CHAPTER I.

_BROTHER AND SISTER._

_March 1, 1637._

SO it is really all settled, and I am to leave this little parsonage, where I have spent all my days hitherto, and go to Stanton Court to live among lords and ladies and to be companion or governess to a poor little hunchbacked girl. I wonder how I shall like it? However, as Felicia says, that is the least part of the matter. Felicia need not have put it so bluntly, I think. That is always her way, but it does not help to make matters easier. As old Esther says, if she wanted to hammer a nail into a board, she would begin head foremost. She thinks, forsooth, it is all because she is so very sincere, but I don't see that she is any more so than other folks. I am sure, when she tells mother after she and I have had a quarrel, she manages to turn things to her own advantage as well as anybody I ever saw. Mother understands her pretty well, that is one comfort.

It really does not matter much, however, whether I like it or not. We cannot all stay at home, that is clear, especially now that my dear father is gone, and we must leave the dear old parsonage for the cottage at the other end of the village, which will hardly hold us all. I don't mind leaving home so much, now that "home" no longer means this queer old pile of stone, all angles and corners and outside stairs, and all overgrown with ivy and traveller's joy, and what not. I don't think I can ever take root in any place again, even though it were far finer than this; and the cottage is by no means so pleasant, though very good for a cottage.

But some of us must earn our own bread, that is plain. Poor Dick is doing so already, with all the cheerfulness in the world, as clerk to old Master Smith, the great stationer in Chester. He never complains, though all his hopes and projects are disappointed, and, why should I? Felicia is older and stronger than I am, 'tis true. But then, as mother says to me: "Who would ever live with her that could help it? She has such an unhappy temper!" So they all say. When "I" get vexed and in a fury, I have a "bad" temper. That is all the difference. As long as I can remember, every one in the house has given way to Felicia, on account of her "unhappy temper," but I don't see that it makes her any happier.

"Felicia!" Never was any one more completely misnamed. That is the worst of these significant names which people are so fond of giving nowadays. A child is named Grace, Mercy, or Peace, and Grace grows up more awkward than a cow, Mercy takes delight in tormenting, and Peace keeps the whole house in an uproar from morning till night.

I would not for the world say anything to reflect upon my honored father, especially now that he is gone from us, but it does seem a pity that he should have risked all his savings for so many years, and all mother's little fortune, in such an adventure as that ship to the Spice Islands. 'Tis true, no doubt, that some great fortunes have been made in that way, like that of Mr. Gunning in Bristol. But I believe it is also true that for one ship that comes home laden with pepper, mace, and nutmegs, at least four go to the bottom or are taken by pirates.

Master Smith says, however, that no such wild scheme is got up, but the foremost to rush into it, and risk their little alls, are masters and fellows in colleges, country clergymen, and widows with a little property—just the people who have the least chance of understanding the matter. I will say that dear mother was as much against it as she could ever be against any scheme of my father's. But he was so sanguine, and he ever thought little of the opinion of women on any subject.

But there is no use in going over all that now. What is done is done. What is "to do," is to make the best struggle we can to live decently and honestly, keep out of debt, and—I don't know what else, I am sure.

_March 3._

Dick is come home, by favor of Master Smith, to spend my last Sunday with us. I must say he is very kind to Dick. Indeed, every one has been very kind to us so far, even the new rector. 'Twas he got me my place at Stanton Court, where I am to go the day after to-morrow. To-day we have a new instance of his goodness. He allows mother to take what furniture she chooses from the parsonage, as he means to replenish it entirely. That will be a great help toward fitting up the cottage. Indeed, I hardly know what we should have done without it, for mother hath but little of her own, and most of the furniture here belongs to the house, though my father had it all refitted and repaired more than once. I wish I could stay here to help them move, but that is impossible. I am to go southward with the new rector and his servants, and I may not have such a good opportunity again in a long time.

I have showed Dick what I have written. I do so sometimes, though no one else knows that I keep a journal. Dick has known of it from the first. It was he that put me upon keeping it and gave me this large fair blank book. Before that I used to write upon such scraps as I could find.

When he came to that—"I don't know what else."—Dick demurred. "You have left out the gist of the whole matter Peggy," said he. "Your summing up is like the playbill Master Smith told me of—'The play of Hamlet with the part of Hamlet omitted.'"

