The stranger never did a wiser thing than when he remained in the cottage. He stood looking into the fire waiting for Daniel to return, and out in the garden Daniel opened the folded sheet of paper, written closely in a neat hand. “O, my dear,” ran the words of the letter, “how well I love you, and how often I think of you, God alone knows, for I shall never find the poor words to tell you. Only I pray every night that I may soon see you, and that this long waiting may cease. But it isn’t only right but what our love should be tested, I know that, and God doesn’t send us trials for nothing. “You know what I spoke to you about last time when we were walking on the Common. Do you remember how the gorse was out, and how I begged you to get free from everything that wasn’t honest--how it isn’t like you to have dealings of that kind? I know it hasn’t come very nigh you yet, Daniel; I know you won’t let it part us. There’s always plenty of things in this life ready to come in between goodness and turn lives crooked, if they can; but we won’t let them hurt our happiness, will we?--not we two. Only the other day I was thinking about you, and I took the Book and let my hands wander among the pages for a sign. And I said, ‘This’ll be for Daniel,’ as I was doing it, and I looked down and read. And the words were: ‘Love the brotherhood, obey God, honour the king,’ and that was a sign, Daniel, and it was for you.” The wind blew softly through the cottage garden, bending the bushes of chrysanthemums by the wall. It rustled among the nasturtiums, and away out into the field beyond. And the words of the letter kept repeating themselves in Daniel’s brain, “Obey God, honour the king.” And now they were not only written words, but they brought the tone of a voice with them. He re-entered the cottage and faced the stranger once more. “I can’t do what you’re asking of me,” he said, “but at least I shan’t work agin you, I’ve made up my mind. You may depend upon me.” “That’s well; then I’ll say good-morning to you, Mr. Maidment. I will leave you this address if you should have any written communication you may want to send.” He unhitched his horse’s reins from the gate-post, and mounting, went at a swinging trot down the road. CHAPTER XX _Under the salt sea’s foam it lay, At the outermost point of a rocky bay, A sandy, tide-pooly, cliff-bound cove With a red-roofed fishing village above Of irregular cottages perched up high Amid pale yellow poppies next to the sky. Shells, and pebbles, and wrack below, And shrimpers shrimping all in a row, Tawny sails and tarry boats, Dark-brown nets and old cork floats, Nasty smells at the nicest spots, Blue-jersey’d sailors, and lobster pots._ J. H. EWING.