Brave Bessie Westland, by Emma Leslie

"HUSH, hush, Dorothy! Thee must not cry, for fear they should hear thee, and come and look for us. The Lord will take care of us, now He hath called mother and father to witness for the truth."

These words were spoken in a whisper to the little sister who lay trembling in her arms, but there was something like a gasping sob in Bessie Westland's voice, though she tried to speak bravely and calmly, for fear the two younger sisters should grow more frightened.

But the mention of their mother brought back all the trouble, and in spite of the warning words both burst into tears, while Dorothy sobbed out—

"Oh, where have the cruel soldiers taken mother? Will they burn her, think ye, Bessie?"

"Nay, nay, the Smithfield burnings are ended; there have been none of late. King Charles—"

"Down with the Quakers!" shouted a hoarse voice close to their hiding-place, and Bessie, who was holding the string of the cellar door, felt her whole body shake with terror, for if the mob should find them there was no telling what they might do. So with the cellar door string in one hand, she held the frightened children close to her with the other, as they sat cowering in the dark, and listening to the angry threats of their rude neighbours, whom her father had so often warned to flee from the wrath to come.

"Turn out the rats' nest!" called another voice; and it was clear, from the sound of trampling feet and the breaking of furniture, that the mob were doing their best to fulfil the threats of vengeance against the unfortunate Quakers.

"King Charles has let us see now who are the law-breakers, and who gets their ears slit off," said a man who had posted himself close to the cellar door, while the rest ransacked cupboards and chests for what they could find, as nobody was likely to bring them to account for sacking the house of a convict Quaker.

They seemed to have forgotten the children who were hiding in the cellar, for this man stood with his back against the door and talked, while the rest searched every room and corner, evidently thinking that it was their lawful spoil, now that the owners had been carried off to prison.

How long they sat huddled together in the damp dark cellar, listening to the destruction of their home, and the threats against father and mother, they never knew; but to Bessie and her frightened sisters it seemed hours and hours before the people began to go away, and they were in constant terror lest some one should pull the door open and reveal their hiding-place.

At last the house began to grow more quiet. The man moved away from the door, and little Rose Westland ventured to lift her head from her sister's lap.

"Hast thou forgotten mother's words already? how she bade us stay close in the cellar until the Lord sent His messenger to deliver us?"

"But it is so dark," objected Dorothy; for now that the house was left in peace, the child thought she might peep out and see what mischief had been done, and she said so.

"Nay; nay," replied Bessie in a solemn whisper; "we must obey mother, and wait here for the Lord's messenger."

Her fingers were stiff and cramped, and her arm ached from holding the string so tightly, but she would not let it fall. "We are safe here; mother said they would not come to the cellar, and thee seest she was right. Now we must wait; the Lord will nathless send His messenger soon." And then Bessie relapsed into silence, to listen for the messenger who should come to their rescue.

The day before, their father had been carried off while preaching a few yards from his own house, and at sunrise that morning a party of soldiers had knocked at the door with a warrant to take their mother to gaol also, for she had been preaching and teaching, in spite of the warnings issued to all Quakers and seditious persons against unlawful assemblies.

Before she went away, she bade Bessie take her younger sisters and hide with them in the cellar. And here they, had been crouching in one corner ever since, too frightened to feel hungry, and sick and faint from terror and exhaustion, yet confidently expecting that God would send help to them, though who would be brave enough to come to the rescue of poor Quaker children, Bessie did not know.

Meanwhile, the prisoner, as she was hurried along the streets by the soldiers, was recognised by one and another she knew, so some of the little Society of Friends soon heard that one of their number had been arrested, and several went to the court where the prisoner was first taken, and there contrived to get a word with her, and to these she said, "The children are in the cellar."

It would be sufficient, she knew, for the committee of suffering formed for the relief of distress would help them somehow, and the brave-hearted woman felt she could go to prison cheerfully if her children were taken care of.

An hour later there was a meeting at the house of one who knew the Westlands, to consider the case of the children, and there it was decided that a messenger should fetch them by water from the Tower Stairs, and they would be quartered upon three Friends living near, one of their number undertaking to manage this delicate business.

At the corner of Soper Lane he met one of those he was in search of, and told him his errand.

"It is thought likely that Friend Westland may be sent out to Jamaica or His Majesty's plantation of Virginia, or he may escape with a fine and the loss of his other ear, so that he may be able to maintain his family again by and by."

"True, friend; but none can tell how soon thy home and mine may also be desolated, and therefore should we be careful how we take charges we are not able to fulfil," said the other, hastily looking round lest any one should overhear what they were talking about, and suspect them of being Quakers.

"But surely we may trust the Lord to provide for us and our little ones?" returned the other in a tone of protest.

"Yea, yea, I doubt it not, friend; but still I hold that we should not run needlessly into danger, and this affair of Westland's is becoming the town talk, and to bring his children among our own just now will be to invite persecution. Wait awhile, and then we shall see."

"See them starving," interrupted the other, with most un-Quaker-like haste and heat; for the thought of this family of little children being left to the tender mercies of a world that was so cruel to Quakers, made his naturally quick temper rise against the extreme caution of his companion, and without waiting to say another word he turned and walked in the direction of his own home.

It was not far from where they had been standing, and in a few minutes he reached the door, which was almost instantly opened by his wife, who had been waiting and watching for his return for nearly an hour.

"Now the Lord be praised for bringing thee back to me in safety once more," said Dame Drayton in a glad whisper, as she closed the street door, while her husband hung up his cloak and tall steeple-shaped hat on the peg in the entry.

"Bad enough, Martha. Westland is condemned to lose his ears and then be banished to the plantations of Jamaica or Virginia—I am not certain which—and his wife is to be imprisoned in Bridewell until she has earned sufficient to pay the charge of her own transport to join him."

"And they have children, Gilbert," said his wife in a pitying tone, lifting her eyes wistfully to her husband's face, as if mutely asking what they were to do for these.

"We will ask counsel of the Lord first, and the inner voice will teach us what we ought to do," he said gravely. And as he spoke he turned down a passage leading to his workshop, while his wife went into the kitchen to superintend the preparation of dinner.

As they silently pursued their daily tasks, each lifted their heart to God for guidance, and then listened for the voice of the Holy Spirit to show them what they ought to do.

Two little girls were being taught meanwhile how to help in chopping suet, washing currants, and pounding savoury herbs, which would all be required for dinner. They understood, when they saw their mother close her eyes for a moment, that they were not to talk or ask questions; but before the morning tasks were over, they were startled by being asked whether they would like some brothers and sisters to come and live with them.

"Because 'prentices eat so much bread. Deb says she will have to bake and brew again to-morrow, they eat so much."

"Poor Deb is nathless weary, or she would not grudge the labour, since the Lord hath sent meal and malt sufficient for all our wants. That is why thee must learn to do what thee can in the kitchen when thou art not learning from the horn book—that must by no means be neglected. Now, Betty, if thou bast finished those currants, thee may take Hannah and help her with her lesson until I can come to thee."

"But thou hast not told us about the new brothers and sisters," said the younger, a little fair-haired girl whose curls could not be persuaded to lie hidden under the close linen cap, but would peep out all round neck and face, in a fashion that annoyed Dame Drayton sometimes.

"Go with Betty to the keeping-room and learn the spelling task; it may be thee will hear and learn something more than the horn book can teach thee if thou dost ponder over my question. Think of it well, and all it will mean to thee—about the extra baking and brewing. Thee may leave Deborah and I to think," added the mother with a gentle smile on her lips, as the two little girls left the room.

For her own part she had no doubt as to the voice within her, and she longed for dinner time to come, to know what her husband would say. Of course she would wait and hear what he should propose first, but she would contrive to let him know that the Spirit had spoken with no uncertain voice to her.

Master Drayton was a hatter, working with two apprentices at the back of the house, in pasting and pressing the various shaped hats that at present found favour with the London public.

A glance at Master Drayton's workshop would have told the stranger that the country was in a period of transition, for there were tall steeple-crowned hats such as were fashionable in the time of the Lord-Protector Cromwell, but there were quite as many low and broad-brimmed, that would be adorned with a long ostrich feather before they were placed in the fashionable shop window; and Master Drayton often thought of the changes he had seen during the last few years.

But Puritan and Cavalier alike were united in their hatred of Quakers, and it seemed as though they would surely be exterminated between the two. Yet they all worshipped the same God and Father in heaven, and professed to love and serve the same Lord and Saviour who had died to redeem them.

Some such thoughts as these were passing through the hatter's mind as he stood silently directing the labours of one of his 'prentice lads; for even in the workshop the Quaker rule of silence, where words were not actually needed, held full sway, and so, except for the movement of fingers and tools, and the slight noise thus caused, this hat factory was as silent as a church.

"Thee must be more careful not to waste," was Master Drayton's only word of reproof to a clumsy lad who had just spoiled a hat he was making; but the words were so gravely spoken, that the lad reproved felt heartily sorry for his stupidity, and wished he could repair the mischief he had wrought.

When the dinner bell rang, master and apprentices took off their aprons, washed their hands at the pump outside the door, and then went to the fresh sanded dining-room, where Dame Drayton and the two little girls had already taken their seats, with Deborah, the matronly maid-of-all work.

There was a silent pause before the meal was served, but no spoken words of prayer broke the silence.

The plain but bountiful repast was eaten without a word being spoken beyond what was needful, and yet it was by no means a dull and gloomy family gathering.

Dame Drayton, from her place at the foot of the table, beamed upon her husband and his apprentices as though they had been honoured guests, and the little girls smiled gravely but sweetly, seconding their mother's welcome. There were little courteous nods and smiles too, as the bright pewter plates were passed to the master to be filled, the boys forgetting their hunger in their eagerness to see their mistress served first. Deborah might sometimes grudge the labour of making up so much bread, but as she looked at the boys and noted how they enjoyed their meals, she felt content. Mistress and maid often interchanged looks of amused interest, as pies, puddings, and pasties vanished before the healthy appetites.

An atmosphere of peace and content pervaded this household, that needed no words, for it found expression in acts of kindness and courtesy, and looks and smiles of tender love. Indeed, it seemed as though the very repression of all utterance filled the silence with a power of peace and restfulness that no one desired to break.

When the meal was over, the two lads helped Deborah to carry the plates and dishes to the kitchen, the little girls went to walk round the garden, and husband and wife drew together at the window.

"Thou hast thought of my words this morning, dear heart, I can see," said Master Drayton with a smile, as he took his wife's hand.

"Thee knowest it would be grievous to part these little children, Gilbert. The voice of God to me is, that we bring them to dwell here with our little ones."

"But, Martha, hast thou thought what this will mean to thee and Deborah? Three children are no light charge, my wife."

"True, Gilbert; but if the Lord send them, He will natheless give grace and strength to bear with them."

"But the committee of suffering have not apportioned them all to thee, one only to—"

"The committee are natheless wise men," said his wife quickly; "but the Lord's voice can be heard by a woman in the stillness of her home, more clearly, concerning the welfare of little children, and the voice to me is, 'Part not these little ones.' If another would fain receive them, even so let it be; but add not grief to grief, by laying a further burden upon these tender witnesses for the truth. It is enough that their parents are torn from them; let them have the comfort of abiding together, wherever their home may be."

For gentle Dame Drayton to make such a long speech as this, made her husband open his eyes in silent amazement; but it was sufficient to convince him that she felt very strongly about the matter, and this was doubtless the Lord's voice in her heart, or she would not thus have spoken. So after a minute's pause he said, "I will see what Friend Briggs thinks of thy word, and if he wills to take the three children he will natheless tell me. If not, I will fetch them hither at sundown."

There was no further need of words about the matter, and none were spoken. The hatter returned to his workshop, and the busy housewife took out her spinning-wheel; for if these children came to her poorly provided with clothes, she would need to draw upon her store in the linen-press, and so there would be the more need for its replenishment.

But while Dame Drayton's spinning-wheel hummed to the pleasant measure of her thoughts and plans for the children she was ready to welcome to her home, her husband was revolving the same matter in his mind, but in a fashion his wife had never glanced at. He was wondering what the committee of suffering would think of his wife's proposal, in view of the fact that she was not held to be a good Quakeress by the leaders of their district meeting. The cause of this was that she refused to give up entirely her attendance at "a steeple-house," as the Quakers called a church. She was born in Maiden Lane, and had attended All Hallow's Church in Bread Street since she was a child, and there she still took her own children sometimes, since they had been roughly driven out of White Swan Court, where their own meeting-house stood.

Now, the leaders among this little company of Quakers maintained that, for a woman to take her children to "a steeple-house," in preference to a Friends' meeting-house, because a party of rough soldiers had driven back the worshippers in the name of the king two or three times lately, was a weak compliance to the enemy, that must be strongly condemned. Dame Drayton had pleaded that her elder child was a weak and nervous girl, who had been unable to sleep without terrifying dreams, after the encounter with the soldiers, especially as they had the pain of seeing one of their friends carried off to prison by them. These sturdy witnesses for the truth, as it was held and taught by George Fox, thought the best way to overcome such nervous terror on the part of a child, was to accustom her to the sight of thus witnessing to the truth, and she was commanded to attend her district meeting-house, and bring her children with her, each First Day that it was open for worship.