"What have I left out?" I asked.

"Tell me, Peggy, what do you suppose we were made for?" said he. "Why were we put into this world, and assigned certain parts and duties therein? Who has put us here, and for what?"

"Our Heavenly Father has put us here, of course," I replied. "But Dick, if you ask me why, I am not sure that I have an answer ready."

"Do you remember when our Lord shall come in His glory and all the holy angels with Him, what will be the invitation to those on His right hand?"

"'Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world,'" I repeated.

"Then, sweetheart, since such a kingdom is prepared for us—a kingdom of Everlasting Life—does it not seem likely that we are placed here as a school of preparation for that glorious heritage? And looking at it in that light, may it not give us a key whereby to understand at least some of the tasks and exercises which are set us in that same school?"

"I suppose it may," said I.

Dick said no more. It is not his way to say a great deal, and perhaps that may be one reason why his words dwell in my mind and I cannot get rid of them if I would. I wish I could think and feel as he does on these subjects. It is the only point on which we do not fully sympathize. Of course I believe in the Christian religion, and say my prayers night and morning. I "fear" God, and I wish I could honestly say that I "love" Him, but I cannot think of Him as Dick does, as a loving Father, ever watching over us for good, ordering all things for the best, and always ready to hear our requests and sympathize with our troubles. It does seem to me as though He were very far off—too far to see or care for all the little joys and sorrows which make up the lives of every-day people.

To-day we are beginning to pull up and pull down, and the house puts on an aspect of mourning. I had been working as hard as I could all the morning at mending the old tapestry hanging (and dusty, disagreeable work it is), when mother came in, and I called her to see the new head I had added to Goliah.

"You have made him as good as new," says my mother.

Dick, who had been helping us, came and looked over my shoulder to admire the truculent aspect of my giant.

"Your work gives one a new notion of the courage of David," said he. "You have made Goliah a regular Cornish giant, like Cormoran and Blunderbore in Jack's story-book."

"Unluckily David himself is not very much handsomer," I rejoined. "I must say I do not much like this fashion of putting pictures from Holy Scripture upon tapestry and Dutch tiles, and the like. One gets odd notions from them. I shall all my life have no other idea of Saint Peter than that I gained, before I can clearly remember, from the painted window in the church."

"Peggy is growing quite a Puritan lately," said Felicia, who was working upon another part of the hangings. "She objects to the painted windows in the church."

"Not to all of them," said I. "Only to the chancel window, and I do think that is profane. I cannot bear to look at it, since I knew for whom that old man in the clouds was intended. Surely if the second commandment means anything—"

"Don't you suppose the good man who gave that window to the church ever so many hundred years ago, knew as much about the meaning of the commandments as you do?" interrupted Felicia.

"Probably not," said Dick, as I did not answer. "It is very likely the poor man had never seen, in all his life, a perfect copy of the Holy Scripture."

"And, moreover, I do not think that anything painted upon a window can be so beautiful as the sky and the clouds seen through it," said I. "I admit that the colors in the old window are very wonderful and beautiful, but I think the sky more beautiful still, and besides I like to see out."

"Every one does not care to be staring abroad in service time," retorted Felicia. "But you are a regular Puritan. I advise you to keep your notions to yourself at Stanton Court, or you will soon get into trouble. The lady will not care to have her daughter's head filled with such fancies."

"I trust my daughter will have sufficient modesty to prevent her intruding her opinions on anybody, whether at home or abroad," said my mother, not without emphasis.

"I dare say she will soon learn it," said Felicia, who is the only one in the family that ever answers mother back. "Poor relations and waiting gentlewomen get plenty of snubbing."

Whenever any one checks Felicia in the least, she always begins to talk about poor relations. I do honestly think that she presumes upon her position as a dependent, knowing that mother will never utterly lose patience with her, because she is my dear father's youngest sister. She has been in one of her worst moods all day, and nothing pleases her. She found fault with the dinner, and snubbed me and the children, till mother at last roused herself and gave her such a setting down as reduced her to silence and sulks for the rest of the meal.

After dinner, I was going to sit down to my work again, but mother stopped me.

"No, my dear. This is your last Saturday at home, perhaps for a long time, and you shall not spend it all over the needle. Do you and Dick go out together and have a fine long walk. 'Tis a pleasant afternoon, and you can visit all your old haunts before dark."

