Swarthmoor had too often been
sorely mishandled. Even to this day, in all the lanes around, may be
seen the walls composed of sharp, grey, jagged stones, over which is
creeping a covering of soft golden moss. So in those old days of which
I write, men, aye and women too, often came to Swarthmoor torn and
bleeding, perhaps sometimes with anger in their hearts (though Miles
Halhead was not of these), and all alike found their inward and
outward wounds staunched and assuaged by the never-failing sympathy of
kindly hearts, and hands more soft than the softest golden moss.

Thus Miles Halhead was comforted of his friends at Swarthmoor, and
inwardly refreshed. Yet the matter of his encounter with the haughty
lady, and of her prickly thistle nature, rested on his mind, and he
could not be content without giving her yet one more chance to doff
her prickles and become a sweet and fragrant flower in the garden of
the Lord. Therefore, three months later, being continually urged
thereunto by 'the true Teacher which is within,' he determined to take
yet another journey and come himself to Holker Hall, and ask to speak
with its mistress and endeavour to bring her to a better mind. Thither
then in due course he came. Now a mansion surpassing grand is Holker
Hall, the goodliest in all that country-side. And a plain man and a
simple, as has been said, was Miles Halhead the husbandman of
Mountjoy, even among the Quakers--who were none of them gay gallants.
Nevertheless, being full of a great courage though small in stature,
all weary and travel-stained as he was, to Holker Hall Miles Halhead
came. He would not go to any back door or side door, seeing that his
errand was to the mistress of the stately building. He walked
therefore right up the broad avenue till he came to the front
entrance, with its grand portico, where a king had been welcomed
before now.

As luck would have it, the door stood open as the Quaker approached,
and the mistress of Holker Hall herself happened to be passing through
the hall behind. She paused a moment to look through the open door,
intending most likely to mock at the odd figure she saw approaching.
But on that instant she recognised Miles as the man who had called her
Jezebel. Now Miles at first sight did not recognise her, and was
doubtful if this could be the haughty Thistle lady he sought, or if it
were not a Lily in very truth. For Mistress Preston was clad this hot
day in a lily-like frock of white