Now Dame Drayton was as devout a Quakeress as any among them, but she had not so learned the truth either from the lips of George Fox or from the Bible, which she diligently studied.

"I am a child of God, and therefore I may not be in bondage to any man," she pleaded. "God can speak to me by the weak voice of my little child as well as by the committee of discipline," she said, when her husband reluctantly brought her the message passed at their monthly meeting, commanding her attendance at worship whenever the leaders should deem it safe to hold such a meeting, for this was not always possible at the present time of persecution.

That one so gentle, and seemingly so timid and compliant, should dare to disobey this command, was a great surprise to many; but Dame Drayton's love for her weakly child was stronger than her fear of those in authority, and so she held on her way, going herself to the meeting-house occasionally, but always taking her children to All Hallow's Church, where, as she said, they could worship God with other servants who were striving to do His will, though they were not Quakers.

This breach of discipline on the part of one of their number was a sore fret to many among the little company, for in all else Dame Drayton had proved a most exemplary member, one who was ever ready to help and succour the distressed, either among themselves or the poor who were often dependent upon them.

Now as the hatter mused over his work, he feared that when he made his appeal to be allowed to have Westland's three children, his wife's breach of discipline would be remembered against her, and they would view this demand on her part as another impeachment of their wisdom in selecting homes for them; and so it was by no means an easy or pleasant task that he had undertaken, for he felt sure his request would be refused as soon as it was made. However, as the children were to be fetched that evening, there was little time for him to ponder over the matter, and so soon as his work for the day was finished, and the apprentices dismissed, he put on his hat and cloak, and hurried off to the house of one of the committee, to consult him upon the matter, for he had agreed to meet the messenger at Triggs' Stairs, who was to bring the children by water from Southwark that evening.

It was by no means a simple business in the times of which we write, for to give shelter and help to one who was known to be a Quaker would bring suspicion and espionage; and, therefore, to take in the children of such a well-known Quaker as Westland might entail a good deal of inconvenience upon those who were brave enough to do it, even if they escaped positive persecution from the authorities.

It was doubtless this that made it difficult to find homes for those who had been practically orphaned, for well-to-do citizens, who could afford to add to their responsibilities in this way, had much to forego in the way of fines and business losses, if their connection with the despised people were thus publicly asserted.

So, when the hatter reached the house of his friend, he found him in great perplexity over this matter, for each of those to whom the Westland children had been assigned had some special reason for asking to be excused the service; and when he saw Drayton, he made up his mind that he had come to him on a similar errand.

"I know what thou past come to say to me, friend, for thou art not the first visitor I have had concerning this business. Of course, Dame Drayton is fearful for her own children, and hath sent thee to say she cannot take these, though—"

"Nay, nay; the word of the Lord to my wife is, that these little ones should not be separated the one from the other, and she desires me to say to thee that she would prefer to have them all, an it so please thee."

"She will take all these children!" exclaimed the Quaker in a tone of astonishment.

"Even so, friend; for she deems it but adding to their burden of sorrow at this time to be parted the one from the other."

"And what sayest thou to this?" asked the other, looking keenly at the hatter; for he was not a wealthy man, but had to work hard for the maintenance of his family, and to add thus to his burden was no light matter.

"I can but follow the word of the Lord in me, and that is that I take these little ones until their parents can claim them at my hand."

"Be it so, then; and the Lord bless thee in thy work, for thou hast lifted a heavy burden of care from my mind anent this matter. I have chosen a discreet messenger to bring them from their home, lest one of us being known should draw the attention of the authorities to what we were doing, and that might end in our being lodged in gaol with our brother Westland."

"But how shall I know this messenger?" asked the hatter. "I can go at once to Triggs' Stairs and meet him."

"Nay, it is a woman who hath chosen this difficult service; and if thou art in doubt concerning who it is, by reason of other passengers being near, ask her the way to the Dyers' Garden; for by that signal was she to know to whom she might deliver the children."

"I will not fail thee," said the hatter. "And when I have taken charge of these little ones, I will bid her come to thee and give a due account of how she hath sped on her errand."

And, saying this, Master Drayton bade his friend farewell, and went at once to the waterside, where he feared the messenger would be waiting for him.

CHAPTER II.

DAME DRAYTON.

THE Thames in the reign of Charles the Second was the great highway of traffic for the city of London. There were no steamboats, it is true, but watermen, duly licensed by the city authorities, and wearing badges,—much as cabmen do at the present time,—were always ready with their boats to take passengers wherever they might want to go; then there were wherries, and splendidly decorated barges for pleasure parties; so that the river was always a scene of busy traffic, and especially towards dusk on a summer evening, for then people would be returning home, or hastening to embark; so that the time had been well chosen for the coming of the Westland children, for they were more likely to escape observation now than earlier in the day.

Triggs' Stairs was a well-known landing-place, not very far from his own home; and the hatter went by the shortest cuts, through the busy narrow streets leading to the river, for fear of keeping the messenger waiting, and thus attracting the attention of watermen and passengers alike.

But just as Master Drayton reached the top of the landing-stairs a boat touched the platform below, which the hatter felt sure had brought those he was seeking. The children were neatly clad, but there was a sad woe-begone look in their faces, and two of them seemed to shrink behind the young woman who sat between them. She too looked anxious, until she caught sight of the hatter, and then she seemed to gain more confidence, and led the children up the steps as briskly as their wet and dangerous condition would permit.

"Thee are sent to us by our brother Staples," she said, almost before the question of identification could be asked.

"Yea, I am here to take charge of the little ones; but thou wilt come and see my wife, and tell her what is needful to be told," returned Master Drayton; for he noticed that only a very small bundle had been brought with them, and this was carried by the elder girl. She was about thirteen, he judged, and singularly like her father, as he had seen him a day or two before, when he stood in the court of the Lord Mayor, and was condemned to lose his ears, and then be transported as an obstinate schismatic, dangerous to the king and his authority.

It was not the habit of Quakers to talk in the streets, and so they walked towards Soper Lane, which was close to the river, without asking any further questions, for fear of being overheard by some one passing.

Deborah opened the street door, and received them with a smile of welcome, as she explained that her mistress was in her own room; which Master Drayton knew how to interpret, and went himself to tell her the children had come.

"And none have dared to make them afraid, since the Lord had them in His keeping," said his wife with a pleasant smile; and she hastened to the keeping-room to welcome these strangers to their new home.

"My own little girls, who are to be your sisters, you know, were obliged to go to bed, they were so sleepy, but you will see them in the morning;" and as she spoke she kissed each of the shy, frightened little strangers, putting an arm around each, while she spoke to the Friend who had brought them.

"They were hiding in the cellar when I reached the house; for it seems that our brother hath given great offence to his neighbours by his plainness of speech when he preached and denounced their wickedness, and so they had revenged themselves upon him, by well-nigh stripping his dwelling as soon as he and his wife were taken to prison. Even the clothes seem to have been stolen, for I could find none but these," she said, touching the little bundle that had been placed on the table.

"I think the soldiers took some of the things," said the elder girl at this point; "but mother had said, 'Thee stay with thy sisters in the cellar,' just before they dragged her away, and Dorothy was so frightened when we heard the people running up and down stairs, that I could not go and see what they were doing."

"That was wise of thee, dear child," said Dame Drayton with a sigh; for she could not help wondering what would happen to her own darlings if she and her husband should ever fall into similar trouble. Sometimes it seemed impossible that they could long escape suspicion, and then anyone might denounce them who happened to bear them any ill-will.

The messenger who had brought the children did not stay long, for the streets of London were no fit place for a woman after dusk, even though she might be staid and discreet; and so, as soon as the necessary particulars had been given, Master Drayton put on another hat and coat, to go with her to the Friend who had undertaken to manage the affair for the committee of suffering.

While her husband was gone, Dame Drayton took the children to the little bedroom she had prepared for them near her own, and the nervous, frightened manner of the two younger girls fully justified what her fears had been concerning them.

They clung to their elder sister, trembling even at the kind attentions of their friend, lest she should attempt to tear them from this last protector.

"Thee will let us sleep together," said the little mother, as she took a hand of each of her younger sisters, and led them upstairs. "We are not hungry now, only a little tired with the fright," she explained, when Dame Drayton would have had supper brought into the keeping-room for them.

"Certainly ye shall sleep together, and to-morrow I hope we shall learn to know each other better;" and she shut the children in to themselves, for she could see that it would be kinder to leave them now, than to press any attentions upon them, or to ask them any further questions. Before she went to bed, however, she gently opened the door and looked in, but found to her relief that they were sound asleep in each other's arms; and they did not rouse the next morning until all the house was astir, and the sun peeping in at their windows.

"This is Bessie Westland, and these are her little sisters, Rose and Dorothy," said Dame Drayton the next morning, introducing the new-comers to her own children and the family assembled at the breakfast table.

One of the apprentices had just raised his horn of small ale to drink, but at the name of Westland he paused, and looked first at the new-comers, and then at his companion; for the name of Westland had been heard of a good deal during the last few days, and the lads were not likely to forget it.

The hatter noticed the look that passed between the two boys, and it did not tend to make him feel more comfortable; for although it was known that he was a strict and godly citizen, the fact of his being a Quaker he desired to keep secret as far as possible, but he feared now that the coming of these children might be the means of its discovery.

Dame Drayton had also noticed the surprised looks in the lads' faces; but she felt sure they might be trusted not to mention what they had heard out of the house, for they were steady, quiet, reliable lads, and their occupation kept them out of touch with many of the more turbulent of their class. Their parents were steady God-fearing people; and so Dame Drayton put aside all fear of mischief coming to them through the apprentices.

The children were naturally shy of each other at first; but by degrees this slipped off like a garment there was no further need to use, and the first question Bessie asked was about her mother and father.

There was no disrespect in the girl's tone; but she came of a more stern and uncompromising family of Quakers, and would have looked upon it almost as a sin to use any title of courtesy, however much she might revere the individual. Dame Drayton knew all this, but it came upon her with something like a shock, to be addressed as "Martha Drayton" by this child, and she paused for a minute before answering her question.

Then she said, slowly and cautiously, "Dear child, thou hast been placed in our care by the committee of suffering. They will nathless see to it that ye see your father in due time; but thou must not run into needless danger, or bring suspicion upon this household."

"Art thou ashamed of being a Quaker, then, as our enemies call us?" asked the girl rather severely. "To tremble and quake because of sin was a mark that we were children of the Highest, my father said, and should we be ashamed of that?"

"Nay, nay, we should be unworthy of our high calling if we were to despise the work of the Spirit in our hearts; but dost thou not see, Bessie, that if we were to prate in the streets of these things, we should bring trouble and sorrow upon those whom God hath given us to protect?"

"But the trouble and sorrow would be good for them an it came to them," said Bessie Westland.

"Even so; but if I could not offer thee and thy sisters a safe abiding-place now, the trouble and sorrow of thy father and mother would be increased tenfold."

The girl loved her father very dearly, and would have suffered anything herself to lessen his affliction, and so this view of the matter touched her a little; and Dame Drayton took this opportunity of pressing upon her the need of caution.

"We are not called to raise up to ourselves enemies needlessly. It is only when some truth is to be held firmly and unflinchingly, that we may thus brave the law and the mob who alike are against it."

"But my father held that it was the duty of a true friend of sinners to preach the truth to them at all times, whether they would hear, or whether they would forbear," said Bessie after a minute or two.

"Then, my dear child, if that was the voice of God to him, he could do no other than obey it, and God hath honoured him in calling him to witness to that truth. If the same word came to me, I too must obey; but the voice of the Spirit in my heart was, that I should shield and protect thee and thy sisters, and thus comfort the heart of those called to suffer for His name's sake."

"But—but if thee art a true Friend, would not the word of the Lord be the same to thee as to my father?" said Bessie after a pause.

"Nay, that is where thee makest so grave a mistake," said Dame Drayton, sitting down by Bessie's side, and drawing little Rose close to her. "The Lord hath a word of guidance for each if we will but listen and obey it, without seeking to follow what He may say to another. See now, He hath made me the mother of tender children, and given to thee the care of little sisters, which is next in honour to that of being their mother. Now His word to us will be in accord with this, to guide and direct us in our duty, how to walk before them in love."

"Thy mother is a brave and true Friend, following the word of the Lord, I doubt not," said Dame Drayton quickly; "but because she did that which the Lord, bade her do, it doth not follow that thee should do the same, for the voice of the Spirit may have altogether another word for thee, and thou must listen to that word and follow it, though it lead thee in the way thou wouldest shun. Just now, thou art longing to proclaim to all London that thou art of the despised sect of Quakers, and by this thou wouldest bring grave trouble upon all this household, for the Lord Mayor would not send to arrest a girl like thee, but the man and woman who harboured thee, and so we should be sent to the Bridewell, and thou and my own little ones become an added burden to our brethren."