"But then you and Felicia, will have all the work to do," I objected, though my heart leaped at the thought of one more long solitary walk with Dick—a thing I had hardly dared to hope for.

"Oh, never mind 'me,'" said Felicia, in a voice which trembled with rage. "'I' am nobody—only fit for a drudge and slave. Nobody cares for me, or thinks of me, now that my poor dear brother is gone." And with that she began to cry.

Mother checked me as I began to speak, and sent me for my hood and cloak. When I came back, she met me at the door.

"It is best not to answer Felicia when she is in one of these moods," said she. "Poor thing, she suffers more than any one else from her unhappy temper."

I am not so sure of that. I do think she finds a certain enjoyment in being miserable and making others so. It is rather too bad in her, thus to try to spoil Dick's holiday, but she was always jealous of his fondness for me. However, I said nothing, of course, and Dick and I were soon out in the lane. We meant to go and see the old people at the almshouses, and then across the deer-park to the spring, and so home by the church.

We found Goody Crump sitting up reading her Bible, as usual, with everything tidy and pleasant about her, but she complained sadly of the weather.

"Why, Goody, I thought it seasonable weather for March!" said I. "You know they say a peck of dust in March is worth a king's ransom."

"And so it is to the farmers, especially since the winter hath been so wet," replied the old woman, "but these east winds rack my poor old bones sadly. However," she added, with her pleasant smile, "I reckon, children, 'tis the old bones which are in fault more than the weather. I dare say the east wind doesn't trouble you."

"How old are you, Goody?" I ventured to ask.

"I was ninety-eight my last birthday, my dear. I was a good big girl when the great Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, and I well remember when I was a little thing, like your Jacky, seeing the fires lighted which were to burn two poor men at the stake, for reading their English Bibles. Ah! Children, you don't know what it is to live in troublous times. But those were grand days, too—grand days!" she repeated, and her old face did so light up as she spoke. "'Twas a new world, as it might be, what with the discoveries by sea and land, and fighting the Spaniards, and the spread of the True Gospel all over the land. Why, children, I remember when a copy of Holy Scripture was like treasure hid in a field. They that had it, kept it with jealous care, and resorted to it with fear and trembling, yet with heartfelt joy, knowing that it as good as sealed their death-warrant if found in their hands. Then came the days of Queen Elizabeth, when we dwelt under our own vines and fig-trees, as it were, and none to make us afraid. Then the ships went away beyond seas.

"My master he sailed with Captain Drake, as was the first Englishman who went round the world—sailed away, and left me a six months wife, to tend his widowed mother, that was ever the best of mothers to me. Eh dear! 'Twas weary waiting and never knowing whether he were dead or alive. My oldest child was two years old and more before it ever saw its father's face. But back he came at last, and brought what kept us comfortable for many a long year. But all is gone now—the gold, and the brave sailor lad, and all my fair children—and I shall soon follow. These be good and quiet times, children, but not like those days."

"None so quiet, either; what with Star Chamber prosecutions, and fines, and the ship-money, and the troubles in Ireland," said Dick, who hears all the news, being as it were at head-quarters in Master Smith's shop. "There is trouble enough, both at home and abroad, and many even fear a civil war."

"I trust I shall not live to see it," said Goody Crump. "Few and evil—no, but I'll not say that, either!" said she, catching herself up. "'Tis true, I have seen many and sad changes, but I've had my share of happiness, too. And 'tis no small thing to have such a snug harbor in which to end my days at last, with the church near by, and kind friends to close my eyes and see me decently laid under ground. No! No! I've naught to complain of. Little I thought once to end my days in an almshouse, and now I am thankful for the almshouse itself."

"Then it does not make you unhappy to be dependent, as some folks say?" said I, thinking of Felicia.

The old woman smiled again.

"Bless your dear heart, no! We are all dependent, child. One almost as much as another, for that matter."

"You mean upon God," said I.

"Aye, and upon one another. If not for bread yet for pleasant looks, and kind words, and little acts of service, such as go to make our lives happy. I have done for others in my time, and now others do for me. I did not grudge my service, and no more do they grudge theirs. And all comes from God, first and last, and may be given again to Him if we will. When I lived with my mistress down in Devonshire, and up to London, I had many times to put up with whims and fancies, and hard words. Not from her, though—she was ever a sweet-tempered lady—but from others of the family. But I said to myself, ''Tis all in the day's work,' and strove to take all cheerfully."

