that moment entered the desk and the service began. Here was no whispering, no exchange of salutes or snuff-boxes. Many of those before the preacher had but just escaped from their enemies, thankful to have their lives given them for a prey, as the prophet says; and it was to them a wonderful thing to attend upon their worship openly and in safety.