"I trove not; though King Charles may profess to think men and women are plotting against his throne, he would scarcely accuse a child like thee, and so thou and thy sisters would but be cast forth upon the world again. Wilt thou try to think of this, Bessie; and to remember that the Lord ever speaks to us of the duty that lies nearest to our hand, if we will but listen and obey, instead of seeking to follow the word He may have given to another? This is how so many mistakes are made, dear child. We think that the word spoken to another must be for us also, and so our ears are deafened to the true message that the Spirit is trying to make us hear and understand."

"But dost thou not think my father obeyed the voice in his heart?" asked Bessie quickly.

"Yea, verily, dear child. Nought but the strength that God alone can give can help even a Friend to bear testimony to the truth before such cruel enemies; but dost thou not see that, while some are called to be martyrs for the truth, others are commanded to take up the cross of everyday life, and bear it meekly and patiently, though it lead not to such honour and renown as the martyr may claim? This is what we are called to, dear child. Thou and I must take care of the little ones at home, not denying our faith if any ask us concerning it, but seeking not to thrust it before the eyes of men; content to be unnoticed and unknown, but ever listening to the voice that will not fail to make itself heard in our hearts, if we will but listen with a simple mind."

Bessie bowed her head, but she was only half convinced of the truth her friend had spoken. Her father had declared again and again that they had no right to sit calmly doing the everyday work of life, while sinners were perishing for lack of the word of life.

He had not scrupled to denounce his neighbours who went to church as formalists and hypocrites, and even in the church itself had stood up and warned parson and people alike, telling them that God could be worshipped in the open fields, in the house or shop, better than in a steeple-house; and he had gathered crowds around him in the fields beyond Southwark, and taught them the truth as he had received it from the lips of George Fox, the founder of their Society.

He was a true and ardent disciple of Fox, counting nothing dear so that he might proclaim the truth, the whole truth—as he thought—for in the tenacity with which he held to the little bit he had been able to grasp, he failed to see that he could not grasp the whole. That those whom he denounced so unsparingly also held the truth as they perceived it, or at least another facet of the precious gem, casting its inspiring light upon them, was dark to him.

This had not been heeded by the authorities at first, and Westland, like many another earnest man, was allowed to preach and teach sinners the error of their ways, and warn them of the wrath to come. For to make men tremble and quake, and cry to God for mercy through the Lord Jesus Christ, was the object of all the Quakers' preaching, and the term "Quaker" had been given them in derision on account of this.

For a time these people had been allowed to follow their own way without much interference from the authorities; but their unsparing denunciation of vice and wickedness, whether practised by rich or poor, doubtless raised the resentment of the king, though a political reason was the one put forward for their persecution. The safety of the throne, it was pretended, called for the suppression of these illegal meetings, as sedition was being taught under cover of religion.

So Westland was an early victim, and suffered the loss of his goods, for everything he possessed had to be sold to pay the fine inflicted upon him. But so far from deterring him from doing what he conceived to be his duty, this did but make him the more determined to teach and preach upon every occasion possible.

The next time, a short term of imprisonment, and one ear was cut off by way of punishment. But almost before the place was healed he was preaching again, and denouncing steeple-houses, and those who put their trust in them.

This time the authorities were determined to silence him, and so he had been condemned to lose his other ear, and then be sent as a slave to one of His Majesty's plantations in America, and all London was ringing with the name of Westland, and the punishment that had been dealt out to him as an incorrigible Quaker.

CHAPTER III.

AUDREY LOWE.

"MOTHER, am I truly and verily bound 'prentice to Master Drayton?" asked one of the lads when he went home that night.

His mother was a widow, and lived a mile or two from Soper Lane, and moreover was so busily employed in lace-making all day that she heard very little of what went on around her unless her son Simon brought home news that he had heard during the day, or on his way home at night, so that his next question as to whether she had heard the name of Westland only made the widow shake her head as she counted the threads of her lace to make sure that she was not doing it wrong.

"Has Master Drayton taken another apprentice of that name?" asked his mother, not pausing in her work to look at her boy's face, or she would have seen a look of horror there as he answered quickly—

"What do you mean, Sim?" she asked. "Dame Drayton is our Dame Lowe's own sister, and a godly woman, I have heard, as well as her husband—godly and charitable as the parson himself," added the widow, "or he would not have taken thee to learn the trade and business of a hatter without price, merely because I was a widow known to the parson and his wife."

"Oh yes, they are godly and kind; but did I ever tell you, mother, that one of the rules of the workshop is that we shall not speak more than is needful?"

"And a very wise rule too, if proper work is to be done," said his mother quickly.

"Oh yes, a set of infidel people who speak against the king and the church, and rebel against all law and order. A most pestilent and unruly people, I have heard; but surely—"

Sim folded his arms and leaned upon the table, the guttering candle lighting up his face so that his mother could not fail to see the fright and horror depicted there as he said—

"Nay, nay, Sim; 'tis a thing impossible. Dame Lowe told me her sister was a godly Puritan like ourselves; more stiff in her opinions altogether than she and the parson, for Dame Drayton had counselled that he should give up the church rather than use the new prayer-book, since he could not believe and accept all that was taught in it, and—"

"It would have been a bad case for us if Parson Lowe had refused to conform to the new rule, like so many did," interrupted Sim at this point.

"Yes, it would; and a worse case for his wife and children, for they might have starved by this time instead of living in a comfortable house, with money to help the poor as well as themselves, and I must say, since these changes came, parson has been even more strict and attentive to his duties, though none could complain of him before."

"But what has that to do with Master Drayton being a Quaker?" asked the lad, a little impatiently.

"Why, cannot you see, Sim, that all the family are of so godly a sort, that they would not be likely to take up with all the unruly and wild notions that these pestilent people teach?"

"I don't know what the Quakers teach, but I know that one fellow named Westland has had his ears cut off, and now three girls of the same name have come to live with us in Soper Lane. If they were not Quakers themselves, would they take in a disgraced Quaker's children?"

The widow looked at her son for a minute as if she thought this argument was unanswerable, but after a minute's pause she said—

"They are kind and godly folk, you say, and so it may be they are not of this pestilent sect that hath been suffered to spring up to speak evil of dignities, though they succour these children."

But although the widow said this, she decided to go and see her friend the vicar, and have a word with his wife too if it was possible, for it would never do to let her son—her only child—become contaminated, even though he was being taught his trade without the cost of a penny to herself.

During the rest of the evening she asked the boy a good many questions about his work in Soper Lane, and the ways of the household, but there seemed no fault to be found with anything, though doubtless the household was ruled strictly, as most Puritan homes were. Still, what Sim had told her about Westland made her uncomfortable, and before she went to bed she decided to go to the vicarage the next morning as soon as Sim had started to Soper Lane, and doubtless the parson or Dame Lowe would be able to explain everything, and set her fears at rest.

But when she went, she heard from the maid-servant that the vicar was ill in bed with a bad cold, and that she would have to wait a little while to see her mistress.

"Then I will wait," said the widow, for she had scarcely been able to sleep for thinking of the peril to which her boy might be exposed if it should be true that his master was a Quaker, as he suspected. Dame Lowe would be able to set her fears at rest, she hoped, and the moment the lady entered the room the widow began a recital of her trouble.

At first she was too full of what she had to say, and how frightened she had become, to pay much attention to the lady herself, but after a minute or two she noticed that she was trembling, and her face had become as white as the lace ruffle she wore round her neck.

"I—I am afraid you are ill, madam," said the widow, stopping short in her recital, and looking hard at the lady.

"Just a little faint. I have been anxious about the vicar, you see—but go on with your story. What did your boy say was the name of these children?"

The lady spoke eagerly, and looked almost as frightened and anxious as her visitor, though she was careful not to let her know that it arose from the same cause, and spoke of the vicar's illness as being a little alarming, and having upset her.

"But tell me about those children who have gone to live at the house in Soper Lane. Who did you say they were?"

"Well, now, Sim couldn't be quite sure, of course; but he is a careful lad, and he says there was a Quaker of the same name had his ears cut off for heresy only a day or two ago. Of course, I told Sim that his master, being a godly and charitable man, might have had compassion on these witless children without being himself a Quaker."

"Then it is suspected that Dame Drayton and her husband are both Quakers. Is that what you mean, Tompkins?"

The lady's mood had changed during the last few moments, and she looked hard at the widow and spoke in a severe tone, as though such a charge as she brought was not to be believed.

"I—I don't know what to think," said the widow. "Of course, as Madam Drayton is your sister she could scarcely be infected with such heresy as these wild Quakers believe."

"I trow not, indeed. My sister was brought up in a true godly fashion, but the same charity that moved Master Drayton to take Simon as an apprentice without fee or reward, because you were a poor widow known to me to have lost so much by the plague and the great fire, may have moved her to help these poor children, if no one else would do it."

"Then you think my Sim would be quite safe there?" said the widow in a deprecating tone.

Madam Lowe looked surprised at the question. "Why should he not be safe?" she asked. "You told me the other day that he was learning his trade very well, and had certainly improved in his manners."

"But—but if his master should be a Quaker it would be little better than sending him where he would catch the plague, this new plague of heresy that is abroad, and for my Sim to turn Quaker would be worse than losing the others by the pestilence." And at the thought of all the sorrow and suffering she had endured through this scourge, the Widow Tompkins fairly burst into tears.

"There, don't cry—I am sure you are frightening yourself for nothing. I know my sister to be a gentle godly woman; no more like the wild fanatic Fox than you are. She attends her own parish church as you do, and therefore you may rest content that Sim is safe."

"It's all we've got to hold fast by in the way of knowing what to believe, for there's been so many changes in religion, as well as other things the last few years, that simple folk like me, who have no learning, hardly know what they ought to believe sometimes; but to have Sim turn Quaker would just break my heart, when I was looking forward to a little comfort after all my trouble."

"Oh, Simon will be a good son, and a comfort to you, I have no doubt," said the lady, rising to dismiss her visitor. "Take care that he is at church by seven o'clock next Sunday morning, for the vicar is going to catechise all the lads and wenches of the parish, and it will not do for Simon to be absent from his place in the chancel."

"My son will be early. I am glad the vicar is going to give them a wholesome reminder of what they ought to know and do, as respectable citizens and members of the Church of England. It will help to stop this wild Quaker heresy, I trow."

The lady smiled and nodded her assent; but she was too impatient for her visitor to go to make any verbal reply to this, and as soon as she had closed the street door she went upstairs to a little room where a girl sat sewing.

"What is the matter, mother?" she asked as the lady seated herself, and buried her face in her hands.

For a minute or two the lady sat thus, and when she removed them she was looking white and anxious.

"Oh, Audrey, I wish I had never persuaded your father to—" But there she stopped, for the girl's wondering eyes told her she was speaking of things she had long ago resolved to bury in her own heart. "My dear, I want you to go and see your Aunt Martha," she said quickly.

"Have you forgotten her, Audrey? It is not so many years since you saw your aunt."

"But I thought you said she died in the time of the first plague," said the girl, still looking at her mother with a puzzled expression in her face, as if trying to recall some memory of the forgotten relative.

"Nathless you will remember her again when you see her," said Dame Lowe, in answer to her daughter's puzzled look. "I want you to go to her this afternoon, and say that the Widow Tompkins, who is the mother of one of her husband's 'prentice lads, hath been here with a tale about Quakers that is disgraceful to any godly household."

"The Widow Tompkins is always in a fright about something," returned Audrey slightingly. "What did she say about the Quakers and my Aunt Martha? What has she to do with them?"

"Nothing, I wot; but Master Drayton, her husband, is not always so discreet as he should be, and Simon hath brought home some tale to his mother about Quaker children being harboured in the house. Your aunt ought to be told that this is known, and will soon become the talk of the town if they are not sent away."

"Would you like me to bring the children here, mother, to save Aunt Martha the trouble of them?"

"Audrey, you must not speak so lightly of such matters. For us to be suspected of any touch with these Quakers would mean ruin, and we might be thrown out of house and home, like so many clergymen's families have been, for it is known that your father always felt they were unjustly treated, though he signed the declaration that saved us from being turned into the streets like beggars. This is why I want you to go and see your aunt to-day, for if people think the Draytons are Quakers they may suspect us next. Oh dear! why will people go wild about religion like this man Fox? It is sure to bring disgrace upon somebody. As if the fire and the plague had not caused misery enough in London, they must now begin making fresh trouble about religion, just as I hoped things were getting more settled and comfortable."

"Mother dear, do not look so troubled about this. Surely God can take care of us and of London too. How is my father now?"

