gave a genuine brilliance, however raw the material, had been a wooden
shanty, in which a small income was made by the sale of home-brewed
beer.

I always remember Ann Toyner as I saw her that first time. Her eyes were
black and still bright; but when I looked at them I remembered the
little children that had died in her arms, and I knew that her hopes
had not died with them, but by that suffering had been transformed. As I
heard her talk, my own hopes lifted themselves above their ordinary
level.

Husband and wife stood together, and I noticed that the white shawl that
was crossed Quakerwise over her thin shoulders seemed like a counterpart
of his careful dress, that the white tresses that were beginning to show
among her black ones were almost like a reflection of his white hair. I
felt that in some curious way, although each had so distinct and strong
a personality, they were only perfect as a part of the character which
in their union formed a perfect whole. They stood erect and looked at us
with frank, kindly eyes; we all found to our surprise that we were
saying what we thought and felt, and not what we supposed we ought to
say.

As I talked and looked at them, the words that I had heard came back to
my mind. "His wife is the daughter of a murderer, and he has come up
from the lowest, vilest life." Some indistinct thought worked through my
mind whose only expression was a disconnected phrase: "I saw a new
heaven and a new earth."

In the years since then I have learned to know the story of Toyner and
his wife. Now that they are gone away from us, I will tell what I know.