shed burning fast, the smoke sweeping over the house in heavy volumes. Was it a "gin" to draw them out? thought Nathaniel.. No, he would not go. The cattle were valuable, but his family more so. He would stay, and painful as the loss might be, leave the fire to take its course. And now the oxen were alarmed, and bellowed wildly, stamping and rattling their chains in a most terrible manner. Nathaniel hesitated for a few minutes. But see, the fire is fast consuming the roof, and the flames leap up and round, and lie writhing and crawling amidst the smoke, like fiery serpents. It was soon over. The roof fell, and the cattle one by one were silent, and the black ruin glared in frightful outline against the sky.

"Thank God we are all safe," said Nathaniel, with great cheerfulness.

This was the beginning of poor Newbury's troubles. Sheep, plantations, stacks, and outstanding crops, were variously plundered in their turn, and a state of genuine alarm was fostered by letters from London, and tidings of neighbouring forays. So he furbished his arms, procured more gun

powder, and disposed matters within Carlton Grange for a siege if need be.

Nathaniel was not a man of war by nature. But there were three facts that went strongly to make him one under present conditions. He feared-God, had a honest notion that there was something divine about a man's liberty and life, and had gradually come to dislike all Popish mummeries, priestly devices, and peremptory mandates from king and convocation, that began with blarney and ended with blasphemy. To be brief, he had recently become an Anabaptist, or a Donatist dipper, and this almost without knowing it, or ever having had an opportunity to submit to the baptismal rite. He had been born a churchman because he could not help it, and he had attended church with his family pretty regularly, until he came across an old Dutch work, recently Englished by an anonymous hand. This book had cleared away the mist and dust that had hitherto hid from him spiritual truth, and lifted him into a new region where all seemed to lie beneath the immediate smile and presence

of God. He felt he could live better, love more, and do more, when he trusted to the simple Scripture thoughts this book had opened, than when enveloped in the somnolent folds of a traditional faith, or groping in a blind murk that only excited aspiration to clip and hood it for ever. He got the neighbours together in his house on the Lord's day, and expounded and preached, telling them whence he drew the impulses of his life and the germs of his primitive faith.

Here began fresh misfortunes. Persecuted for his new doctrines, and contempt of the old, he struggled and strived, prayed, suffered, and believed. Light came in the darkness, and amidst that pure illumination, duty became beautiful, danger sublime, and death a transfiguration. But more than this, there had latterly been an evident absorption in some new and secretly cherished scheme. All the mean details of his daily life fell from him like leprous scales in this white-heat of a new and patriot enthusiasm. He was sad and solitary. Neighbours called

him " queer" and "peculiar." Old Midge,

the armourer, knew more than most folks,

and was most frequently visited, but he stood out against all talkers and newsmongers. Such conduct was made more inexplicable by the good news so joyfully received within the last few weeks. The neighbourhood was now clear of enemies, and Colonel Cromwell himself, more familiarly known as the "Lord of the Fens," was coming to clear the country of Camdeners and Papists.

The suspense at Carlton Grange at last grew fearful. Mother and children were caught up into the same fervent mood, without knowing how the impulse came, or whither it led. At length, in family worship one morning, the secret accidentally came out, and throughout the day Deborah was paler, though her eyes were wilder and brighter than usual.

Night came. Old Midge brought home a suit of armour, a sword, a bolster pistol, and a stout pike for home use. They were hung in the warm oak-panelled parlour, and beneath them reposed the open Bible. All was the hush of deep, suppressed emotion— the silence of the soul when it catches the

far-off rhythm of celestial worlds, and is folded in the sweet embraces of divine tenderness and grace. The soft lamplight danced on the bright arms, and touched up a word here and there on the Holy page. Deborah was in tears, and her lips trembled in spite of the strong effort of her will. Keturah, a girl of fourteen, who sat next her, was demure and statuesque. Elijah, the eldest and only son, now Giles was away, was sedate, even sad, visibly nerving himself for what was coming. Serving men and domestics, in varying moods of curiosity and feeling, sat in the dim shadows of the distance, and made up a picture such as Albert Durer would have loved to paint, and one that would have done an honest soul more good than picture of saint, cherub, or Madonna. Nathaniel read a passage from the book of Samuel, beginning, " And David said to Saul, let no man's heart fail him because of him: thy servant will go and fight with this Philistine." Every word sank deep in their hearts. Prayer followed, and when the father's voice faltered, there was weeping, wringing of hands, and loud gushes of feel

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