"Not much better, and I do not want him to hear about this, or it will make him anxious and unfit to catechise the children in church on Sunday morning. Now, Audrey, we shall have dinner at eleven, and then I should like you to go to your aunt, who lives in Soper Lane, and you can see for yourself who these Quaker children are, and find out whether your aunt still goes to the parish church, for I hear these fanatics call it a steeple-house, and will by no means join in the prayers as they are set forth in the prayer-book."

The errand in itself was not at all to the taste of a girl like Audrey; but the dim recollection she had of her aunt made her desirous of seeing her once more, and she could only wonder how and why it was that her mother had been silent concerning Dame Drayton, for they had but few relatives, and Audrey herself was the only child now. Two had died during the great plague, and she could only suppose that it was because her aunt lived in the City, and her mother still had a lingering dread of the plague returning, that she had not heard this aunt spoken of for so long a time.

Although they lived within easy walking distance of the City, and she knew her father sometimes went there on business, she did not remember ever having seen it herself, for they lived in the fashionable suburbs of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and generally went to walk in the westerly direction among the fields and green lanes. The parish did not wholly belie its name as yet, for they lived in the midst of the open country, although so near London. Her old nurse was to walk with her, and call for her at Soper Lane at four o'clock, that they might reach home before sunset, for although their way lay through the best and most fashionable thoroughfares in the town, they were by no means safe from footpads. Although the Strand was the residence of many of the nobility, and Fleet Street had most of the best shops lining its footway, these were generally shunned by travellers after sundown—unless they were on horseback, armed and attended by two or three stout serving-men.

So Audrey and her nurse set out on their journey about half-past eleven, and less than a mile from her own home, Audrey was in a place altogether new to her.

"I wonder why we have not come this way to walk before," said the girl looking round at the handsome houses in the Strand.

But the 'prentice lads in the front of their masters' shops in Fleet Street, all eager to press their wares upon their notice, were not a pleasant feature of the scene to Audrey.

"Buy an horologue!" called one close to her ear. "The best sarcenet sold here!" cried another. "Laces of all sorts can be had at the Beehive!" bawled a third, thrusting himself in their way, and pointing to his master's shop.

It was the seventeenth century method of advertising, and evidently the 'prentice lads who were employed tried to get as much fun out of it as possible, to the great annoyance of the passengers, who were continually being pestered with the vociferating youths.

"Verily, I little wonder now that my mother liketh not the City," said Audrey, who felt stunned and bewildered by the din of the shouting 'prentices.

Then there were the stalls where hot meat, sheep's feet, and other such delicacies were sold, and a good many people still having their dinner stood round the open tables placed along the edge of the footpath.

"No, I don't like the City," concluded Audrey, as they walked up Cheapside and began to look out for Soper Lane.

"The plague and the great fire hath made it a desolate place to many, Mistress Audrey," said the nurse with a sigh, for she too had sorrowful memories of that bitter time.

"My aunt lives close to the river, and not far from the garden of the Dyers' Company," said Audrey, as they were looking down some of the streets that had been recently rebuilt; for where they were walking now the fire had raged and roared, sweeping down houses and churches, so that all the place seemed uncomfortably new as yet.

"I could never live in the City again, Mistress Audrey," said nurse. "This is not like what it used to be in my young days; times are altered, and not for the better either. The Lord-Protector ruled England then—ruled it in righteousness; but the people were not satisfied, they never are—and so they chose a godless king to rule over them, and little wonder was it that God's judgment followed their choice of King Charles."

"Hush, hush, nurse! They will say you are a Quaker or a Fifth Monarchy woman," said Audrey in some alarm.

"They may say what they like. I care not who hears me, the fire and plague were—" But to Audrey's relief a bustling 'prentice lad ran against them at this moment, and nurse's anger was turned against boys in general and London apprentices in particular. Before she had done complaining of the change in manners since she was young, Soper Lane was reached, and King Charles forgotten in their eagerness to discover where Master Drayton lived.

CHAPTER IV.

THE RIVER GARDEN.

IN the days of which we are writing, the River Thames was lined with the gardens of the well-to-do citizens, while here and there was a flight of steps leading from the bank for the accommodation of those going by boat to various points. It was the great highway for traffic, and rowing-boats, stately barges, handsomely decorated for parties of pleasure, as well as others heavily laden with merchandise, were constantly passing up and down the stream.

The wealthy London Companies also held gardens skirting the river banks and kept swans, and to go and feed the swans in the Dyers' Garden was a favourite pastime with Dame Drayton's children. Master Drayton was a member of this Company, and therefore it was a right he could claim that his children should be allowed to play or walk about in this garden—a never-ending delight to them. It was not far from Soper Lane, and so Deborah, or Dame Drayton herself, generally took the children to the garden when the day's work was over, that they might spend a few hours in the fresh air whenever it was fine.

Dame Drayton was at the door with her children and the Westlands, just going into the Dyers' Garden, when Audrey Lowe and her nurse came down the Lane. The nurse knew the lady at once, for she had been servant in the family many years, and Dame Drayton greeted her cordially, but looked at Audrey, in doubt for a minute who she could be, until the nurse said,—

"Dear child, I had forgotten you," said Dame Drayton, kissing her niece warmly, without waiting to hear the errand they had come upon, for that was what nurse was about to tell her, she supposed.

But nurse only said, "My mistress made me say I would call again at four of the clock to take Mistress Audrey back."

"But you will come and rest after your long walk?" said Dame Drayton; "or you might come with us to the Garden and see the swans."

"My brother lives in Honey Lane, and I would fain see him while I wait," she replied.

"Would you like to go in, or will you come with us to the Garden, Audrey?" asked her aunt. "There are seats upon which we can rest," added the lady.

Somehow she felt as though she would like to nestle up to this new-found aunt, and tell her how anxious and sad her mother often looked; for although there was no outer trouble at the vicarage now, there always seemed an undertone of sadness, a sort of suppressed sorrow, that Audrey in her great love for her mother and father could not help feeling, though she would never give expression to her thoughts about it. Now, all at once, she felt that she would like to take this aunt into her confidence, and tell her of the vague undefined sorrow that seemed to pervade her home.

"I am very pleased to see thee, Audrey. Tell thy mother I am so glad that she hath sent thee on this errand—whatever it may be." And as she spoke the lady looked at her niece, for she felt sure she had something to say to her that could scarcely be trusted even to nurse. "We shall be able to have a quiet talk to ourselves, and thee shall tell me all that is in thine heart, in a few minutes."

"This is Bessie Westland, who hath come with her sisters to tarry for a time with us," said Dame Drayton, drawing the girl forward after Audrey had spoken to her cousins.

"We have come because my father and mother are sent to prison for being Quakers," said Bessie, as if she feared this fact might be forgotten if it was not instantly avowed.

"Hush, Bessie! Do not speak so loudly of these matters. People may hear thy words, and—"

"Martha Drayton, I must speak the truth at all times and in all places," said Bessie; "for I would not have this worldling think I am anything but a Quaker." And as she spoke, Bessie looked scornfully at Audrey's fashionable dress of silk brocade, and then at her own coarse homely frock.

Dame Drayton looked distressed, and Audrey shocked and amazed to hear her aunt addressed by this girl as "Martha." No wonder her mother feared that trouble would come upon them if this was the way Quakers behaved. The lady saw the look in her niece's face, and said to Bessie—

"Will you take care of the children for me, that I may talk to my niece while she rests in the Garden? For we have not seen each other for some years."

"Yea, verily. I will do all that I call to keep them from the sight and sound of evil, for this garden is but a worldly place, I trow," said Bessie, for they had reached the gate by this time, and could see the people walking about on the promenade facing the river, where there was always something going on to amuse and interest the visitors.

Dame Drayton had found a quiet corner that was generally unoccupied by the more fashionable citizens, and she led her little party thither, nodding to friends and acquaintances as she passed, but not stopping to speak to anyone to-day, for fear Bessie should feel it her duty to announce that she was a Quaker, which would be pretty sure to draw the attention of the authorities to them.

So she made her way as quickly as she could to a quiet alley, where the children could play at ball between the shrubs, and Bessie would be shielded from the sight of the ladies' gay dresses. There was a seat, too, close at hand, and here Dame Drayton and Audrey could sit and talk; and they made their way to it, leaving Bessie in charge of the little ones and their play.

"Now, dear child, tell me of thy mother and father. It is so long since I heard aught concerning thee that I have grown hungry for news. Thou dost look well, Audrey," she added.

"I am well, dear aunt; but my mother is more troubled than usual, for the Widow Tompkins came to see her this morning concerning something her son had told her. He is one of thy 'prentice lads, my mother bade me say, and told his mother a strange story concerning the Quakers and his master's dealings with them."

"Nay, I did not see the woman myself; but this lad is her only son, and it may be she is over careful concerning him, seeing she lost her other children in the plague; but I wot she hath frightened my mother sorely concerning thee, so that she thought it better that I should come and tell thee it will soon be the town's talk that thou dost harbour Quakers within thy household. This girl who doth so sorely despise me is one of the children Sim Tompkins spoke of, I trow."

"Poor Bessie! Her whole love is given to her father, who hath suffered so sorely for his faith," said Dame Drayton with a sigh.

"Then they are Quakers," said Audrey, a little shocked that her aunt could live on familiar terms with such people.

"Yea, verily; Bessie Westland glories in that which thou dost think is a name of reproach. If thou couldest know her, too, thou wouldest learn that she is a worthy, trusty maid, careful and loving to her little sisters, who are too young to take care of themselves."

"Do with them? Nay, until God opens some other refuge for them they must abide in the house, and share with my own children in my care," said her aunt.

"But there is danger in this, and that is why my mother sent me to you," said Audrey.

"It was kind of Annie to think of me, and kinder still to let me see you once more; but you must tell her, Audrey, that I could not do less than offer these children the shelter of my home, since they are worse than orphaned, with father and mother in prison for being Quakers."

"Yea, but why should they be Quakers, and rebel against the king? Perhaps things were better for religion under the Lord-Protector,—nurse says they were,—and my father thinks so too, I know; but now the king has come to his own again we ought to obey him, my mother says."

"Truly, we should; and the Quakers seek not to disobey the law, except in the matter of taking oaths and some small matters in the addressing of people, which was the reason why Bessie called me 'Martha' just now."

"It is not seemly, aunt, that a wench like this Bessie Westland should speak to thee in that fashion," said Audrey, rather hotly.

"Nay, but, dear child, it was no disrespect for Bessie to do this. Her principles as a Quaker forbid her the use of any title beyond that of friend. Not for the king himself would a Quaker remove his hat, and yet the king hath no more loyal subjects than the Quakers. They are of all people the most peaceable, for, if wrongfully and cruelly treated, they are forbidden to strike again, even in their own defence; and if struck upon one cheek, they hold they must turn the other also, an the smiter will have it so."

"I thought they were turbulent people, sowing sedition and disorder. My mother said they might again bring civil war to England, if they were allowed to do as they pleased."

Dame Drayton smiled and shook her head. "Nay, nay, it is not so, believe me. I know what Quakers are, for I too am a Quaker; though I hold it not binding upon my conscience to hold every rule it is thought good by the Society to lay down for the guidance of its members."

"Oh, my aunt!" said Audrey with a gasp; but instead of starting away from her the girl drew closer, as if to protect her.

"Dear Audrey, it is a sweet and joyful thing to be a Quaker, as I believe and strive to live up to my belief in that name. As sinners in the sight of God we quake and tremble before Him; but we fear not what man can do to us, so that we live under the guidance of that divine voice that speaks to the heart of every child of God,—if they will abide in such peace that this still small voice can yet rule and guide them in everything they think and do."

"Is not this voice our conscience, aunt? And are we not taught to obey it in all things?" asked Audrey.

"Yea, verily, dear child; but it is a truth that hath been well-nigh forgotten, until Fox began to preach and teach that the inner voice within the soul of man was the voice of God, which the soul is bound to obey if it will live and grow. It is meat and drink, the very bread of heaven by which alone we can live truly in this naughty world."

"But when my father speaks of obeying the voice of conscience he means the same thing, aunt," said Audrey.

"Yes, I doubt not that, dear child; but people have talked and talked about their conscience until it has come to mean little or nothing to them, and God seeing this, hath sent His messenger, George Fox, to declare once more to His people, that He hath not left them alone, but speaks to the heart of each by His own still small voice. As Quakers we prefer to call things plainly, for we are a plain people, and so have thrown away that word 'conscience' as a worn-out and broken mirror that does but hide instead of revealing more plainly the truth it covers. Therefore, we say 'the voice of God' will guide us in all things if we will but listen, and as little children obey it, even though it should sometimes bid us to walk in a path that is not pleasant to our feet."

The simple form of 'thee' and 'thou' was still in vogue among close friends, and so Audrey's use of it was not at all singular. The exclusive use of it by Quakers later on was a survival of this feeling that there was a closeness of friendship, a sincerity in these terms, and so they rescued from oblivion this simple form of speech that prevailed among all classes in England at that time. The same may be said of their dress. They did but seek to evade observation at the time of which we write, and desiring to be known only as a plain God-fearing people. They dressed in simple, unostentatious colours; but they have brought up through the generations the fashion of the garments worn by their forefathers, and held to them while other and very different fashions prevailed in the world.