"Aye, that is it!" said Dick. "''Tis all in the day's work,' and what matter, so we but serve our Master faithfully, and are rewarded of Him at the last."

"How cheerful Dame Crump is," said I, when we had finished our walk, and were lingering in the church, looking at our father's pulpit, and his tablet on the chancel wall. "I wish I were like her."

"You do not wish you were ninety-eight years old, do you?" asked my brother.

"Why, I don't know—yes! If I were as ready to go as she, I think I would like to be as old. I always do envy good old people, they are so near home."

"We none of us know how near home we may be," said Richard.

I assented, thinking of my poor father. Never had he seemed stronger or more sanguine than on the very day he had that fatal seizure.

"But, Peggy, my love, why not take the old woman's motto for your own?" continued Richard. "Is it not a good one? ''Tis all in the day's work!'"

"Can 'you' take it, Dick?" I asked, in wonder. "Standing here before my father's pulpit, in which you so ardently hoped to preach, can you be content to say—'It is all in the day's work'?"

"Yes, I can, Peggy!" replied Richard, firmly, though I saw his eyelash twinkle. "Standing here—even here—I can say, 'God's will be done!'"

"Well, I can't!" said I, passionately enough. "It does seem very hard to me, and I can't help it!"

"That is because you do not consider well the nature of the service, Peggy. Have I not vowed to fight manfully under Christ's banner against sin, the world, and the devil, and continue His faithful soldier and servant unto my life's end? A soldier does not choose the nature of his service. 'Tis the very essence of a good soldier that he hath no will of his own, but goes cheerfully wherever he is sent by his commander, whether to lead a forlorn hope, or to stand sentinel at a distance from the field, or to work at an entrenchment, whether to die in a place where all men shall see and honor him, or in some obscure service, where no man shall so much as hear of him. It is all the same to him, so he does his work well.

"But Christ's soldier hath this advantage, that he never can perish forgotten and unknown. He fights, conquers, and dies, if need be, under the eye of the Captain of his salvation, and when that Captain shall appear, he will receive a crown which fadeth not away. And so I say I can serve Him as well in Master Smith's shop, as here in my father's pulpit; and though I don't deny that it is a great cross to give up the thought of taking orders, yet I mean to try to bear it cheerfully, and say, through all, 'God's will be done!'"

"Amen!" said a deep and sweet voice behind us, which sounded so like my father's that both Dick and I started and turned round in a hurry. There stood a grave and comely gentleman, a dignified clergyman, by his dress. He had a most reverend and noble air, but his face was full of kindliness, not without a shrewd suspicion of humor and even of sarcasm.

"I crave your pardon, my young ones, for listening to your conversation," said he, with a courteous air, "but I caught a few words, and was really too much interested to interrupt you. I conclude," he added, glancing at my mourning dress, "that you are the children of the late excellent rector of this parish. I knew him at college, and can see some resemblance in your faces. But may I ask you, my young friend," he said, turning to Richard, "why you give up the thought of taking orders?"

"Surely, sir," answered Dick, "it is no secret. My father died poor, and I have no means of gaining the necessary education."

"But there are places—however, we will not talk longer here, since the air is something damp," said the strange gentleman, interrupting himself. "My friend Mr. Carey hath made me free of his study, where there is a fire, and we can talk there with more comfort and propriety."

As he spoke, he opened the door of the little vaulted room next the vestry, which my father had caused to be fitted up as a study. He had spent a great deal of money upon it, for dear father knew not how to save when he had the gold to spend.

The stranger invited us to sit, and placed a chair for me, as if I had been some great lady.

"I was about to say," he went on, "that there are positions at both the universities at which a scholar can get on with little or no expense. I have some little interest, and I doubt not I could use it for your advantage, if on trial it should appear that you have a true call to preach the gospel."

I saw Dick's cheek flush, and something seemed to swell in his throat. As for me, I did not know whether I were dreaming or awake, so bright a ray of hope seemed to beam from this door which the strange gentleman had opened. It was but for a moment, and then Dick answered, quietly:

"I thank you, honored sir, from the bottom of my heart, for your kind offer, but I must not accept it, at least not now. My mother is poor, and hath younger children to educate. She needs all the help which both my sister and I can give her, and for that reason we must both go into the world to earn our own living. If the call I feel is indeed from above, I doubt not that He who gives it will find a way to accomplish His own ends; and I should be disposed gravely to doubt its reality, should it lead me away from my duty toward my mother."

