For Their Brethren's Sake

IMAGINE a cottage kitchen as it might have been two centuries ago, with a wide fireplace and spinning-wheel beside it, a high-backed settle, a dresser shining with pewter ware, and the room rather dark in spite of the little diamond-paned windows being set wide open ; then complete the picture by putting in two figures, a young man and a maid, as sole occupants of the kitchen, — a sturdy young farmer and a village girl of sixteen years or so.

“Thou must n’t come any more, John. I’m afeard for thee. Thou ’It be getting the sickness.”

“ I ’m not afeard.”

“ But think o’ all thy folk at home that may take the plague through thee.”

He was silent for a moment as if endeavoring to do her bidding; then fixed his eyes tenderly upon her, and said, with a roguish air, —

“ I can think o’ none but thee, Margery.”

“ Then that’s wrong in thee, John, — very wrong indeed.”

“ Ay, so ’t is. The banns called a’ready, an’ we to be married afore tlie month’s out, — I ’d ought to be thinkin’ o’ everybody but thee.”

“ Thou art a silly fellow!” she responded.

At that moment, a tall and vigorouslooking old woman entered the kitchen by the outer door.

“ I ’ve been telling John he ought n’t to come here, granny.”

“An’ that’s true,” said the grandmother, “ wi’ the plague upon us, and nobody knowing who next. I heared but now how Anthony Skidmore was drinking ale o’ Monday wi’ two or three, an’ all a-talking o’ the plague, an’ he says, ‘ Gi’ me good ale enough an’ I ’ll fear no plague,’ says he. An’ the next morning the red cross on his door, an’ they say this night ’ll be his last, for ” —

A deep and solemn sound from the church tower near by, the passing-bell, broke in upon her words. One — two — three — the heart-thrilling strokes went on up to five-and-twenty, and there stopped. It was Anthony Skidmore’s knell.

“ God ha’ mercy on his soul !” said Granny Hall. “ But who next ? The Thornleys buried this morning, and three more houses shut up! I doubt thy folk don’t want thee to come here, John. They ’ll not be overglad o’ the wedding. They’d like thee to give up Margery, I should n’t wonder ? ”

“ It’s not what they’d like, but what I like, returned the young man, in a tone which betrayed that this was not the first he had heard of the matter. “ Them that’s feard need n’t come to the wedding. I don’t care. So Margery ’s there, that’s enough for me.”

Margery rewarded him with her prettiest smile, and clasped his arm, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“ Well, well, a young man must have his way, for sure,” said the grandmother, not at all ill pleased. “ But, John, if thou shouldst take the plague, what ’u’d Margery do then ? Come not again till thou com’st to fetch her for good and all.”

But there, too, it seemed that a young man must have his way. Not come again ? Ay, that would he ! But there was Tideswell market next day, where he must get some furnishings for the new cottage, and then there was this and that, till at length "this day week ” turned out to be the earliest time he could fix for another visit. He lived in the village of Middleton Dale, at some little distance from Eyam.

Much may happen in a week, however.

In September of the year 1665, when the Great Plague was raging in London, the seeds of the dread disease were conveyed to the village of Eyam, lying in peaceful remoteness from the world among the hills of Derbyshire. A box of clothing was sent to the village tailor, from a relative in London, it is said. It may have been a commission, or perhaps, at a time when everything was selling for a song on account of the pestilence, the tailor’s kinsman thought it a good opportunity to do him a kindness at small cost. If so, he expended, at any rate, some time and trouble on the packing of the box, and doubtless breathed a sigh of relief when it started on its death-dealing career.

The tailor of Eyam received the box in due course of time, but on opening it found the contents very damp, — an unpleasant dampness, one would fancy, combined perhaps with a peculiar odor; at all events, he spread the clothing by the fire, and Black Death crept out of it. The tailor was the first victim; others followed in quick succession. Even the cold weather, which usually checks the disease for a time, could not suppress it at Eyam, where it seems to have been singularly virulent. All through the winter months there were deaths from the plague here and there, and in the spring the numbers began to increase.

