attles, and might not lift so much as his naked hand to
guard his head. But the Holy Book remained, and the table on which it
rested was drawn before the fire, while two of the persecuted sect
sought comfort from its pages.

He who listened while the other read was the master of the house, now
emaciated in form and altered as to the expression and healthiness of
his countenance, for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary
thoughts and his body had been worn by imprisonment and stripes. The
hale and weatherbeaten old man who sat beside him had sustained less
injury from a far longer course of the same mode of life. In person he
was tall and dignified, and, which alone would have made him hateful
to the Puritans, his gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed
hat and rested on his shoulders. As the old man read the sacred page
the snow drifted against the windows or eddied in at the crevices of
the door, while a blast kept laughing in the chimney and the blaze
leaped fiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind struck the
hill at a certain angle and swept down by the cottage across the
wintry plain, its voice was the most doleful that can be conceived; it
came as if the past were speaking, as if the dead had contributed each
a whisper, as if the desolation of ages were breathed in that one
lamenting sound.

The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining, however, his hand
between the pages which he had been reading, while he looked
steadfastly at Pearson. The attitude and features of the latter might
have indicated the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his forehead on
his hands, his teeth were firmly closed and his frame was tremulous at
intervals with a nervous agitation.

"Friend Tobias," inquired the old man, compassionately, "hast thou
found no comfort in these many blessed passages of Scripture?"

"Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar off and indistinct,"
replied Pearson, without lifting his eyes. "Yea; and when I have
hearkened carefully, the words seemed cold and lifeless and intended
for another and a lesser grief than mine. Remove the book," he added,
in a tone of sullen bitterness; "I have no part in its consolations,
and they do but fret my sorrow the more."

"Nay, feeble brother; be not as one who hath never known the light,"
said the elder Quaker, earnestly, but with mildness. "Art thou he that
wouldst be content to give all and endure all for conscience' sake,
desiring ev