And as he spoke, his words rang and sounded like music, and stirred the blood like a trumpet; and Jane’s face was lifted to the rough, glorified visage of the warrior and the seer, who saw yet afar off his justification, saw it in the Red Cross of St. George flying over land and sea, and carrying in all its blowing folds only one glorious word—"FREEDOM." In such moments Cromwell’s spirit walked abreast of angels; he looked majestic, he spoke without pause or ambiguity, and with an heroic dictation that carried conviction rather than offense, for it had nothing personal in it, and it suited him just as hardness suits fine steel. In this enthusiasm of national feeling, Jane forgot her personal grief, and as she went homeward, she kept repeating to herself Cromwell’s parting words, "Don’t doubt, Jane. God nor man nor nature can do anything for doubters. They cannot." She understood what was included in this advice, and she tried to realise it. The moment Mrs. Swaffham saw her daughter, she took notice of the change in her countenance and speech and manner, and she said to herself, "Jane has been with Oliver Cromwell. No one else could have so influenced her." And very soon Jane told her all that had been done and said, and both women tried to assure themselves that a few more weeks of patience would bring them that certainty which is so much easier to bear than suspense. For the very hope of suspense is cruel, but in the face of a sorrow, sure and known, the soul erects herself and finds out ways and means to mitigate or to bear it. States of enthusiasm, however, do not last; and they are not often to be desired. The disciples after the glory of Mount Tabor were not able to go with Christ up Calvary. Jane felt the very next day that she had mentally promised herself to do more than she was able to perform. She could not forget Cluny, or put in his place any less selfish object; and though the days came laden with strange things, she did not take the fervid interest in public events her father and mother did. For there are in nature points of view where a cot can blot out a mountain, and on our moral horizons a personal event can put a national revolution in the background. In the main, she carried a loving, steadfast heart, that waited in patience, sometimes even in hope; but there were many days when her life seemed to be tied in a knot, and when fear and sorrow crept like a mist over it. For there was nothing for her to do; she could only wait for the efforts of others, and she longed rather for the pang of personal conflict. But human beings without these tidal fluctuations are not interesting; people who always pursue the "even tenor of their way" leave us chilled and dissatisfied; we prefer that charm of uncertain expectation, which, with all its provocations, made Matilda dear and delightful to Jane, and Jane perennially interesting, even to those who did not think as she thought or do as she did.