h for the deed, with Him
who saith that `if thou be Christ's then art thou Abraham's seed.'"

"That's comforting, in truth," said poor Agnes. "But, Master Ewring,
think you there is any hope that I may yet be allowed to witness for my
Lord before men in very deed? To have come so near, and be thrust back!
Is there no hope?"

Agnes Bongeor was not the only one of the sufferers in this persecution
who actually coveted and longed for martyrdom. If the imperial crown of
all the world had been laid at their feet, they would have reckoned it
beneath contempt in comparison with that crown of life promised to such
as are faithful unto death. Not faithful _till_ death, but _unto_ it.

"I know not what the Lord holds in reserve for thee, my sister. I only
know that whatsoever it be, it is that whereby thou mayest best glorify
Him. Is that not enough? If more glory should come to Him by thy dying
in this dungeon after fifty years' imprisonment, than by thy burning,
which wouldst thou choose? Speak truly."

Agnes dropped her face upon her hands for a moment.

"You have the right, Master Ewring," said she, when she looked up again.
"I fear I was over full of myself. Let the Lord's will be done, and
His glory ensured, by His doing with me whatsoever He will. I will
strive to be patient, and not grieve more than I should."

"Therein wilt thou do well, my sister. And now I go--when as it shall
please Wastborowe," added Mr Ewring with a slight smile of amusement,
and then growing grave,--"to visit one in far sorer trouble than
thyself."

"Eh, Master, who is that?"

"It is Margaret Thurston, who hath not been, nor counted herself,
rejected of the Lord, but hath of her own will rejected Him. She bought
life by recanting."

"Eh, poor soul, how miserable must she be! Tell her, if it like you,
that I will pray for her. Maybe the Lord will grant to both of us the
grace yet to be His witnesses."

Mr Ewring had to pass four weary hours in the dungeon before it pleased
Wastborowe to let him out. He spent it in conversing with the other
prisoners,--all of whom, save Agnes Bongeor, were arrested for some
crime,--and trying to do them good. At last the heavy door rolled back,
and Wastborowe's voice was heard inquiring, in accents which did not
sound particularly sober,--

"Where's yon companion that wants baking by Lexden Road?"

"I am here, Wastborowe," said Mr Ewring, rising. "Good den, friends.
The Lord bless and