great friend of her husband before the unhappy divisions of the period arrayed them on opposite sides, and even then, though true friendship could not last, a kindly feeling had always existed.

Mr. Enderby was a conscientious man, but those were difficult times; and he had regarded loyalty to the King less than what he considered the rights of the people.  He had been an admirer of Hampden and his principles, and had taken up arms on the same side, becoming a rebel on political, not on religious, grounds.  When, as time went on, the evils of the rebellion developed themselves more fully, he was already high in command, and so involved with his own party that he had not the resolution requisite for a change of course and renunciation of his associates.  He would willingly have come to terms with the King, and was earnest in the attempt at the time of the conferences at Hampden Court.  He strongly disapproved of the usurpation of power by the army, and was struck with horror, grief, and dismay, at the execution of King Charles; but still he would not, or fancied that he could not, separate himself from the cause of the Parliament, and continued in their service, following Cromwell to Scotland, and fighting at Worcester on the rebel side, disliking Cromwell all the time, and with a certain inclination to the young King, and desire to see the old constitution restored.

He was just one of those men who cause such great evil by giving a sort of respectability to the wrong cause, “following a multitude to do evil,” and doubtless bringing a fearful responsibility on their own heads; yet with many good qualities and excellent principles, that make those on the right side have a certain esteem for them, and grieve to see them thus perverted.

Lady Woodley, who knew him well, though sorry to have a rebel in her house at such a time, was sure that in him she had a kind and considerate guest, who would do his utmost to protect her and her children.

On his side, Colonel Enderby was much grieved and shocked at the pale, altered looks of the fair young bride he remembered, as well as the evidences of poverty throughout her house, and perhaps he had a secret wish that he was as well assured as his friend, Sir Walter, that his blood had been shed for the maintenance of the right.

CHAPTER III.

Rose Woodley ran up and down indefatigably, preparing everything for the accommodation of the guests, smoothing down Deborah’s petulance, and keeping her mother from over-exertion or anxiety.  Much contrivance was indeed required, for besides the colonel and his son, two soldiers had to be lodged, and four horses, which, to the consternation of old Margery, seemed likely to devour the cow’s winter store of hay, while the troopers grumbled at the desolate, half-ruined, empty stables, and at the want of corn.

Rose had to look to everything; to provide blankets from the bed of the two little girls, send Eleanor to sleep with her mother, and take Lucy to her own room; despatch them on messages to the nearest cottage to borrow some eggs, and to gather vegetables in the garden, whilst she herself made the pigeon pie with the standing crust, much wishing that the soldiers were out of the way.  It was a pretty thing to see her in her white apron, with her neat dexterous fingers, and nimble quiet step, doing everything in so short a time, and so well, without the least bustle.

She was at length in the hall, laying the white home-spun, home-bleached cloth, and setting the trenchers (all the Mowbray plate had long ago gone in the King’s service), wondering anxiously, meantime, what could have become of Walter, with many secret and painful misgivings, though she had been striving to persuade her mother that he was only absent on some freak of his own.

Presently the door which led to the garden was opened, and to her great joy Walter put his head into the room.

“O Walter,” she exclaimed, “the battle is lost! but Edmund and the King have both escaped.”

“Say you so?” said Walter, smiling.  “Here is a gentleman who can give you some news of Edmund.”

At the same moment Rose saw her beloved eldest brother enter the room.  It would be hard to say which was her first thought, joy or dismay—she had no time to ask herself.  Quick as lightning she darted to the door leading to the staircase, bolted it, threw the bar across the fastening of the front entrance, and then, flying to her brother, clung fast round his neck, kissed him on each cheek, and felt his ardent kiss on her brow, as she exclaimed in a frightened whisper, “You must not stay here: there are troopers in the house!”

“Troopers!—quartered on us?” cried Walter.

Rose hastily explained, trembling lest anyone should attempt to enter.  Walter paced up and down in despair, vowing that it was a trick to get a spy into the house.  Edmund sat down in the large arm-chair with a calm resolute look, saying, “I must surrender, then.  Neither I nor my horse can go further without rest.  I will yield as a prisoner of war, and well that it is to a man of honour.”

“Oh no, no!” cried Rose: “he says Cromwell treats his prisoners as rebels.  It would be certain death!”

“What news of the King?” asked Edmund, anxiously.

“Not seen since the flight? but—”

“And Lord Derby, Wilmot—”

“I cannot tell, I heard no names,” said Rose, “only that the enemy’s cruelties are worse than ever.”

Walter stood with his back against the table, gazing at his brother and sister in mute consternation.

“I know!” cried Rose, suddenly: “the out-house in the upper field.  No one ever goes up into the loft but ourselves.  You know, Walter, where Eleanor found the kittens.  Go thither, I will bring Edmund food at night.  Oh, consent, Edmund!”

“It will do! it will do!” cried Walter.

“Very well, it may spare my mother,” said Edmund; and as footsteps and voices were heard on the stairs, the two brothers hurried off without another word, while Rose, trying to conceal her agitation, undid the door, and admitted her two little sisters, who were asking if they had not heard Walter’s voice.

She scarcely attended to them, but, bounding upstairs to her mother’s room, flung her arms round her neck, and poured into her ear her precious secret.  The tremour, the joy, the fears, the tears, the throbbings of the heart, and earnest prayers, may well be imagined, crowded by the mother and daughter into those few minutes.  The plan was quickly arranged.  They feared to trust even Deborah; so that the only way that they could provide the food that Edmund so much needed was by Rose and Walter attempting to save all they could at supper, and Rose could steal out when everyone was gone to rest, and carry it to him.  Lady Woodley was bent on herself going to her son that night; but Rose prevailed on her to lay aside the intention, as it would have been fatal, in her weak state of health, for her to expose herself to the chills of an autumn night, and, what was with her a much more conclusive reason, Rose was much more likely to be able to slip out unobserved.  Rose had an opportunity of explaining all this to Walter, and imploring him to be cautious, before the colonel and his son came down, and the whole party assembled round the supper-table.

Lady Woodley had the eggs and bacon before her; Walter insisted on undertaking the carving of the pigeon-pie, and looked considerably affronted when young Sylvester Enderby offered to take the office, as a more experienced carver.  Poor Rose, how her heart beat at every word and look, and how hard she strove to seem perfectly at her ease and unconscious!  Walter was in a fume of anxiety and vexation, and could hardly control himself so far as to speak civilly to either of the guests, so that he was no less a cause of fear to his mother and