The Rev. William Mompesson, the rector of Eyam, who had been presented to the living by Sir George Savile only a year before the calamity, devoted himself from the first to his stricken flock, going in and out among them not only as a priest, to minister to the sick and dying, but in the place of a physician; fighting the pestilence as best he could, and devising measures to control it. He had sent his two little children away to a relative in Yorkshire, and besought his wife to accompany them ; but if his duty was to his people, hers was to him ; she would not leave him. So together they faced what inevitably must come.

In June there was a sudden outburst of the disease. House after house was closed, sealed against ingress or egress by a red cross of warning on the door. The devoted priest was the only person who entered there, and the first thing that came out was a coffin.

The village was panic-stricken. Men had no heart for work, and women folded their hands; only the carpenter plied his trade as never before, the tap-tap of his hammer beginning at dawn, and sounding late into the summer night, as he fashioned the last habitation for many and many a one of his neighbors. But he, too, came to loathe his work.

One evening he carried a coffin to its destination, leaned it up against the door, rapped loudly, and started away in terror at the sound of footsteps approaching from within.

“ That’s the last, I ’ll make in this pest-hole,” he muttered to himself as he sped home. “ Come this time to-morrow night, I ’ll be far from here, please God. Sure ’t is tempting Providence to stay. ”

“ Who goes there ? ” cried a woman’s voice from a cottage window. Then, when there was no reply, only the sound of hastening steps, “ Whoever it is, go, in pity ’s name, and tell the carpenter to make a coffin for the children. They ’re both dead —both dead ! ” wailed the voice.

A little farther on, and a man called, “ Is it thou, Tim Buxton ? And where is our coffin ? Stop, man ! stop ! We must have the coffin. Dost thou hear?”

He heard, and quickened his pace to a run, as if Black Death were after him.

“ I ’ll get away from Eyam ! ” he murmured to himself again.

He was not the only one who thought of flight. As if the idea of escape were in the air, on a sudden the whole village was astir with it. To be free from the daily, nightly terror of the pestilence! To leave everything, to go anywhere, so only they might save themselves alive !

“ ’T is lucky we’ve Middleton Dale to go to, seeing we’ve no kin in these parts,” said Dame Hall to Margery, as they hastily collected such clothing as must be taken on their flight. “ They ’ll be thinking we ’re bringing ’em the plague, — John’s folk, — but we can’t help that. There ’s no staying here. An’ there’s the new cottage an’ all. An’ John ’ll be willing, for thy sake. He to come here in a week’s time ! Who’d ha’ dreamed we’d all be going to him afore then, thou an’ me an’ the children ! ”

“ Goin’ to John, be ye ? ” said a sharp voice at the cottage door. An old woman, leaning on a cane, stood there, and forthwith stepped in and seated herself. The village gossip, and living just over the way, she was as much at home in the Halls’ kitchen as in her own. “ Well, I doubt his folk won’t want ye,” she observed, after glancing around the room to take in the preparations for the flitting.

“ I was just a-saying it,” returned Granny Hall calmly. “ But what can we do ? An’ where are ye going yerself, dame ? ”

“ Where would I go but to Tideswell ? Is n’t my Peter and Mary there ? One o’ them ’ll take their old mother in. When ye’ve brought up children ’t is the least they can do ; an’ they well off.”

“ How ever ye ’ll get so far wi’ yer old bones passes me,” remarked Dame Hall.

“ I ’ll get there ! ” said the gossip, handling the knob of her cane with a, confident air. “ Abel Archdale ’ll take my bundle in his cart; they can make room for that, surely. When Sarah was born I nursed his wife day an’ night, an’ she like to die. One good turn deserves another.”

“ But that’s twenty year agone ! ”

“ Never mind how many year it is; they ’ll take my bundle,” said the old woman, with decision. “ An’ how do ye think to get sheltered in Middleton Dale, the five o’ ye ? ’T is a terrible thing to be so many. God be praised, there ’s only one o’ me! ”

“ Why, we ’re going to the new cottage, an’ there ’ll be plenty o’ room. ’T is fine an’ large, by what John says.”

