"Is it not a pitiful sight?" said the good woman. "The babe was born about daybreak, and for a little, we hoped it might live, but it just breathed long enough to be christened, poor little dear, and its last sigh passed away with its mother's. She had her senses to the last, and I warrant you, it was a pitiful thing to hear how she strove to comfort her husband, and prayed for those who had brought her to this pass. I will never say a word about the Methodists again." I have seen many a sorrowful sight in my day, but never I think one which touched me like that. As I thought of Lord Bulmer with his languid fine gentleman airs, and remembered how he had set on the mob to murder these innocent creatures, my heart was like to burst with grief and indignation. I was to hate him worse before I had done with him. "There, don't make yourself ill with crying, that's a dear!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "The poor thing's troubles are over, and she will never suffer again; and as to the dear baby, we know the Lord took such in his arms and blessed them, even when the disciples would have hindered him. Go down into the garden if you will, and gather some rosemary and lavender, to strew over the winding-sheet, and a white rose or two, to lay in the babe's bosom. We must make things look as pretty as we can." I observed already, how neatly the bodies were dressed, and disposed. As Mrs. Thorpe had suggested, I hurried down to the garden and gathered my hands full of sweet herbs, with which the place abounded. I was busily searching for some of the late violets which bloomed in a sunny border, when I was accosted by young Mr. Thorpe. "The poor woman above is dead, I hear!" said he, after a morning salutation. "And her babe also. 'Tis a cowardly murder, if ever there was one." "You did your best to save them!" I said. "Yes! And should have succeeded, for the mob were inclined to hear the preacher at first when he turned to speak with them. But that cowardly fellow—Lord Bulmer as they call him, and one or two more of his sort, set them on, crying out that he was a spy for the Pretender. A spy indeed! We know who would have favored him, if he had been. But I shall mayhap meet this fine Lordling again, and we shall see whether he wears the white feather, as well as the white cockade. I crave your pardon, madam, I should not use such language before you: but I am a plain sailor, and not much used to ladies' society. Can I give you any help?" "I would like a cluster of those white rose-buds!" said I, looking up to where a beautiful Noisette rose was trained against the wall. "But I fear they are out of reach." "Not a bit of it!" was the answer. Mr. Thorpe clambered up the rough wall at the peril of his neck, as it seemed to me. But before I had time to be scared, he was on the ground again, and put the roses into my hand. "Thank you. They are beautiful," said I. "But you should not have run such a risk for them."