o the will
of our God, whose will is our
joy.'--JOHN COPELAND. 1657._

_'The log of the little
"Woodhouse" has become a sacred
classic.'--WILLIAM LITTLEBOY,
Swarthmoor Lecture, 1917._

XXV. THE MARVELLOUS VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP 'WOODHOUSE'

Master Robert Fowler of Burlington was a well-known figure in all the
fishing towns and villages along the Yorkshire coast in the year of
grace 1657. A man of substance was he, a master mariner, well skilled
in his craft; building his own ships and sailing them withal, and
never to be turned back from an adventurous voyage. Many fine vessels
he had, sailing over the broad waters, taking the Yorkshire cargoes of
wool and hides to distant lands, and bringing back foreign goods in
exchange, to be sold again at a profit on his return to old England's
shores. Thus up and down the Yorkshire coast men spoke and thought
highly of Master Robert Fowler's judgment in all matters pertaining to
the sea. On land, too, he seemed prudent and skilful, though some
folks looked at him askance of late years, since he had joined himself
to that strange and perverse people known as the Quakers.

Yet, in spite of what his neighbours considered his new-fangled
religion, Master Robert Fowler was prospering in all his worldly
affairs. Even now on the sunny day when our story opens, he was hard
at work putting the last touches to a new boat of graceful proportions
and gallant curves, that bade fair to be a yet more notable seafarer
than any of her distant sisters.

Why then did Master Robert Fowler pause more than once in his work to
heave a deep sigh, and throw down his tools almost pettishly? Why did
he suddenly put his fingers in his ears as if to shut out an unwelcome
sound, resuming his work thereafter with double speed? No one was
speaking to him. The mid-day air was very still. The haze that often
broods over the north-east coast veiled the horizon. Sea and sky
melted into one another till it was impossible to say where earth
ended and heaven began. An unwonted silence reigned even on Burlington
Quay. No sound was to be heard save for the tap, tap, tap of Master
Robert Fowler's hammer.

Again he dropped his tools. Again he looked up to the sky, as if he
were listening to an unseen voice.

Someone was truly speaking to him, though no faintest sound vibrated
on the air. His inward ear heard clear