"You are too precipitate, my son. Think how young the child is, and how carefully she has been brought up. You must trust to time and your own merits for the growth of a warmer feeling." Andrew has since told me that he loved me from the very first time he heard me speak. How long and steadfastly that love endured, through evil and good report, hoping against hope, triumphing over danger and distance, it must be mine to tell, though the story is not much to mine own credit. That night about eleven o'clock, after all the younger servants had gone to bed, my mother and myself, with the pastor, wrapped in our long black cloaks, stole forth in the darkness. My father and Andrew had gone away on horseback early in the afternoon, ostensibly to Avranches, but we knew we should find them waiting for us at the appointed place. We dared not take a lantern lest it should betray us, but found our way, by the stars and the cold diffused light of an aurora, to the little rocky dell in the midst of the fields where stood the lonely grange. It was a great rambling stone building, very old, but strong still. Nobody knew when or for what purpose it had been first erected, but my father believed it to be of great antiquity. It was not much used at present, save for a storehouse for grain and cider, but the old Luchons lived in two tolerably comfortable rooms on the ground floor of the old tower. The walk had been long and rough for us all, and especially for my mother, and we were not sorry to see the tower standing dark against the sky, and to meet the challenge of our outposts; for at all our meetings we had our sentinels and our pass-words. My father and Andrew were on the lookout for us, and Andrew nearly crushed my hand off in the fervor of his joy at finding me safe. We passed though the old Luchons' kitchen into the great room or hall which occupied the center of the building, and which was crowded with empty casks and sheaves of grain. Threading our way amid these obstructions, which would have appeared impenetrable to any one not in the secret, we descended a flight of stairs to the vault, where most of our brethren were assembled. A rude platform was built up at one end, before which stood a small table covered with a white cloth. The congregation consisted of several of the neighboring farmers and some of the poorer laborers with their wives, and now and then a grown-up son or daughter, and a few tradespeople and fishermen from Granville, who had run a double danger to break the bread of life once more. The only gentry beside ourselves were the Le Roys, from near Sartilly, who had brought their child for baptism. Not one of the family is alive now. Of that little company, more than half witnessed for their faith on the scaffold or under the muskets of their enemies. I suppose so many of the Religion could not now be gathered in all Normandy.