nor much time. Be orderly in all things; in attire, so far as lies in your power, avoid all appearance of either pride or squalor. We enter no trade, that we may be free from falsehood: we live by the labour of our hands, and are content with necessaries, not seeking to amass wealth. Be ye all chaste, temperate, sober, meek: owe no man anything; give no reason for complaint. Avoid taverns and dancing, as occasions of evil. The women among you I charge to be modest in manners and apparel, to keep themselves free from foolish jesting and levity of the world, especially in respect of falsehood and oaths. Keep your maidens, and see that they wander not; beware of suffering them to deck and adorn themselves. ‘We serve the Lord Christ.’ ‘Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, be strong!’ Read the Scriptures, serve God in humility, be poor in spirit. Remember that Antichrist is all that opposeth Christ. ‘Love not the world, neither the things of the world.’ ‘Stand fast in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free,’ and bear in mind that ye are sent forth as sheep in the midst of wolves, as under-shepherds to seek for His strayed sheep. Beware that ye glorify not yourselves, but Him.

“Berthold, Arnulph, and Guelph, ye tarry in this city with me, going forth to preach in the surrounding villages, as the Lord shall grant us opportunity. Heinrich, Otho, Conrad, and Magnus, ye go northward to evangelise in like manner. Friedrich, Dietbold, Sighard, and Leopold, ye to the south; Albrecht, Johann, and Hermann, ye to the east; Wilhelm, Philipp, and Ludwig, ye to the west. Every man shall take with him wife and children that hath them. The elder women among us—Cunegonde, Helena, Luitgarde, Elisabeth, and Margarethe—I especially exhort to instruct the young women, as the Apostle bids, and to evangelise in such manner as women may, by modest and quiet talking with other women. Once in the year let us meet here, to compare experiences, resolve difficulties, and to comfort and edify one another in our work. And now I commend you to God, and to the Word of His grace. Go ye forth, strong in the Lord, and in the power of His might, always abounding in the work of the Lord, teaching all to observe whatsoever He has commanded. For lo! He is with us always, even unto the end of the world.”

Another fervent prayer followed the address. Then each of the little company came up in turn to Gerhardt, who laid his hand upon the head of every one, blessing them in the name of the Lord. As each thus took leave, he set out in the direction which he had been bidden to take, eight accompanied by their wives, and three by children. Then Gerhardt, with Agnes and Ermine, turned back into the town; Berthold, with his wife Luitgarde, and his daughter Adelheid, followed; while Arnulph and Guelph, who were young unmarried men, went off to begin their preaching tour in the villages.

The day afterwards, the priest of Saint Aldate’s rapped at the door of the Walnut Tree. It was opened by Flemild, who made a low reverence when she saw him. With hand uplifted in blessing, and—“Christ save all here!”—he walked into the house, where Isel received him with an equally respectful courtesy.

“So I hear, my daughter, you have friends come to see you?”

“Well, they aren’t friends exactly,” said Isel: “leastwise not yet. May be, in time—hope they will.”

“Whence come they, then, if they be strangers?”

“Well,” replied Isel, who generally began her sentences with that convenient adverb, “to tell truth, Father, it beats me to say. They’ve come over-sea, from foreign parts; but I can’t get them outlandish names round my tongue.”

“Do they speak French or English?”

“One of ’em speaks French, after a fashion, but it’s a queer fashion. As to English, I haven’t tried ’em.”

The Reverend Dolfin (he had no surname) considered the question.

“They are Christians, of course?”

“That they are, Father, and good too. Why, they say their prayers several times a day.”

The priest did not think that item of evidence so satisfactory as Isel did. But he had not come with any intention of ferreting out doubtful characters or suspicious facts. He was no ardent heretic-hunter, but a quiet, peaceable man, as inoffensive as a priest could be.

“Decent and well-behaved?” he asked.

“As quiet and sensible as any living creature in this street,” Isel assured him. “The women are good workers, and none of them’s a talker, and that’s no small blessing!”

“Truly, thou art right there, my daughter,” said the priest, who, knowing nothing about women, was under the impression that they rarely did any thing but talk, and perform a little desultory housework in the intervals between the paragraphs. “So far, good. I trust they will continue equally well-behaved, and will give no scandal to their neighbours.”

“I’ll go surety for that,” answered Isel rather warmly; “more than I will for their neighbours giving them none. Father, I’d give a silver penny you’d take my niece Anania in hand; she’ll be the death of me if she goes on. Do give her a good talking-to, and I’ll thank you all the days of my life!”

“With what does she go on?” asked the priest, resting both hands on his silver-headed staff.

“Words!” groaned poor Isel. “And they bain’t pretty words, Father—not by no manner of means. She’s for ever and the day after interfering with every mortal thing one does. And her own house is just right-down slatternly, and her children are coming up any how. If she’d just spend the time a-scouring as she spends a-chattering, her house ’d be the cleanest place in Oxfordshire. But as for the poor children, I’m that sorry! Whatever they do, or don’t do, they get a slap for it; and then she turns round on me because I don’t treat mine the same. Why, there’s nothing spoils children’s tempers like everlasting scolding and slapping of ’em. I declare I don’t know which to be sorriest for, them that never gets no bringing up at all, or them that’s slapped from morning to night.”

“Does her husband allow all that?”

“Bless you, Father, he’s that easy a man, if she slapped him, he’d only laugh and give it back. It’s true, when he’s right put out he’ll take the whip to her; but he’ll stand a deal first that he’d better not. Biggest worry I have, she is!”

“Be thankful, my daughter, if thy biggest worry be outside thine own door.”

“That I would, Father, if I could keep her outside, but she’s always a-coming in.”

The priest laughed.

“I will speak to my brother Vincent about her,” he said. “You know the Castle is not in my parish.”

“Well, I pray you, Father, do tell Father Vincent to give it her strong. She’s one o’ them that won’t do with it weak. It’ll just run off her like water on a duck’s back. Father, do you think my poor man ’ll ever come back?”

The priest grew grave when asked that question.

“I cannot tell, my daughter. Bethink thee, that if he fall in that holy conflict, he is assured of Heaven. How long is it since his departing?”

“It’s two years good, Father—going in three: and I’m glad enough he should be sure of Heaven, but saving your presence, I want him here on earth. It’s hard work for a lone woman to bring up four children, never name boys, that’s as rampageous as young colts, and about as easy to catch. And the younger and sillier they are, the surer they are to think they know better than their own mother.”

“That is a standing grievance, daughter,” said the priest with a smile, as he rose to take leave. “Well, I am glad to hear so good a report of these strangers. So long as they conduct themselves well, and come to church, and give no offence to any, there can be no harm in your giving them hospitality. But remember that if they give any occasion of scandal, your duty will