n
set; and where every joyful creature of joyful youth, who had been dear
to him, and true to him and God, would again meet him, and make times
such as should cause songs of praise to spring out of his heart, just as
flowers spring out of a vernal tree in the rekindled warmth of the sun.

The old laborer leaned reverently on his spade as the worthy man talked
to him. His gray locks, uncovered at his labor by any hat, were tossed
in the autumn wind. His dim eye was fixed on the distant sky, that
rolled its dark masses of clouds on the gale, and the deep wrinkles of
his pale and feeble temples seemed to grow deeper at the thoughts
passing within him. He was listening as to a sermon, which brought
together his youth and his age; his past and his future; and there were
verified on that spot words which Jesus Christ spoke nearly two thousand
years ago--"Wherever two or three are met together in my name, there am
I in the midst of them."

He was in the midst of the two only. There was a temple there in those
open fields, sanctified by two pious hearts, which no ringing of bells,
no sound of solemn organ, nor voice of congregated prayers, nor any
preacher but the ever-present and invisible One, who there and then
fulfilled His promise and was gracious, could have made more holy.

Our old friend again turned to set forward; he shook the old laborer
kindly by the hand, and there was a gaze of astonishment in the old
man's face--the stranger had not only cheered him by his words, but left
something to cheer him when he was gone.

The Friend now went on with a more determined step. He skirted the
memorable park of Bradgate, famous for the abode of Lady Jane Grey, and
the visit of her schoolmaster, Roger Ascham. He went on into a region of
woods and hills. At some seven or eight miles from Leicester, he drew
near a solitary farm-house, within the ancient limits of the forest of
Charnwood. It was certainly a lonely place amid the woodlands and the
wild autumn fields. Evening was fast dropping down; and as the shade of
night fell on the scene, the wind tossed more rushingly the boughs of
the thick trees, and roared down the rocky valley. John Basford went up
to the farm-house, however, as if that was the object of his journey,
and a woman opening it at his knock, he soon disappeared within.

Now our old friend was a perfect stranger here; had never been here
before; had no acquaintance nor actual business with the inhabitants,
t