“ O-o-oh, to the new cottage ! ” repeated the visitor. If its size at all impressed her, she kept that to herself, while with unerring acumen she instantly touched upon the tender point in the arrangement. “ An’ so all the fine new things ’ll be used afore ever Margery’s married ! What does she say to that ? ”

Margery said only that it could not be helped, and looked a little rueful.

“ An’ ye ’re thinkin’ to take all that stuff with ye ? ” continued Dame Lowe, her eyes fixed upon some piles of snowy linen, Margery’s precious contribution to the young housekeeping, and which she could not bear to leave behind.

“ Why, Joel an’ me are strong; we can each carry a good big bundle,” the girl protested, though with a lurking perturbation in her voice.

“ I hope I ’ll see ye start, that’s all! ” said the gossip, and betook herself to her own bundle, declaring there was no time to lose.

The excitement naturally attendant on such an exodus prevailed everywhere alike, and in the midst of it all came a message from the rector, delivered in the stentorian tones of the village crier. The adult members of the parish were invited to repair to the church when summoned by the bell.

Why ? Well, his reverence had heard they were all going away. “ And belike he ’ll want to give us some advice,” said the crier.

That was a good hearing. Advice was precisely what they all needed, especially those who had no kindred in the neighborhood and little or no money in hand. Accordingly they gathered at the appointed time, full of the momentousness of a near departure, inquiring one of another as they met outside the church, “ Are ye ready?” “ When are ye going ? ” Those whose way was short meant to start after the meeting, others on the morrow. Some gave ambiguous replies about their plans, and showed no disposition to converse ; they, perhaps, had left a child at home hanging its head languidly, and what that portended — if it was merely some harmless ailment or the initial stage of the dread disease — the next few hours would reveal; meanwhile, the less said the better, if they did not care to be shut up on suspicion.

When all were assembled, there were some of the familiar prayers ; but after the common devotions were ended the priest still knelt, until, in the long silence, all eyes were fixed on the motionless figure. Finally he rose and turned towards them; but even then it was to look around lingeringly on his simple flock, as if he were loath to begin.

Yet it was a magnificent address he was prepared to utter.

From the meagre records left of the rector of Eyam, it would not seem that he was a man of great gifts as the world counts them, but he had certainly the one supreme gift belonging to his holy office, which enabled him to work a miracle in Christ’s name. And so of that gathering in a little country church some account will be handed on to future generations as long as the English tongue is spoken ; but at the moment — when they all sat expectant there was only one man who realized the full import of the occasion, who knew that the fate of thousands hung in the balance, and that on his words depended the turning of the scale.

The villagers, meanwhile, though troubled enough in their way, were yet amenable to the calming influence of the place. They were in haste, it is true, to be gone; the fear that each one felt of the horrible, stealthy disease which might be creeping upon them at any moment had been doubled and trebled by the terror of others, until, like a herd of frightened cattle, they were ready for a wild stampede ; but yet, in that quiet haven the strain relaxed a little.

They listened with an almost pathetic eagerness when the rector spoke of their intended flight, and dwelt upon the preciousness of life, for which a man would give all that he had, and described (what they knew but too well) the devastation of the pestilence, — the little children swept away, the strong men lying down to die, the homes left desolate. Only by degrees, as it dawned upon them that it was not their homes and their children he was talking of, that his concern was not for Eyam, his own charge, but for the neighboring villages, for the whole countryside, for the adjacent counties, their faces darkened, their attitude towards him changed. He felt it, the silent, indignant protest; but past all faltering then, his message flowed from his lips in urgent exhortation, in burning appeal, most of all in gentle, pastoral entreaty that they would spare to their brethren in Christ the horrors of their own calamity. The plague had come to Eyam, he said, by God’s permission, through the inadvertence of man; but if it went forth from Eyam, it would be because they, in the full knowledge of what they were doing, carried it out to spread death, no human being could say how far, how wide. Some of them were going to their kinsfolk, to parents, brothers, sisters, who perforce must take them in, and the plague with them ; others would wander among strangers, entering peaceful, happy homes, sitting unsuspected by the fireside, and then, warmed and fed, would go away, leaving the pestilence behind in return for a kindly hospitality. “ O my spiritual children,” he cried, “ I have taught you ill if you have so learned the law of love! ”