So here was my door closed again, and that by the very person for whom it had been opened. The tears came into my eyes, and I had much ado to keep myself from sobbing. The stranger rose and walked to the window in silence, and I feared that Dick had given him great offence. But he presently came back again, and his face was calm and benign as ever.

"What you say hath much reason in it," said he, addressing himself to Richard, "but would not your mother be willing to make the sacrifice?"

"She would, without doubt; and therefore it must not be so much as mentioned to her," answered Dick, decidedly. "No, Margaret," for he read the entreaty in my face: "not so much as mentioned. My dear mother is growing old, and it is no longer fit that she should sacrifice to her children. Wherefore, pardon me, honored sir, if I decline, with many thanks, your generous offer."

"No pardon is needed when no offence hath been committed or taken," said the stranger. "But, my son, I am loth that such an one as you seem to be should be lost to the Church, which now, as much as at any time in her history, needs zealous and faithful ministers. Therefore I would entreat you not to dismiss the thought of taking orders, but, as it were, to put it away in your mind for some future time. Believe me, you may still be preparing for the sacred office. In your master's shop, in the street, and at the fireside, you may be gaining a knowledge of 'men.' 'Tis a kind of knowledge which is worth more to a pastor than any which can be learned out of books, and one in which we college fellows are apt to be deficient. Do you have any time to yourself to read or study?"

"Yes sir," replied Dick. "My master is very kind in that respect, as in every other. I have the most of my evenings."

"I will, if you please, set down a list of books for your reading. Many of them, no doubt, will be found in your master's shop, and for the others, I dare say you may find them here," he said, looking round on my dear father's books, which have not yet been removed. "On my word, my friend has a fine collection."

"These are my father's books," said Richard. He seemed as if he would have added more, but paused and gazed steadfastly at the fire.

The stranger glanced at him for a moment, and then, taking a sheet of paper from the table, he began to write, now and then glancing up at Dick or me.

For myself, I sat as mum as a mouse, wondering more and more what was to be the end of it all. The stranger was no common man, I felt sure, but I would not even give a guess as to who he might be.

Presently he folded the paper and gave it to Dick.

"There," said he, "I have written down a list of books, according to the best of my judgment, which you can study at your leisure. Meantime, let me impress upon you the importance of a close daily walk with God, which is the best preparation of all. Drink daily and deeply of the fountain of all grace, by resorting to God in humble prayer. Be diligent in your daily calling, and you may be sure that a blessing will rest upon you!"

"And you, my fair maiden," said he, turning to me with a kindly smile. "So you are to make your first flight from the nest, and go out into the world to seek your fortune!"

"I suppose so, sir," I replied.

"'Tis a hard necessity," said he, gravely. "The best place for a girl is by her mother's side till she hath a household of her own. But where are you going? Tell me all about it."

His manner was so kind, and made me think so of my dear father that I choked for a moment. But recovering myself, I told him that I was going to wait upon, and be in some sort, I supposed, a governess to my Lady Elizabeth Stanton of Stanton Court in Devonshire.

He looked very grave.

"A hard place—a hard place!" he muttered. "An honest service would have been better."

Then catching my eye: "My child, you are going to a place where both your temper and your principles are likely to be put to the test. I would not discourage you, but 'forewarned is forearmed,' they say, though I have not always found it so. Are you, like your brother, furnished with the armor of a soldier of Christ?"

"I am afraid not," said I.

"But why not, sweetheart? Do you not need it as much?"

"I need it even more, if that were possible," said I, "for my temper is not naturally as good as Richard's. But I know not how it is, these things are not as real to me as to him. I have not the faith which he has."

"Well, well. You are but young. But, my child, you are now going among strangers, into the midst of trials, vexations, and temptations of which you know nothing. Let me beg of you to pray your Heavenly Father to give you that perfect trust in Him, and that consecration to His service, which alone can preserve you in the perils of the way. Remember that you are Christ's vowed servant and soldier, as well as your brother; and must fight manfully under his banner. 'Tis the Christian paradox that peace is found only in warfare!" he added, smiling.