So at this time, although Dame Drayton was a professed Quaker, there was little to distinguish her from her neighbours around, in the matter of dress and speech. The Society impressed upon its members the duty of dressing plainly and simply, whatever their rank in life might be, and that Dame Drayton chose to wear greys and drabs in the place of crimsons or other brilliant colours was regarded as a simple matter of taste by her neighbours. She had always been known as a godly woman before she became a Quaker; but as she had never felt called to preach, and went as often to the old parish church she had attended from her girlhood, as she did to the Quaker meeting-house in Gracechurch Street, few knew that she was a Quaker.

As Audrey asked her question, she looked earnestly into her aunt's face and nestled closer to her. "You seem very happy," she added; "so much happier than my mother."

"Dear Audrey, I am very happy, for since I learned this truth from George Fox, there hath come to me a peace that passeth all understanding; for, following the guidance of this voice, the distractions of the world cannot mar the quiet resting upon God, as my Father, my Guide, my Friend, who will never fail nor forsake me. It matters not whether thou art one who worships in a church or in a meeting-house,—which is but a plain room fitted for a plain people who meet together,—if haply the Spirit hath a word to speak by one of them for the edification of all; and if there is no such word given forth, still the Lord can and doth speak to each soul in the silence that to many is better and more helpful even than the words of prayer spoken by another, who cannot know the secret wants and longings of any soul but his own."

"Then at these meetings there is silence all the time, aunt?" said Audrey questioningly.

"Why should any speak if they feel not moved thereto by the inward voice of the Spirit?" asked Dame Drayton. "It is this multiplying of words without life or power that hath made preaching of none effect. Now we know that when one speaketh he is moved thereto by the Spirit of God working in him, and that he hath of a surety a message for one or other or many of us. In some this power of the Spirit to speak and warn and encourage is continually seeking to find utterance, and then woe be to the man if he forbear to utter his testimony for fear of what man shall do to him. Bessie's father was such an one as this, and a brave honest man to boot; so, as he would not be stayed from warning sinners to flee from the wrath to come, whenever and wherever he could find opportunity, the soldiers have haled him to prison, and his wife too, because she felt moved to warn her godless neighbours, when her husband could no longer do so. Bessie being the eldest was left in the cottage to take care of the children, or do as she could, for none cared to befriend them, as they were children of condemned Quakers. They had been despoiled of all they possessed in fines for the same offence; but the little they had left in the cottage was stolen or destroyed by the mob, while Bessie and her sisters hid themselves in the cellar."

"Oh, aunt, would people really be so cruel?" said Audrey in a tone of compassion, as she turned to look at the girl walking up and down with the little ones, but rarely touching the ball herself even when it fell close to her.

"I daresay there were some who felt sorry for them, and would nathless have helped them if they could; but the baser sort, and those whom Friend Westland had reproved for their sin and wickedness, would be willing to break chairs and tables while they shouted, 'Long live King Charles! Down with all Quakers and rebels!' That was how it was done, Bessie says, while she sat cowering in the cellar below, praying that God would keep them from following her, for fear they should frighten the little ones to death."

"No, you are sixteen, and Bessie is not yet fourteen. But she is brave and true, and whispered to her sisters not to cry out or make a noise, and God would surely send deliverance to them by the hand of some friend. We knew not to what straits the poor children were left, but as Quakers, who called themselves brethren with him who was suffering for the truth's sake, we were bound to seek the children when we knew they had been left friendless and alone. Thee will tell thy mother what I have told to thee, and then she will understand how I was moved by the inward voice to offer a home and a refuge to these little ones."

"Aunt, methinks the voice would have bidden me do likewise if I was grown up and could have helped them," whispered Audrey, kissing her tenderly, and feeling that she had found a friend in this aunt who could understand her better than her mother could.

CHAPTER V.

ONE SUNDAY MORNING.

THE exemplary punishment dealt out to the unfortunate martyr Westland seemed to satisfy the authorities for some time, or it might have been that their failure to silence Sir William Penn in spite of fines and imprisonment, made them pause to consider before taking up another crusade of persecution.

Sir William Penn was son of the Lord High Admiral of England, who had recently died, leaving his son a considerable fortune, as well as claims upon the government for money lent to them by the old admiral.

But while a student at Oxford, Master William Penn, his son, had embraced Quakerism, and been expelled for preaching and teaching it. His father was very angry, and threatened to disown him for his connection with such a disgraceful set of people, but afterwards sent him to travel on the Continent, in the hope that he would forget what the old admiral thought was the wildest vagary.

But after two years of travel young Penn came home a confirmed Quaker, and very soon was sent to the Tower for writing a pamphlet he called "The Sandy Foundation Shaken," which was specially directed against the Church of England. During his eight months' imprisonment, he wrote "No Cross No Crown," and several others, which he published as soon as he was released.

Then he began preaching again, and was again arrested. But the indomitable young Quaker had won for himself the regard of the citizens of London, and the jury refused to convict him upon the evidence brought forward, and were themselves fined for their refusal.

Master Drayton had been one of these, and it had strained his resources to make up this money; but he felt amply compensated by the friendship that arose out of this between him and the ardent young champion of their despised sect.

When Audrey Lowe had gone home, and the children had been put to bed, Dame Drayton told her husband the errand her niece had come upon.

"The 'prentice lads suspect we are Quakers, and Sim Tompkins has told his mother about it. What wilt thou do, my husband?" she asked.

"Careful, dear heart? It is not to be feared that I shall publish abroad that I am a Quaker; but, as thou sayest, too many suspect it, I fear, and I have been pondering on a thought that came to me to-day when thinking of Westland and his wife. He will doubtless be sent out to the plantations of America by the next cargo of convicts, and when he can save money enough to pay for the passage of his wife, she will be allowed to join him in his exile. Now, our young champion, Sir William Penn, is rich, and moreover the government is deeply indebted to him for moneys lent by his father, and which he hath small hope of regaining, for the king is too extravagant ever to pay his debts. But if he hath little money to spare, he hath many waste lands out in the plantations of America, and he might be induced to sell some to our friend Penn in part payment of his debt. On this land some of us might go and settle, even as the Independents did in the reign of the first Charles, for America is wide and free, and there we might serve God even as the divine voice should guide and direct us, and none could make us afraid."

"That were a blessing indeed," said Dame Drayton, but with a sigh, for the prospect of leaving her native land and her beloved London was a painful thought to her. "Oh that we could have this blessed freedom in England!" she said, clasping her hands, while the tears slowly filled her eyes.

"Nay, nay, dame, thou hast naught to fret over, I trow," said her husband, in some surprise to see his wife in tears.

"It was not of myself I was thinking, but of Annie Lowe, my sister. Audrey hath let me know—without herself understanding—that the way they thought would be soft to their feet hath been strewn with thorns; none the less sharp are they, I trow, because they have to be covered from the world."

"Now thou art speaking in parables, Martha. I thought the vicar was well content to abide in the church that could nourish him."

"It may afford nourishment for the body, but to sign the Act of Uniformity, whereby Parson Lowe and many another gave up the right to serve and worship God as the inner voice would fain lead them, could but be starvation for the soul. I felt sure it would come to this with Annie and her husband, and that she would one day wish she had been among those who were ejected for the truth's sake."

"But—but I thought Annie sent to warn thee of the danger thou wert in through Sim chattering to his mother of what had been spoken here?"

"Yea, she hath grown timid because she hath chosen the path of the coward, until now she hath become timid at a shadow, for she fears that if I walk not warily, men may even accuse her of being a Quaker. Dear Annie! she hath always been feeble and timorous, and the times are hard to endure for such. The child Audrey is different from either mother or father, and so it is for her sake as well as Annie's I long and pray that all in England may have freedom to worship God even as they will, without let or hindrance from king or parliament."

"That were a vain wish, dear heart; but a tract of country might surely be granted in America, where Quakers could dwell in peace, and another where Independents might rule themselves in matters of religion, for it hath been proved that they cannot abide in peace together. I will talk to Friend Penn of the thought that hath come to me, and it may be he will have sonic light given to guide him in this matter, for to provide a refuge for the Lord's persecuted people will surely be a true way of devoting the wealth he hath inherited to the service of the Lord, which he is fully purposed to do."

It was evident to Dame Drayton that her husband feared trouble was thickening around them, or he would not have spoken in this way, and it must be confessed that life was indeed hard, when each time he went out she knew not whether he would return, or whether some friend might not come to tell her he had been arrested and carried off to Bridewell to await the meeting of the court where his case would be heard.

But Master Drayton went in and out of Soper Lane without interference, and for the next few weeks nothing was heard of the Quakers being molested, so that at last the lady began to breathe more freely again; other Quakers also took courage, and from meeting in their own or at each other's houses for worship, ventured to open once more the little meeting-house which was situated in an alley in Gracechurch Street.

The closing of this had been a great deprivation to many, but Dame Drayton had never wholly given up attending the church of All Hallow's, close to her home, for it was here she first learned to know God as her Father and Friend, and here she could still hold communication with Him, even through the prayers which were such a stumbling-block to many sincere and earnest souls at this time. To her sister they were little else than chains and fetters, galling instead of helping her soul to rise as upon the rungs of a ladder to the very bosom of the Father. This was what the service of the Church of England was to Dame Drayton; but sometimes there were other seasons when nothing but the solemn silence of their own meeting-house would satisfy her soul's need. Yet so that she was fed with the bread of heaven, what did it matter whether it was words or the absence of words, so long as the still small voice of God spoke in her soul, and made itself heard above her fears or the clamour of the world?

To Master Drayton, however, the church but ill supplied the quiet meeting-house, and so he sat at home and read the Bible or some of the pamphlets written by Barclay, Fox, or Penn, in defence of their faith, and to him the opening of the meeting-house once more was a source of great comfort and rejoicing.

He was the more glad, too, when he saw Sir William Penn among the worshippers, for he doubted not the Spirit of God would move him to speak a word of comfort and encouragement to many who were weary and heavy laden with fear and apprehension. Only a few of the bravest among the Quaker community had ventured to attend this first meeting, but as it was uninterrupted by the authorities, the next time the doors were open many more would attend, there was little doubt.

During this time Bessie Westland had taken up an occupation that no one would have thought likely to attract her. A day or two after she came to Soper Lane she asked to be allowed to work at hat-making like one of the boy apprentices.

"I ought to do something to help to pay what we shall cost you, and if I learn this hat-making now, I may be able to earn some money to help mother and father in the new country." For to comfort her, Dame Drayton had told her that a way would doubtless be opened for her and her sisters to go to the plantations when her mother went.

So with this hope to spur her, Bessie took up the task of pasting and sewing, doing all the lighter portions of the work required in the manufacture of a hat, Master Drayton taking care that there was no opportunity for the apprentices to talk to or interfere with her.

To his surprise the girl proved a far more apt pupil than any boy he had ever had, and the same energy and enthusiasm that made her father a most aggressive Quaker, being turned into this channel by the force of circumstances, in Bessie showed itself in a marvellous quickness and dexterity in doing all the lighter part of hat-making; and the girl grew more content as the weeks went on.

Dame Drayton, however, did not know what to think of a girl taking up what had always been considered boys' work. She would fain have kept Bessie among the children or helping Deborah occasionally with the bread-making and cooking, but as the girl certainly seemed happier now that she had secured some constant employment, she could only think this must be best for Bessie, however strange it might be to her.

She told her husband, however, that Bessie puzzled her. She could not understand the girl wanting to do boys' work when she and Deb were ready to teach her all sorts of womanly handiwork.

"Thou and I must trust it is the Lord's will she should do this, for she hath certainly most deft and useful fingers, and a quick understanding for all kinds of hat-work. Quick and thorough is she, so that her work can be relied upon already, and I should sorely miss the wench now from my side."

Things were in this position when the winter set in, and the Quakers, having met with no disturbance from the authorities, gathered at their meeting-house each First Day—as they chose to call Sunday.

Of course Bessie was most regular in her attendance; but Dame Drayton did not always go with her husband and Bessie, preferring to take some of the children to All Hallow's Church, which was close to her home. One Sunday, however, Bessie was suffering from a bad cold, and wholly unfit to go out in the bleak drizzling rain that was falling, and so her friends insisted that she should remain in bed. Dame Drayton decided to go to the meeting-house with her husband, for there was to be a gathering of the Friends afterwards, to hear something more concerning the plan for founding a Quaker colony across the seas.

But, alas! that meeting was never held, for the Lord Mayor had ordered that the place should be watched, and as soon as the Friends were all assembled, the doors were forced open by a party of men-at-arms, and after a little parleying with those who kept the door, the Quakers were informed they might consider themselves under arrest, and until their names were taken none were allowed to leave the building.

