of the storm when Mr. Truelocke began to preach, and of the sweet calm
that had fallen on all things when he ended? was that a witness in
favour of Quaker madness?'

'Nay, I make nothing of it,' said I; and Aunt Golding added,--

'You would not interpret it as a sign of approval granted to Mr.
Truelocke for his hasty resolve never to preach to us again? For my
part, I hope he will be persuaded otherwise.'

'Truly I hope so,' said Dame Bonithorne, her ruddy colour deepening;
'for it's too cruel an affront he puts on us poor people;' and I know
not how much more she might have said, but for Harry Truelocke, who now
came up to the porch, and, beckoning Aunt Golding forth, whispered to
her how Andrew had carried the Quaker to the Grange, and now desired her
presence; at which we all set forth together, the rain having ceased;
and on the road Harry tells us, what sore disquieted Aunt Golding, that
the man had only come to West Fazeby on Andrew's account.

'It seems,' said he, 'you met him on your road hither, when he was in
the hands of some base fellows that had a mind to maul him--do you
remember such a matter?' and Aunt Golding saying how she remembered it
very well, Harry went on to say that the man, having noted Andrew's
willingness to serve him, had ever since 'had a concern on his mind for
the good youth,'--that was his phrase,--and had been led to our village,
and to the very church, being assured he would see Andrew there. 'It's a
strange, mad story,' quoth Harry.

Althea had given earnest heed to this tale, and now she asked, 'And what
says Master Andrew to such wild talk? I suppose he will use the poor