He implored them to believe that this seemingly greater care for others than for them, with which perhaps they were ready to reproach him, was in truth the proof of his love to his own flock ; that indeed his heart ached for them; and that by every means in his power he would save them from the pestilence, were it possible. But some of them were already infected, and would have the disease wherever they might go ; others, with almost equal certainty, would eventually fall victims to it in the new centres of infection that would thus be formed ; some — he would speak truth with them — some would probably escape by flight, hut at what a cost! He had shown them how, for every death there might be at Eyam, there would, if they carried out their design, be twenty, fifty, a hundred, elsewhere.

And yet he could save their life, if they would hear him ! He and they, here in poor, wretched Eyam, could save to themselves forever the only life that was worth living, the life eternal, which, if it is to be lived at all, must be begun here on earth in love to God and love to one’s neighbor : a love to their neighbor that would make them bury the pestilence in their own graves rather than sow it broadcast through the land; a love to God which was trust in Him, so that they could sit quietly down and wait his will, knowing indeed that one would be taken and another left, but knowing too that, whether left or taken, they were all in God’s good keeping.

Gradually, while he spoke, there had come another change over the faces that had kept steadily turned to him, first with anxious, and then with angry gaze ; they were calm now. The sun shone in at a western window, and down in a long beam of light to the floor, shedding a glory through the darkening church, and looking like that “path of the just” to which he had been pointing them,— the path “ that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.”

There was again a stillness, a long silence. Then, in a voice low and trembling with emotion, the rector asked those who would leave Eyam to rise and go out.

No one stirred.

They had gathered there in wild alarm and frantic to escape ; they went quietly back to their already deserted homes, a band of self-devoted martyrs, by far the larger part of whom were to be martyrs in deed as well as in will.

Before the congregation dispersed, the people had given their solemn promise to keep within the limits to be prescribed, beyond which no inhabitant of Eyam was to pass, nor any one from without to penetrate ; and the rector, on his part, assured them that nothing he could do to alleviate their condition should be wanting. Cut off as they would be from the markets, he would write at once to influential persons in the neighborhood, and obtain that provisions and all tilings needful should be brought regularly and deposited at certain points at a safe distance from any house, and whence they could be fetched by the villagers.

Probably there were many among those simple cottagers who felt the renunciation more for those who were dear to them than for themselves.

After the return home, Margery silently set about her accustomed duties, and her grandmother as silently watched her going to and fro, until she could refrain herself no longer.

“ ’T is hard on thee, Margery ! ” she burst forth tremulously.

To that no reply was needed. It was hard.

“I think mayhap the parson would let thee go, if I asked him,” pursued the grandmother, after another silence, “seeing ’t is only one, an’ thou wast to be married so soon. An’ there’s naught the matter wi’ thee. He could see that plain enough.”

“ Nay, granny, he could n’t let me go more than another. An’ besides, I might take the sickness in my clothes. We ve told John ourselves how he ought n’t to come. All the people in Middleton Dale might get it through me. Nay, I could n’t go now after what the parson said. I ve no right. I ’d feel wicked.”

Dame Hall relaxed into mournful meditations, until Margery renewed the subject with, —

“Thou ’dst want me, too, granny, if the sickness should come to us.”

“ An’ wherefore should it come ? ” said the old woman, rousing herself suddenly, and with a flash in her eyes. “ ’T is a filthy disease, — why should it come to us ? The parson says to be very clean with ourselves, an’ have nothing lying about the house that should n’t; but I’m thinking he’s no need to tell me that! ” I f there was one thing on which Dame Hall prided herself, it was the neatness and purity of all her belongings, whether animate or inanimate, and she glanced now, in the consciousness of rectitude, around her well - scrubbed kitchen, and on the fresh-faced, healthy children who were awaiting the evening meal. Rather disappointed young faces they were, to be sure, just then, at finding there was to be no flitting, after all.