When this business had been got through by the officer in charge, some half-dozen names were read out as being the ringleaders in this seditious gathering, and among them were those of Master Drayton and his wife.

For a minute the heart of the poor woman seemed turned to stone, and her thoughts instantly flew to the children at home,—her own and those who had been practically orphaned by the rigour of the law,—and she covered her face with her hands in the agony of her anxiety.

The halberdier who had been placed in charge of her, so far respected her grief that he did not disturb her until he was compelled by the officer to lead her out in the rear of some half-dozen others who were being conducted to Newgate.

It was a pitiful sight. No resistance had been made by the unoffending people, for it was one of the rules of their Society that they should submit meekly to whatever outrage was perpetrated upon them, and so Dame Drayton, comforted now by the thought that God would surely protect her darlings, walked through the wet muddy streets behind her husband. When they reached Newgate they were thrust into the common prison, where thieves and drunkards were making the place a very hell by their oaths and ribald songs.

The little company of Quakers sat down in one corner by themselves, and for a time could only listen with shivering horror to what was going on around them. But, hardened as most of this crowd were, Dame Drayton's sympathy was soon awakened by the appearance of a young girl with a baby in her arms, and leaving her husband's side, she went and sat down by the girl to say a few words of comfort to her. From speaking to one, she grew courageous enough to speak to others, and thus helped to pass the long weary hours of that dreadful day.

On Monday morning they were taken before the Lord Mayor, and charged with opening premises for seditious meetings, that had previously been closed by order of the court. Master Drayton was one of the four trustees holding the premises, and moreover he was known to be one of the jury who had refused to convict Penn some time before; which circumstance was brought forward against him, as proving him to be an obstinate Quaker, who richly deserved to lose his ears and be transported beyond the seas.

The court, however, sentenced him to six months' imprisonment, but released his wife, when it was pleaded that she was a regular attendant at her parish church, and was only guilty to the extent of having married a Quaker.

It was an intense relief to Master Drayton when he heard that his wife was not to be sent to prison. He could bear the hardship of this far better if he knew that she was safe at home, though how they were to live through the winter while he was in prison he did not know. Three others besides himself had been sentenced to the same punishment, and they would be a helpless burden on the hands of their friends all the time they were in prison; for, although the authorities provided a building in which they should be detained, prisoners had to pay gaolers' fees and maintain themselves, or they had to be kept out of the contributions of the charitable. At every prison door in those days was a box fixed with this notice above it, "Pity the prisoners"; and upon the pence dropped into this the destitute among them had to depend for their daily bread. If the weather was bad and the passengers few, the prisoners often grew savage with hunger, and stole from those whose friends could afford to provide them with victuals.

Of course the Quaker community never allowed any of its members who were imprisoned for conscience sake to become chargeable to the charity fund of the prison, though being for the most part poor themselves, they felt the increasing burden thrown upon them by the imprisonment of their brethren with great severity.

Dame Drayton knew this, and she resolved to try and supply her husband's needs herself, though how it was to be accomplished she did not know; but she trusted that her Father in heaven would supply the want somehow.

CHAPTER VI.

A DESOLATE HOUSEHOLD.

THE news of the raid on the Quaker meeting-house, and the arrest of several members, had been carried to Soper Lane by some of the Friends who had been present, but who, after giving their names and addresses, had been allowed to go home. Many of these were present at the Lord Mayor's court on Monday morning; and when Dame Drayton was released, one or two Friends came forward to comfort her with words of hope and promises of help.

After a few parting words had been spoken to her husband she hastened home, feeling sure the whole household was disorganised, for Deborah would be overwhelmed, and give herself up to moaning and lamenting, and the children could but share her grief and dismay.

But, to her surprise, when she got home she found that Bessie had so far succeeded in reassuring the faithful soul, that she had managed to begin her duties; while Bessie herself had assumed the leadership in the workshop, and she with two of the apprentices were labouring harder than ever to make up for the absence of the master.

Simon Tompkins had gone home to tell his mother the disastrous news; but the others did not mean to be outdone by a girl, and so had resolved to stay and help their master over his misfortune, if it was possible.

"She just made us feel ashamed of ourselves," said one of the lads, when Dame Drayton went down to the workshop, and she and the senior apprentice were discussing what had better be done. "Sim said his mother would not like him to stay with a Quaker, and thought he had better go home at once. We might have done the same if Bessie had not said she should stay and work as long as she could get any to do; and so we decided to wait and see what would happen."

"I thank thee for thy thoughtfulness," answered the lady, wishing she knew as much of her husband's business as Bessie did; for now she was at her wit's end to know how to manage and what to do.

She would not let the lads see her distress and how little she understood of the business details; but as she passed the corner where Bessie was at work, the girl saw the tears in her eyes, and at once guessed the cause.

"Nay, Bessie; I was not taken to Bridewell, but to Newgate. Poor child, poor child!" she said, laying her hand on Bessie's shoulder, and drawing her to her side as she entered the quiet keeping-room.

"May I tell thee what I have been thinking?" said Bessie, sitting down on a low stool at the lady's feet. "I have learned to do a good deal to the hats, and Friend Drayton said I could do it as well, or almost as well, as he; but there are some things I cannot do, and yet it would not take a man long to finish off our work, if we all did it carefully, as Tom says he will do for the future."

Bessie talked on eagerly and quickly, too full of the plans she had thought of for helping the family over this time of difficulty to notice at first that her friend did not answer any of her proposals or appear to notice them, and at length, looking up, she saw that Dame Drayton had fainted.

The shock of being arrested and led through the streets to prison, the horror and fright that had made sleep impossible amid such surroundings, then the excitement of being brought before the Lord Mayor and the crowded court, had produced such a nervous condition in Dame Drayton that she could bear up no longer, and from sheer physical exhaustion had sunk into a state of unconsciousness.

Bessie's screams soon brought Deborah, and with her came Madam Lowe and Audrey; for Sim Tompkins, having taken home the news to his mother, she ran with it at once to the vicarage; and although the vicar and his wife professed to be dreadfully shocked at the wickedness and folly of their relatives connecting themselves with the Quakers, Audrey at once insisted that she should be allowed to go and see what could be done for her cousins in the absence of their mother and father, and, finding she was determined to do this, her mother decided to accompany her.

They were at the door when Bessie screamed, for Deb had just opened it, and they all came running into the keeping-room to see what was amiss.

"Dear heart, have you killed her?" exclaimed Deborah, when she saw her mistress looking white and lifeless as a corpse, leaning back in the stiff, upright chair, with her arms hanging limp by her side.

But the sight of her sister, even in this condition, was a relief to Madam Lowe; and she hoped no one among her friends now would hear that she had been in prison.

"When did she come home?" she asked; pushing Bessie aside, and turning to Deborah, who stood wringing her hands in a helpless fashion.

"This morning—not long ago," wailed Deb. "Oh, if she has got the gaol fever whatever shall we do!"

The mere suggestion made Madam Lowe start aside with horror, but Audrey was kissing her aunt's white cheek.

"Get some burnt feathers," she said, turning to Bessie, for this was the most approved remedy for fainting in those days.

Bessie knew where to find plenty of scraps of feather in the workshop, and soon returned with a handful.

In the meanwhile Madam Lowe had somewhat recovered from her fright, and was directing Deborah to get other remedies while she unfastened her dress. But it was Audrey who supported her aunt's head against her breast, and smoothed back the soft brown hair, while her mother held the feathers to her nose, and applied the various remedies approved by our forefathers for a fainting fit.

But Dame Drayton showed no sign of rallying for some time, and at last a doctor was sent for; but Deborah and Audrey were both warned against saying a word about the occurrences of the previous day.

"We can tell him she has had bad news, and that it has given her a shock," said the lady, who was excessively afraid of having her name mentioned in connection with the Quakers.

As soon as the doctor saw Dame Drayton he ordered her to bed, and helped to carry her there, and as bleeding was the favourite remedy for all diseases, he proceeded to weaken her still further by opening a vein in her arm.

That she should be utterly prostrate and unable to speak when she did at last recover consciousness was not very surprising, considering the treatment applied for her relief. She smiled faintly when she saw her sister bending over her, and recognised Audrey beside her.

"They are quite well; but I think these others ought to be sent away, for I have no doubt it is from harbouring Quakers that all this trouble has come upon you," said Madam Lowe, a little severely.

But the invalid, weak as she was, managed to shake her head at this suggestion. "Let them stay," she whispered as energetically as she could speak.

"But look at the extra work they make in the house while you are ill," said the clergyman's wife, who intended to get rid of the Westland children if she could, and dissever her sister's family from all contact with the Quakers, now that she had come to see them.

But the invalid, weak as she was, seemed to divine her sister's intention, for rousing herself by a great effort she gasped, "They have no other home, and they must stay here. I shall soon be better," she added as she closed her eyes.

Fortunately for her, Deborah believed in good kitchen physic with as profound a faith as the doctor did in blood-letting, and having no desire to be present at that operation she hurried away as soon as she had brought towels and basin for the doctor's use, and for the sheer comfort that the occupation afforded her, proceeded to shred some beef and mutton into small pieces, and then set it on the fire to stew for her mistress, when she should be able to take anything.

No one seemed to think the poor woman might be in want of food, but in point of fact she had eaten nothing since she left home the day before, so that her weakness was not at all surprising. When, therefore, Deborah brought up a cupful of the savoury broth she had made, with a delicate slice of home-made bread, Dame Drayton was able to take it and appeared greatly revived, so that her sister lost all fear of the illness being gaol fever, and said she must return home, as she was expecting some guests at the vicarage.

"Then I will stay and nurse aunt," said Audrey, following her mother downstairs, for she knew there would be some difficulty in persuading her mother to allow her to do this, and the discussion had better take place at a distance from her aunt's bedroom.

"If these Quaker children are sent away, and you can be of any use to poor old Deborah in nursing your aunt, I do not mind you staying; but for a vicar's daughter to live in the same house as a Quaker would be quite unseemly. Perhaps I had better go and tell your aunt what I think about the matter, and let her choose between you." And as she spoke, madam turned to the door.

"Mother, why are you so cruel? Why do you want to turn these poor children out when they have no home but this?" said Audrey, with flashing eyes.

"They ought never to have come here. Your aunt should not have taken them in among her own children. It is they who have brought all this trouble upon them. How are they to be kept, I should like to know, now that your uncle is in prison, and can no longer work for them? I do not suppose your aunt has much money put away, and—"

"Mother, is there no God to take care of aunt and these children, that you talk like that?" asked Audrey, looking at her mother's anxious careworn face, and comparing it with her aunt's sweet placid countenance. "Whether aunt is a Quaker or not, she loves God, and of course God loves her, and will take care of her somehow, and I am going to help Him to do it."

She spoke with so much firmness and decision that her mother could only look at her in wondering surprise. "What has come to you, Audrey, that you should thus seek to disobey me?"

"I do not wish to disobey thee, mother dear," said Audrey. "But I am old enough to judge for myself in some things, and feel sure I am wanted here, for I can be of use to my aunt, while there is nothing for me to do at home. And the fine ladies who come to see you do not want me."

"But these Quaker children? You forget them, Audrey," said her mother. "I am willing to let you stay with your aunt, but they must go away."

"No, no, mother dear; I am sure thee would not wish such a thing. Think how cold it is. You would not turn them into the street to starve?"

"Then if you will not take them, why should you think other people would like to do it? God told aunt to take them when they first came here, and, of course, He knows all the trouble, and will provide for it and for them."

Madam Lowe was a Christian woman, and had taught her daughter these very truths, so that her arguments were turned against herself, and at last she had reluctantly to consent that Audrey should remain here for a few days at least. "You cannot stay long, of course, for you will be eating the bread that they will need, and I am sure your father will not consent to help in the nourishing of Quakers."

"Very well; I will come home as soon as I find I am eating more than aunt can afford to give me," said Audrey, with a smile.

To her this question of bread or no bread was one far enough away. God would provide somehow, but it was not for her to consider how. All she knew was, that she had a most ardent desire to stay and help the family through the trouble; and she could afford to smile at a difficulty that did not concern her, now that she had won her mother's consent to remain, and do the work she felt sure God had given her.

Meanwhile Bessie Westland had been considering the same question, and with the same faith in God's loving care for them; but just as Audrey felt she must stay and help God take care of her aunt, Bessie decided she must bestir herself, and get help to carry on the business, or it might come to a stand-still, and then what would become of them all? She recognised now that it was God's voice to her that had made her desire to learn the art and craft of hat-making; but she could do very little by herself, and even with the help of the two apprentices they could not do all that was required.

So when Madam Lowe and Audrey came into the room, Bessie slipped out, and, putting on her duffle cloak and hood, went to the house of another Friend in the neighbourhood, and told them what had happened.

"Martha Drayton is ill, and can do nought, even if she had learned as much as I have concerning the business," said Bessie. "What is needed is one who can see that the work we do is well done, and then finish off the hats ready to go away; but he must also be willing to work for small pay, I trow, and none but a Friend will do that for us in our distress."

