Under all these favoring circumstances, Father William remained unmolested for the present, and he improved the time by preaching every day in his own church, and instructing in the truth those persons—and they were many—who came to unburden their minds and consciences to him. Jack found him sitting at his frugal supper table, not eating, but leaning back in his chair; and he could not but remark how worn and thin the good man looked. "You are killing yourself with this constant labor, dear father," said he; "you must take some rest." "I must work the work to which I am sent, while it is yet day," said Father William. "The night cometh apace, in which no man can work. Unless I am greatly mistaken, this calm which we now enjoy is like to be of short duration, and I must use it diligently to win souls to my Master, and plant seed which may spring and grow when I am laid low. Besides," he added, with a sorrowful smile, "why should I save the body for the hangman or the stake? I should esteem myself blessed, indeed, if I might but die at my work. But what can I do for you, my dear son?" Jack briefly opened his business. "The danger is imminent, as you say," said priest when he had heard the story. "It would be certain death for the lady to return to the convent, and she may be called to do so any day—especially if she be suspected of heresy." He mused a little while, and Jack almost thought he had forgotten the subject of conversation, when he roused himself from his abstraction. "I think I see my way," said he. "I know a gentleman's family among the hills, yonder, where I think she would be welcome, both for her own sake and the gospel's. It is a wild and rocky nook—they say the sun is scarce seen there in winter, for the height of the hills which surround it—and there are abundance of places where, if need were, an army might be concealed. I shall be going that way tomorrow, and will see the lady and break the matter to her." Sir William was as good as his word, and in two or three days, he told Jack the result of his mission. The lady was overjoyed at the thought of having such a companion in her solitude and such a teacher for her daughters, and the squire was ready to afford succor to any one who came to him in the name of the gospel. "They are but rustic folk," said the priest, "and, though of gentle blood, far behind our town burghers in refinement and luxury. Sister Barbara must be content to rough it not a little, but that is a small matter. Any home, however rude, is better than a prison." The result of these negotiations was communicated to Sister Barbara. At first she was distressed at the thought of leaving her school and her new friends, but a little consideration showed her that flight was the best course. "I care nothing for roughing it," she said; "the good father well says that any home is better than a prison, and doubtless I can find ways to make myself useful to the lady and her daughters."