There was Joel, a well-grown lad, next to Margery in age, and already doing no small amount of work on the little farm ; then Emmot, a slip of a child of seven, who did not hesitate to call herself a big girl, and propose to help granny when Margery was married; and finally little Willy, on whom the grandmother’s eyes lingered, as she added, —

“ An’ we come o’ strong folk, too. Your father’d ’a’ been living now, an’ for forty year yet, if it had n’t been for the accident; an’ your mother ’d never ’a’ died when Willy was born but for the grief and fright.”

A little later and Dame Lowe came in, apparently to talk over the new aspect of affairs, although as it turned out she had really very little to say on the matter.

“So here we are, an’ here we stay,” she observed, with a sigh. “ Well, ’t is right. Why should I, old woman, be takin’ them the plague ? Nay, I ’ve lived my life.” As she sat with her eyes steadily fixed, and her thoughts on her children and children’s children, there came a grand look over the hard old face. It was the token of her part and share in that splendid sacrifice, even though in a moment or two she might seem to be nothing more than her usual self, brimming over with the latest information she had collected.

Superstition was rife among the country people of England in those days, and nowhere more so than at Eyam during that time of calamity. The dame, accordingly, was full of portents and signs and wonders.

“ Did ye hear about Ann Townsend seein’ the white cricket? ” she inquired. “Well, then, ’t was Saturday— Nay, what am I sayin’ ? Saturday ! She was in her grave by then ! It was o’ Wednesday, an’ Mary an’ she a-comin’ home together. They ’d been a-talkin’ o’ Ruth Martin, — rest her soul! — an’ Ann, she was just a-settin’ foot on the doorstone, an’ she caught Mary’s arm, an’ says she, ‘ Dost see it ? ’ ‘ See what? ’ says Mary, all of a tremble. ‘ The white cricket! ’ says Ann. ‘ There! there! ’ an’ she pointed ; but Mary could n’t see it, an’ the creature ran into a crack. So they knowed it was for Ann ; an’ sure enough, she took to bed next day, an’ come that time two days after, she was underground.”

But there was better than that. James Mower had heard the mournful barking of the Gabriel hounds in notice of his near departure.

“ ’T was gettin’ late, an’ they thinkin’ o’ goin’ to bed ; he was just a-finishin’ his pipe, an’ on a sudden he says, ‘ Wife, is the puppies in ? ’ An’ she says, ‘ There they be in the corner ; ’ an’ there they were, fast asleep. ‘ Well, I hear puppies whinin’ an’ barkin’,’ says he;' where can they be ? ’ An she says, ‘ It can’t be puppies.’ An’ he says, ‘ Yes, it is puppies ; I hear ’em as plain as ever I heard anything.’ So then one o’ the children goes out o’ door an’ looks all about, but there’s no puppies. ‘ Well,’ says he, ‘ if I don’t know dogs when I hear ’em, my name’s not James Mower.’ An’ wi’ that he leans forward and listens, an’ ‘ Sure as I live,’ he says, ‘ there be dogs up the chimney.’ An’ then all in a minute they knowed what it was, — ’t was the Gabriel hounds a-barkin’ above the house. So to bed he went, an’ never got up again till they carried him out.”

The Gabriel hounds, according to popular tradition, were the souls of unbaptized infants, constrained to wander in realms of air, and notify death to their kindred by a whining or moaning sound like dogs in pain. This was the sort of thing in which Dame Lowe reveled, and to which her auditors, especially the children, listened with shudders, while they grudged losing a syllable of her gruesome tales.

Mr. Mompesson’s regulations were carried out, and the village cut off completely from human communication. John’s “ folk ” might have had to take their chances with him ; but after public sentiment came in play and public execration threatened, or rather, when, from the seriousness of the measures adopted, it was finally impressed upon his mind that the fate of the whole countryside hung on his action, even a lover’s boldness gave place to counsel, and he dared not cross the fatal line.