The girl of fourteen was far more practical and energetic than the gentle, dreamy Friend she had come to consult.

"Thee must ask counsel of the Lord concerning this thing," he said after a pause.

"Yea, verily; but thinkest thou not that it is the leading of the Lord that I should aforetime have desired to learn this hat-making?" asked Bessie quickly.

"An it were so, the Lord will guide thee into the next step to be taken," said the old man.

"Yea; and therefore have I come to thee, for thou dost know many in the Society who companied with my father and Friend Drayton, and would doubtless be ready to come to their help, an they knew how this help should be given. The Lord hath showed me what is needful for this time of distress. If one can be found who understands this art of hat-making, and could give some time each day to the care of what we do, Friend Drayton may be supplied with what is needful while he is in prison, as well as we who are at home, and dependent for bread upon what we can earn."

"The Lord hath verily given thee the spirit of wisdom concerning this thing, and hath raised thee up to help and cheer our hearts, when we so sorely needed such comfort."

The old man's words were a great encouragement to Bessie in her self-imposed task.

"I greatly desired to preach to sinners, and show them the error of their ways, even as my father had done," said the girl, with a heightened colour; "but Martha Drayton talked to me concerning this matter, showing me that what was the word of the Lord to one, was not meant for all—that all could not be preachers of the word as my father was."

"The Lord forbid!" said the old man fervently, and shaking his head gravely. "Doubtless the Lord hath need of such as thy father, and Fox, and Barclay; but if there were no Quakers save those who preached the word, the enemy would speedily make an end of us as a people, for the gates of death would close upon us, an there were none left to nourish and succour those who were in prison. It hath sorely exercised me and others of our Society, what was to be done in the great calamity that hath befallen our brethren, for we needs must nourish their families while they are suffering for the truth's sake; but we are an impoverished people, for with fines and imprisonment, and the support of those left to the mercy of a world lying in wickedness, we are brought low indeed, so that the counsel thou hast brought concerning this matter is as the shining of a light in a dark place."

"And thou wilt search for a man who can help us in this craft of hat-making?" said the girl, who did not want to stay longer than was needful, talking further about this.

"Yea, verily, that will I, and I doubt not that he will be found ere long. It will be good news to tell to the brethren also, how that the Lord hath wrought by thee such great things for our help. We were fearing that Friend Drayton would find himself ruined when he came out of prison, for this hath happened more than once to our brethren who have suffered for the truth, but now that will be spared us, I trow, by thy help. Truly, out of the mouth of babes and sucklings the Lord hath perfected praise!" concluded the old man, as he went to the door with Bessie, and charged her to deliver all sorts of kind messages to Dame Drayton, and to assure her that the brethren would pray for her continually in her affliction.

CHAPTER VII.

SIR WILLIAM PENN.

BESSIE WESTLAND went back, feeling that, after all, the work she had felt disposed to despise at first might be as needful for the help and growth of the Society of Friends as preaching itself. Certainly if their friends in prison were to be supported by those outside, someone must work for their daily bread, and the thought that in this way she could be of real service to her own mother and father was a great comfort to the girl.

She had been to Bridewell to see her mother, and to Newgate to see her father, and she knew how both were looking forward to meeting her and the little ones in some colony across the sea; but how this was to be accomplished Bessie did not know, and it seemed altogether too good to expect that there would be a place where Quakers could live unmolested this side of heaven.

But as she reached the door she resolved to do what she could in the present, leaving the future in God's hands, for she could do nothing beyond helping to make hats as diligently as she could.

That Dame Drayton was ill and unable to take any share in the management of her husband's business, was soon known throughout the little Quaker community in London, and before night a man was found able and willing to supply the place of Master Drayton in finishing and superintending the work of the apprentices, for they had not forsaken the work, as it was anticipated they would do. It spoke volumes for the love they bore their master and his family, that they were willing to continue in the service of a man who henceforth would be branded as a Quaker, and Deborah was not slow to recognise this.

She resolved to keep the household going as nearly as possible in the way she knew her mistress would desire it should be done, and with Audrey in the sick chamber to look after the invalid, she could do the baking and boiling and attend to the housework. So before night the household had settled down to its new condition, and no one was more diligent than Bessie Westland in doing with all her might the lowly work she had suddenly found to be honourable, even among those who esteemed the work of the Lord to be the highest duty of a Quaker.

There was no formal gathering at the dinner table that day, but Deborah carried the apprentices a huge piece of pasty to the workshop, while Bessie ate her dinner in the kitchen with the children.

But when the day's work was over, Dame Drayton insisted that Audrey should go downstairs and tell Bessie and the children that she was better, and hoped to be up and among them the next day.

Supper had been laid in the keeping-room, and Deborah took her usual seat, and the children gathered to theirs; but they were more sad and subdued than at dinner time, for now mother and father were missed more as they looked at their vacant chairs. It must be confessed that the sight of Bessie Westland was not very pleasant to Audrey, for she regarded her as being the cause of the trouble that had befallen her uncle and aunt, and so she studiously looked away from where she was sitting, and devoted all her attention to her cousins.

But when it grew dusk, and Deborah came to put the children to bed, bringing a message from her mistress that she thought she might sleep if she was left alone, Audrey could not easily escape from the companionship of Bessie; and so, after sitting silent for some time listening to the distant sounds of carts and waggons that rarely came down Soper Lane so late as this, she suddenly said—

"Nay, I am but Friend Bessie," replied the other girl quickly. "We are a plain people, and use but plain speech. My father belonged to the Society of Friends many years; how many I know not, but I can remember a time when he was wild and often unkind to my mother, though that was before he heard our leader Fox preach."

"But what do Quakers believe? My nurse told me the other day that they were atheists, and did not believe in the Lord Jesus Christ," said Audrey, drawing her chair a little closer to Bessie's in the dimly-lighted room.

"Many have slandered us thus, not knowing aught concerning us," replied Bessie in an eager tone, for somehow, although this girl was in the world and partook of its ways, Bessie felt drawn towards her; and so she added, "We believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who came down from heaven to die for us. We believe, too, that the life He gave for us must be in us, or we can never be saved."

"Then you believe as we do, that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin?" interrupted Audrey, who was anxious to find out some points of agreement between her own faith and that of the Quakers, since her beloved aunt was a Quaker.

"Yes, perhaps that is it," answered Bessie slowly. "Only we say that Christ must be the inner life of every man, and that this life we must be careful to cultivate, in order to be saved from darkness and evil."

"But—but if you believe all that, why should you not come to church as I do?" said Audrey eagerly. "It is what my father teaches in his sermons. Won't you go with me on Sunday and hear him preach?" asked Audrey eagerly.

"Go to a steeple-house!" exclaimed Bessie, in a tone of horror. "Nay, verily, for my father would curse me, an he thought I had forgotten what he had taught me."

"You call a church a steeple-house, and think it such a dreadful place," said Audrey, in a tone of wondering amazement. "Why should you speak of it in this way? It is God's house."

But Bessie shook her head to this. "Nay, nay, it cannot be that," she said decidedly. "Only we who have the life of Christ within us can be the house of God. Your steeple-house, with its forms and ceremonies, makes men forget this true life within them. This light that God only can put into the soul of man can alone be a house of God. That is why my father hated steeple-houses, because they made men forget God, he said."

"Thou art quite mistaken, Bessie," she said. "It is a help to me to go to church and join in the prayers. I can understand what you mean, I think; and it may be that some do think only of the church, and not of God or our Lord Jesus Christ, when they are there, but they might do the same in your Quaker meeting-house as well as at church."

"But there is nothing at our meeting-house to make us forget we go to listen to the voice of the Spirit, either in ourselves or spoken by the mouth of one of our brethren, as he is moved to speak at the time, either for our warning or our encouragement. We have no words written down in a book to be repeated over and over again, whether we like them or not. Nay, verily; such things are not for Quakers, who have learned the power of sin, and the power of God also!"

The girl spoke in such fierce scorn that Audrey felt rather displeased, and angry words trembled upon her lips; but she remembered the talk she had had with her aunt that afternoon, and she kept them back, for she really wanted to find out more than she knew about these people, and why they were so hated and despised.

"Then it is our churches you dislike so much?" she said at last, after a long pause.

"Your churches, your world, and your sin and wickedness, which are all tangled up together, hiding the light—the true light—that God would put into every man, if he did not smother it with this tangle of corruption."

"Nay, but, Bessie, the church is not the evil thing you think it. Is not my aunt a good woman? and she goes to church sometimes, as well as to your meeting-house."

"Martha Drayton is a right worthy woman; but, verily, she is a stumbling-block unto many, because she goeth to this house of Baal," said the little Quakeress fiercely; and Audrey saw that it was of little use arguing with her further, for, however they might agree in the more essential points of their religious faith, the outer forms of it they were never likely to appreciate truly, or the position of the other. Audrey might be a little more tolerant, but she was no less sincerely attached to the forms and ceremonies of the Established Church than Bessie, taught by her father to hate all such forms, was in her determination to see no good in anything but the simple meeting-house.

If the girls would have continued their discussion they could not, for they had scarcely spoken the last words when Deborah opened the door, and ushered in a tall dignified young man and the old Quaker whom Bessie had been to see earlier in the day.

"This is Friend William Penn," said the old man. "He hath come to make inquiries concerning Martha Drayton, for he hath heard that she is sorely stricken with grief and sickness at this time."

"My aunt is a little better now," said Audrey, wondering why Quakers would insist upon hurting the feelings of other people in their manner of speech. Why should this stranger call her dear aunt "Martha Drayton," instead of by her proper title?

The younger visitor seemed to understand something of what was passing in her mind, for he said in a courteous tone, noticing her dress—

"The Quakers are a plain folk and prefer plain speech. It may seem of small moment, and one that were better yielded than contended for; but we declare that this giving of titles and terms of respect that ofttimes we feel not for the person so addressed, is a device of the father of lies to sear the consciences of men, that their sense of truth may be blunted, and they more easily fall a victim to his wiles."

"Ay, friend, thou hast withstood even the king in the matter of giving empty titles," said the old man with a keen relish.

"I refused to remove my hat in the presence of the king, or the Duke of York, his brother; but it was a sore grief and pain to me, because the admiral, my father, saw in it so much of disrespect and want of loyalty that it well-nigh broke his heart, and he banished me from my home because of it."

"Ay, thou hast suffered for the truth, friend," said the old man, lifting his hat for a moment to scratch his bald head, but carefully replacing it again as he turned to Bessie and said, "William Penn hath good hope that he may be able to help thy mother and father, and thee also. Thy father is still in Newgate, and is like to stay there until a convict ship is sent out to the plantations in the spring. Should it carry many Quakers, Friend Penn or some other trusty man will go by another ship that will sail faster, so as to reach the port before the convict vessel, and there buy each Friend that is offered for sale. He is already in treaty with the king for a tract of country where a colony could be established, far enough from any other settlement to secure to us the right of worshipping God according to the guidance of the inner light, without let or hindrance from any man."

Bessie's eyes slowly filled with tears of joy at the anticipation, and she clasped her hands as she said fervently—

"It will be as the kingdom of heaven come down to earth, an the Friends may serve God and live as they desire."

"Nay, nay, I am not so sure of that," said Sir William Penn with a smile. "We are not perfect, although we are striving to learn the way of perfection as the inner light guides us. Still, for thee and thine it will be a blessed change, for ye have been so harried and tormented for the truth's sake, that to be able to abide in peace will seem as heaven to thee at first."

"Nay, not at first only," said Bessie with trembling earnestness; "think what it will be to dwell with my mother and father again, to comfort them for all the woes they have endured at this time of sore affliction and travail."

"Ay, and thou hast earned the right to comfort thy mother and father," said the old man, "for thou hast done what thou couldest for those who befriended thee in thy time of trouble. If thou hadst been content to idly bemoan thy lot instead of doing that which lay nearest to thine hand, the burden upon our Society at this time would have been almost greater than could be borne. But now thou canst do so much to the finishing of the hats that there is little fear Friend Drayton's business will fail to bear all the expense of the family, the charges he may be at for gaolers' fees and what not, while he is in prison. Thou art a right worthy daughter of a brave father," concluded the old man; and then he related to Sir William what he had heard from the workman who had undertaken to manage the hatter's business during his absence.

Audrey had heard nothing of this, and indeed had scarcely thought of how her aunt and the household were to be kept during the next six months; but her heart warmed to the girl who, in the midst of her own grief and trouble, could yet turn to labour—little as she could have liked it at first—with such good purpose, that in a few weeks she could make herself so useful in it as to be able to materially lessen the expenditure for skilled help, and by her example keep to their posts of duty those who, but for her, might have forsaken them at a time when it would be almost impossible to supply their places from outside.

Audrey learned all this from the talk of the two visitors, as they sat discussing whether they, as a Society, should undertake the direction and control of the household until Dame Drayton was able to get about, or whether, seeing Bessie was so effective a helper in the workroom and Deborah in the house, things should be left in their hands for the present.

