My father raised himself from the fallen stone and looked all around, but no one was in sight, and the sparse heath and short grass could not hide anything so large as a child of a year old. He even parted the brambles and wild vines and looked inside the monument (which was one of those made of three upright stones with a slab laid over the top), but found nothing worse than a pair of young owls and their mother, which were terribly disconcerted by his scrutiny, and hissed and snapped valiantly. Meantime I waited with anxious curiosity, though I had a guess of what was coming. "I have certain intelligence," said he, speaking in a low voice, "that one of our best and oldest pastors, Monsieur Bertheau, who has, at the risk of his life, visited and comforted many of our afflicted brethren in Charenton and elsewhere, is now flying from his enemies, and will arrive at this place some time to-night. He must be lodged in the old tower till the period of spring tides, when I shall hope to procure a passage for him to Jersey, or to England itself. Grace, who has usually taken charge of such fugitives, is now disabled. I must be away this night, and your mother is unable to do what is needful; besides that, her absence from her room might excite suspicion. Mathew grows old and forgetful, and I dare not trust any of the other servants. Dare you, my daughter, undertake to meet this venerable man in the ruins of the chapel to-night, and lead him by the secret passage to the room at the top of the tower, which has been prepared for him?" "Yes, my father," I answered; "but how shall I know the way?" "I will give you directions which will lead you to the entrance of the passage. Turn to your right after that, and you cannot miss your way. When the good man is in safety, you can come directly to your mother's room by another passage, which I will also indicate to you. But, my child, I must not conceal from you that there is danger in this trust. Should you be discovered by any of our enemies in giving help to this good old man, your life or your liberty must be the forfeit." "I know it, my father," I answered; "but if it is my duty, I can do it. Besides, there is danger anyhow." "That is true, my child. He that saveth his life is as like to lose it as he that layeth it down for the Lord's sake and the Gospels." Then my father broke down, clasped me in his arms, and wept over me in the way that is so terrible to see in a strong man. "My child, my Marguerite's only child! My treasure! And must I lay down thy young life also? Oh, Lord, how long, how long!" Presently, however, he composed himself, and laying his hand on my head, he most solemnly dedicated me to God and his service, as the most precious thing he had to give. That dedication has never ceased to affect my life, even when I have strayed the farthest.