Andrew's only rival was a certain Lord Percy, a creature of my own imagination, who figured largely in that visionary world which I inhabited at times—an impossible creature, compounded of King Arthur, Sir Galahad, and some of the fine gentlemen I had come across in my stolen readings—who was to rescue me from unheard-of dangers, and endure unheard-of hardships in my behalf, though I never quite made up my mind whether he was to die at my feet or carry me off in triumph to his ancestral halls. Andrew, certainly, was not the least like this hero of mine. He was handsome in a certain way, but that way was not mine. He was short, for one thing, and broad-shouldered, with a large nose, large gray eyes with dilating pupils, so that his eyes usually passed for black; and his hair and beard were so black as to be almost blue, and crisped like my own. No, he was not at all like Lord Percy; but, after all, I liked his looks. Andrew had been about the world a good deal for a man of his years, having been on two or three long sea-voyages, and he was by no means as awkward as young men of that age are apt to be. He saluted my mother and myself with considerable grace, I thought, and made himself at home in our house, with just enough and not too much freedom. On the whole I liked him very well. Oh, how I longed to tell Lucille about him; and I shed some bitter tears at the thought that I should never confide in her again. My father's first inquiry, after he was assured of our health and safety, was for the pastor, and he praised the courage and presence of mind I had shown. "We must not keep the old man here," he said. "The tide will be favorable for his escape by the day after to-morrow, and an English ship will be waiting for him off the shore. But first I would fain have one more celebration of the Holy Supper with some of our poor friends. Heaven knows when we shall have another chance. But what is this I hear about the Sablots?" My mother repeated the story. My father listened with the greatest interest, and when it was finished, turning to me he asked, with anxiety, whether I were quite sure I had not been seen by the priest. "Quite sure," said I. "I was hidden on the top of the rock, but I saw it all." My father sighed. "The net is drawn closer and closer," said he. "Ah, my Marguerite, were you and the little one but in safety!" "But I do not understand," said Andrew, speaking almost for the first time. "I see that this girl has become a Papist; but need that separate her entirely from her family? It would be a grief to them, of course; but could they not go their way, and let her go hers? Surely, they might at least give the poor thing a home." "You do not understand, indeed, my poor Andrew," said my father, smiling sadly. And he explained the matter in a few choice words. Andrew's brow darkened, and he struck his hand on the table.