"I cannot make Peggy understand that," said Richard. And I saw by his using my pet name, how much he felt at ease with the strange clergyman, for he seldom called me anything but Margaret before strangers. "Her only notion of peace consists in having nothing to disturb her."

"Aye, but that is peace never to be found in this world. I am glad your sister is going into Devonshire. I am sometimes at Stanton Court myself, and may be able to befriend her. My dear child," said he, turning to me, "will you make me one promise?"

"Yes sir," I replied, feeling that I might safely do so.

"Then promise me solemnly that you will never let a day pass without reading some portion of Holy Scripture, be it never so short, and praying for God's blessing on yourself and all that you do. Bring all to this test, and permit yourself no employment that will not endure it. Will you promise me this?"

I did so.

"That is well!" said he. "I will send you a little book which will perhaps help you to understand better what you read. Remember now that you have promised."

"And she will keep her word, I am sure," said Richard. "But may we venture to ask who it is that hath been so kind?"

The stranger smiled. "My name is Joseph Hall, and I live in Exeter," said he, simply, yet with the air of being mightily diverted at something.

I saw Dick rise up hastily with a deep blush, and while I was trying to think what could be the matter, the door opened.

"I crave your pardon, my Lord, for leaving you so long alone," said Mr. Carey, and then he stopped, as if he were amazed at seeing us in such company.

For myself, I felt as if all the blood in my body rushed to my face, when it flashed across me that the stranger was no other than Bishop Hall of Exeter, one of the most learned men in England. I might have guessed before, for I had heard that Mr. Carey the new rector was nephew to the Bishop of Exeter.

"I have not been alone, as you see, nephew," said the Bishop. "I encountered those young people in the church, and having played the eavesdropper to a part of their discourse, I could do no less than ask them in here to finish it. Go now, my children! I shall perhaps see you again; and you, Margaret, since that is your name, remember what you have promised."

I was not likely to forget it. It is not every day that one talks freely with so great a man. When we got outside, we were startled to see how low the sun was, and hastened home with little talk by the way. At another time, I should have met a reproof for being out of bounds so late. But dear mother is one who knows when to relax the reins and when to draw them tightly. She had even kept our supper hot by the fire.

"Have you heard who is to preach for us to-morrow?" asked Felicia. "No less a person than the Bishop of Exeter, Mr. Carey's uncle."

"We have seen him," I replied, not without a mischievous enjoyment of the amazement in her face and mother's. "It was he who kept us talking so long in the vault room."

Felicia looked from one to the other as if she suspected a plan to mystify her. Dick hastened to relate a part of what had passed at the church. Dear mother was much pleased, especially when Dick said that the Bishop had advised him not to give up the thought of being a minister, but to continue his studies as he had opportunity.

Felicia smiled scornfully.

"I do not see anything either very great or very good in that," said she. "I dare say the Bishop, if he were so minded, might easily procure Dick some place, where he might earn thrice as much as he is ever like to do with Master Smith, and without the work. Court favor can do a great deal more than that."

"If all tales be true, my Lord does not enjoy much of court favor," said Richard. "I have heard that he is no favorite with the archbishop who rules all about the king nowadays."

"I cannot help feeling, however, as though the children had made a valuable friend," said my mother.

"And do you really suppose he will ever think of them again, or that he will even know Peggy, if by chance he meets her at Stanton Court?" asked Felicia, with her exasperating superior smile, as if she pitied my mother's weakness. "That is not the way with great people, I fancy."

"I suppose there may be a difference in great people as well as in little ones," observed my mother.

"I fancy they are much alike in that respect," said Felicia.

"Do you judge others by yourself, Felicia?" I could not help asking. "Suppose you were suddenly to make a great match, or to inherit a great fortune, would you forget all about us, and never come near us?"

"If I did, I should have a good excuse," returned Felicia, sharply. "To you at least, Peggy, I should owe no debt of kindness."

I might have said more, but I saw Dick look at me, so I bit my lip and was silent. I dare say she would, though.

When I went to my room, I remembered my promise, and took my Bible to read. The first words my eye fell upon were these: "'Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly of heart, and ye shall find rest to your souls.'"

I wonder if it is a want of meekness and lowliness which makes me so easily disturbed? I should not wonder.

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