Jane heard constantly of these events, but her heart had closer interests. The ship which was to carry Cluny and herself to America was lying at her wharf nearly ready for sea. It was a stout vessel belonging to Sir Thomas Jevery, commanded by a captain of tried skill and great piety. There were to be no other passengers; Cluny and Jane alone were to find in its black-ribbed cabin their home for many weeks, perhaps months. A recent experience had proven the necessity for this exclusion of strange elements. Early in June, Israel had taken Cluny to bid farewell to his old General, and the meeting had tried both men severely. A few days previous, Cromwell had laid in the grave his little grandson, Oliver, and the child’s image still lived in his troubled eyes. He could scarcely speak when he saw Cluny. He waived impatiently all ceremony, drew him to his breast and kissed him; but it was quickly evident Cluny could not bear any conversation on his past misery. His excitement became painful to witness, and Cromwell with quick, kind wisdom, began to speak rather of his own great sorrow. "You know, Israel," he said, "how sweet a little lad my Oliver was. I cannot yet believe that he is dead; I cannot. Only a week ago, when he was ill and restless, I lifted him and carried him to and fro, and his cheek was against my cheek, and his arms around my neck, and suddenly I felt them slip away, and I looked at the child, and so caught his last smile. I thought that night my heart would break; but the consolations of God are not small, and I shall go to the boy, though he will never come back to me. Never! Never! His mother is now very ill; you would pity her, indeed you would. Cluny, you remember the Lady Elizabeth Claypole?" "My General, I shall never forget her." "I do fear she is sick unto death. Her little Oliver’s removal has been the last blow of the last enemy. You may pity me, Cluny; I need pity, I do indeed; I am a man of many afflictions. But it is the Lord; let Him do whatever seemeth good in His sight." He then went to a desk and wrote a few lines to the officials of the Massachusetts Colony; in them, commending Lord Neville to their kindness and care. His hands trembled—those large strong hands—trembled as he gave the letter to Cluny. Then he kissed him once more, and with a "Farewell" that was a blessing, he turned away, weeping. "It is another friend gone," he said mournfully to his own heart; "lover and friend are put far from me and mine acquaintance into darkness." But he went straight to his daughter Elizabeth, and talked to her only of God’s great love and goodness, and of the dear boy who had been taken from them because "he pleased God; because he was beloved of God, so that living among sinners he was translated; yea, speedily was he taken away, lest wickedness should alter his understanding or deceit beguile his soul; and being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time."[1]