To Audrey it was the greatest surprise possible, for by this time she had learned that one of their visitors was rich and able to live in the highest rank of society, and yet he was willing to concern himself in her uncle's affairs with the same sort of interest as a brother might be expected to do. He promised to go and see him in prison the next day, and arrange for his comfort there as far as possible.

"Everyone knows I am a Quaker now," said the gentleman; "but for one of our brethren to go would inevitably draw upon him the notice of the authorities, and there would soon be another for us to keep in Newgate or Bridewell. It will be a great comfort for our brother Drayton to hear that he is not chargeable to the Society during his imprisonment. Truly the Lord hath blessed him in his deed, for in taking these children he hath brought a blessing to his household. Doubtless the Lord hath spoken by him to me concerning the manner He would have me use that which He hath given me, for of all the plans that hath been devised, this for the founding of a new Quaker colony across the seas cloth commend itself to me as the wisest and most useful."

"Verily, it was through these children that the Spirit gave him that wisdom," said the old man. "He hath come to me sometimes, and told me how sorely his heart ached for the little ones, and how hopeless it seemed that they could ever dwell together again. It would cost Westland years of labour even to send for his wife, and he could never hope to be able to pay for all his children to go to the plantations to him. Yet it was the only earthly hope our martyr-brother cherished, and each time that Friend Drayton went to see him, his talk would be of the home he would make for his wife and children across the seas."

"Yea, and verily his hopes shall be fulfilled," said Sir William fervently. "We will have a free colony where no man shall dare to say, 'Ye cannot serve God after this fashion,' but where we may lift up our voices in prayer and praise, none daring to make us afraid."

Audrey thought that such a place might be a little heaven below to some people, but she was not so sure that Bessie's father would be happy there, for if there were only Quakers to live in the colony, there would be no scope for his preaching-power, and he would have to do as Bessie had done, turn the energy to a more practical account; and the fervour once displayed in preaching to sinners who would not hear, might be used in some way for the help and development of the Friends dependent upon each other for all the comfort and joy of life.

But seeing what Bessie had done in the way of practical work that lay nearest to her hand, there was little doubt but that her father would do the same; for some such thoughts as these had arisen in the mind of Sir William Penn when the plan was first proposed to him, and that was why he felt so much pleasure in hearing about Bessie and the homely work she had undertaken. Out there in his new colony there would be plenty of homely work for everyone who would do it, and those who could not stoop to that would be of little use to themselves or others, and therefore had better stay in England until they were wiser, or the king grew tired of fining and imprisoning Quakers. This was not likely to happen very soon, seeing that these people were a convenient scapegoat for the gradual curtailment of civil and religious liberty, which was slowly but surely being effected now in the new laws that were made and put into force so rigorously.

CHAPTER VIII.

CONCLUSION.

THE six months' imprisonment to which Master Drayton the hatter had been condemned came to an end at last, but not before his health had become so greatly impaired by the close confinement and impure air of the prison that the doctor greatly feared he would never be strong again, more especially as he would now be known as a Quaker, and consequently watched and harassed by the authorities upon the smallest provocation.

The thought of this and the sight of her husband's pale worn face soon overcame Dame Drayton's reluctance to give up her home and friends in England, and join the band of Quakers who were soon to sail for New Jersey in His Majesty's plantations of America.

This year 1677 was likely to be one of blessed memory in the history of the Society of Friends, for Sir William Penn had carried into practical effect the dream of Master Drayton, and had spent a portion of his wealth in the purchase of land upon which his poor persecuted friends could settle, and worship God according to the dictates of their conscience, none daring to make them afraid.

Bessie's father had been despatched with a party of convicts to the older settlement of Massachusetts; but as Quakers were persecuted almost as bitterly at Boston as in London, an agent had been sent by Sir William to buy the prisoner at the auction of the convicts, which would take place as soon as the vessel arrived.

Westland was a more robust man than his friend the hatter, and, thanks to the care of Friends outside the prison, he had not suffered so severely as the London tradesman.

The lax rules of the prison had given Westland an opportunity of preaching the gospel to the prisoners confined with him, and though many mocked and jeered at his warnings, a few were impressed with the earnestness of his faith; and this was so great a comfort to his ardent soul that he forgot the discomfort of his surroundings in the joy of knowing he had been the means of awakening some souls from the night and sleep of sin, to seek the Saviour who could give to them a new and better life.

As it had been decreed that his wife must remain in Bridewell until he could earn the money to pay her passage to the plantations, it was at first feared that she would have to remain in prison for a much longer time than her husband; but although Sir William Penn was known to be an obstinate Quaker, many about the Court who had known his father were willing to do him a favour, in the hope of drawing him back to what they deemed was his rightful position in society; and by the interest of some of these it was at last arranged that Bessie's mother should be released when the party of Friends were ready to sail from Gravesend.

Bessie was allowed to go and see her father just before he was taken from Newgate; and now to hear at last that her mother would be released to go with them to the new strange home across the seas was almost too much joy for the poor girl.

"We shall see her, Dorothy! we shall see her! thee and me; and we shall not be afraid of people knowing we are Quakers. Verily, God hath been good in giving us such a friend as Sir William Penn, who is indeed our champion and protector."

But Audrey was by no means so delighted as Bessie over the impending change. The two girls had learned to know and love each other by this time, for each had been drawn to the other by the mutual helpfulness that had kept business and household going during the long illness of Dame Drayton and the imprisonment of her husband.

It had seemed impossible at first that pretty, fashionable Audrey Lowe, whose father lived by ministering at a steeple-house, and the stern, uncompromising Bessie Westland could ever be friends, in the closest sense of that word. But circumstances had thrown them so closely together the last few months, that they had learned to look below the surface they each so much disliked in the other, and there they could recognise the true spirit of Christ Jesus, who came not to be ministered unto, but to minister.

In spite of her mother's chafings and warnings lest their fashionable friends should find out that they were related to Quakers, Audrey Lowe insisted upon spending the greater part of her time at Soper Lane during her aunt's illness; so that the girls were necessarily thrown together a good deal, and thus had learned to know and appreciate the selflessness each displayed in working for Dame Drayton and her family. When at last the day of parting came, it was not such an unmingled joy to Bessie as she had anticipated, for her heart clung to this friend, who was so like and yet so unlike herself in all externals of character and surroundings.

"I shall never be able to say a word against steeple-houses and the people who go there, after knowing thee, Audrey," she said, the last evening they spent together.

They were sitting on a box in the keeping-room, waiting for the waggon to come and fetch the last of their goods to the wherry, which would carry them to the schooner chartered by Sir William Penn to convey them to their new home. The girls sat hand in hand, their hearts too full to say much, until Bessie spoke about the steeple-houses.

"I am glad," said Audrey in a whisper, "for I never liked to hear thee speak of what I loved and reverenced with such contempt. I cannot understand how thee can do it, when it is God's house of prayer."

But this was treading on dangerous ground, and had been the most thorny subject of discussion between the two girls; so Audrey hastened to add—

"I have learned to understand what a real Quaker is from knowing thee, Bessie; and I shall always try to help them if I can, and they need my help."

"Ah, and I fear there will be many poor Friends left behind here in London who will need all the help man can give them," answered Bessie. "For we cannot all go in this ship to another land; and Friend William Penn says it would not be good for us or for England to carry all the Quakers away. We have had our share of the battle, and fought for the truth and for liberty of conscience, as God strengthened us to do. Now He will strengthen others to take our places, while we go to plant the truth in other lands. Although Friend William Penn hath been imprisoned for the truth again and again, he will not come with us now, but stay and fight the battle of religious liberty here; for it can only grow and become strong through fighting and struggling—hard as it may be for us who suffer."

"Oh, Bessie, I cannot bear to think there should be all this fighting about it," said Audrey, in a pained tone.

"It hurts thee only to think of it," said Bessie, "and therefore God hath not called thee to this work, but to be a comforter of those who suffer, and help to make them strong and gentle. Thou art tender and loving and pitiful. I thought scornfully of these things once; but since I have known thee, I have learned to see that God hath work for all in His world. For it is His world, Audrey, in spite of the sin and pain and trouble that wicked people make in it. Now I want to fight this wickedness, and so does my father. But it may be God hath other methods, only I have not learned them. But I am glad—oh, so glad!—that God hath called my mother and father, and all of us, out of the fight for a little while—or, at least, this sort of fighting," added Bessie.

"The fight can never be over, while we have our own sin and selfishness to struggle against," said Audrey quickly.

"I know. I have learned that since I have been here," replied Bessie. "There was not time to think of much besides the other sort of fighting before. We needed all our courage to be faithful and true, and preach the gospel to every creature, as the Lord Jesus commanded; but since I have been here, dwelling in safety and comfort, such as I never knew before, I have learned there is another battle to fight, and other victories to be won, and I have been trying to do this as well."

"I know, Bessie," whispered Audrey, "I know it has not been easy for you to do just the everyday work that was so important to aunt and uncle. You are Brave Bessie Westland—the bravest girl I ever knew, especially in what you have done for aunt and all of us here."

They were interrupted at this point, for the box on which they were seated was wanted, and there was no further opportunity of talking.

At daybreak they were going by water to Limehouse Hole, where a wherry was to be in readiness to convey them to Gravesend. The whole party who were going were Quakers, many of them in broken health from imprisonment in unwholesome gaols. Some were bringing all their household goods, as Master Drayton was doing; while others, like Bessie's mother, possessed but the few rags they wore when leaving prison. Most of them came from London and its neighbourhood; but a few were brought from neighbouring gaols, the authorities giving them up to save, the expense of transporting them as slaves to the plantations.

Audrey and her mother bade the Draytons farewell the night before they started. It was hard for the sisters to part after this short reunion, for they too had begun to understand each other better than they had done before, and whatever their differences of opinion might be, they were heartily at one in desiring that religious liberty should be the right of everybody, whatever name they might be called by; for, as Dame Lowe remarked, there were more silent martyrs in any cause than the world dreamed of; and, as Audrey added, there were not many like Brave Bessie Westland.

So the tears of parting had all been shed when the sun rose the next morning, and if they were not all as happy as Bessie herself and her two sisters, it was a calm and hopeful party of men and women who went on board the wherry at Limehouse Hole, and though most of them were being forcibly driven from their native land, they could yet look forward to the new home they were going to make in the unknown world beyond the seas. To many of the more timid of the company, seated among the baskets and bundles on board the wherry, the voyage, with its unknown perils, was the most fearful part of the trial, and if they could not have rested upon the arm of their Father in heaven, they would scarcely have braved its dangers even to escape persecution. But almost all among them had a nearer and dearer self in husband, wife, or children, to think of, and for their sakes the timid became brave, for the time at least, so that when the schooner was reached, where the prisoners had been already placed under the care of the captain, the party of Friends in the wherry were able to meet them with cheerful, hopeful words and greetings.

To Bessie and her sisters it was a moment of great joy, although a second look at the dear mother showed that the months spent in prison had left cruel marks upon her. The hair, so dark when she went away, was now quite white, they saw, as they looked more closely under the hood that covered her head. She was better clothed than most of those who had been brought from different gaols, for Dame Lowe and Audrey had made her a homely but useful outfit for the voyage, and some of the things had been taken by Friends to the prison the day before. For this thoughtful kindness Dame Westland was deeply grateful, since the rags she had been wearing would have been a pain and grief to Bessie, she knew, and to be able to meet her children decently clad was a great comfort.

Truly the passengers going on this voyage were of all sorts and conditions of men; but they were linked in the bonds of love to God, and the truth declared by the Lord Jesus Christ, and for this they had all suffered in mind, body, or estate, some being beggared, some maimed, some broken in health and hope alike, but all brave, true friends and brethren, ready to help each other and bear each other's burdens.

By the help of the same benefactor, under the guidance of God, they had been brought together to make a new home in a new country, and they resolved that, so far as it was possible, religious as well as civil liberty, should be the charter of the new homestead they were going to set up in New Jersey. It was to be a home and refuge for the persecuted Society of Friends. Sir William Penn had bought it, and they were to establish the faith of God upon it.

Later, perhaps, if the persecution of their people in England did not cease, he would endeavour to secure a larger territory in liquidation of a debt owing by the king, for money advanced by his father the admiral. Whether these larger plans would ever come to anything, the present band of pilgrims did not know; but, of course, it would largely depend upon the success of this venture, so every man and woman of the party felt that it would depend upon them whether or not this larger refuge could be founded, and all with one accord, who had heard the story, resolved to follow the example of Brave Bessie Westland.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Brave Bessie Westland by Emma Leslie

BRAVE

BESSIE WESTLAND

A Story of Quaker Persecution

BY

EMMA LESLIE

AUTHOR OF

"AUDREY'S JEWELS," "AT THE SIGN OF THE BLUE BOAR,"

"FOR FRANCE AND FREEDOM," ETC. ETC.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

CONTENTS.