But at one of the points where provisions for the pest-beleaguered village were deposited, beside a rivulet that goes to-day by the name of “ Mompesson’s Brook,” there was often a parcel containing some special delicacies, and marked, “for My Deer Marjery from jon.” He would rather have ploughed a field than have written more than that. Margery, being uncommonly well instructed for a village girl of that time, might have poured out her heart on paper with some ease, in return for those offerings, but it was not allowed her. Only Mr. Mompesson himself, taking due precautions, sent a letter occasionally, if necessity required.

The months wore on, — June, July, August. It was a burning summer. Day after day the sun looked down on the doomed village in its unnatural stillness, for no one stirred but those who must. Men had been known to fall down helpless in the fields, and all labor was abandoned. The pestilence alone kept steadily at work, sowing and reaping a plenteous harvest.

As a precautionary measure, services were no longer held in the church, but twice in the week and on Sundays the fast-diminishing flock gathered in a little green dell, still called “ Cucklet Church,” and there the petitions of the Litany went up with the continual refrain, “ Good Lord, deliver us,” “ We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord ; ” and the priest, from a mossy rock, spoke words of comfort, and sent them away with a blessing, — “ The peace of God, which passeth all understanding.” And always some who took that blessing with them were to come that way no more.

Early in July the churchyard was closed and the passing-bell ceased to toll. Thereafter, as soon as the plague-stricken breathed their last, a grave was dug in field or garden, the nearest place at hand, and the poor disfigured semblance of humanity, uncoffined and unshrouded, was quickly removed from among the living, and so much of the pestilence buried with it. A visitor at Eyam to - day may be stepping anywhere on ground hallowed by the dust of those who laid down their lives for their brethren and were hurried into nameless graves.

As soon as possible Mr. Mompesson had a pest-house erected on the village green, and daily he crossed that awful threshold, or entered the cottages where any lay sick, with the apostolic salutation, “ Peace be to this house ! ”

Dame Hall had reckoned ill in accounting that natural strength, or even what Some of her neighbors perhaps considered unnatural tidiness, could keep the enemy at bay ; for where the plague rages it creates an atmosphere of its own, and penetrates anywhere at will; acting, however, even so, with a strange capriciousness, taking and leaving according to some unfathomed law which wears an air of chance.

The black-winged pestilence settled down upon the Hall cottage very soon after the village was isolated, and the grandmother was the first to go. The struggle in her case was fierce, but short, so that, as it sometimes happened, the worst features of the disease had no time to develop ; and it was the same with those who followed her.

On his second visit the rector found a young soul sore troubled to take its flight. Emmot did not want to he put in the ground with granny. All the teaching of happier days had faded from the poor little beclouded mind ; and even when she had accepted the idea that, through the mercy of Christ, granny was in a good place, how she herself was to get there was another matter.

“ I ’m ’feard o’ they dogs,” she wailed. "They ’ll chase me and bite me afore I can get where granny is.”

“ ’T is the Gabriel hounds she means, sir,” whispered Joel. “ She says she hears ’em.”

“ Who has been talking such cruel folly to the child ? ” exclaimed the rector indignantly. “ Dame Lowe ? So much for a wagging tongue! Although, poor body, she little thinks the mischief she may do,” he added quickly, used as he was, even in small matters, to discriminate between the offense and the offender. “ But, my child, it is the neighbors’ dogs thou hearest.”

“ Nay, in the air ! — in the air ! ”

“ Well, then, dear little heart, if thou hearest aught in the air, it can only be good dogs that are barking to keep every evil thing away from Christ’s little flock. For thou knowest, when our dear Lord was here on earth He called little children to Him, and laid his hands upon them and blessed them ; and so He is calling the children of Eyam, —Joan Ashland and Anne Glover, Tommy Wood and many more, and now thee. And thou must not fear to go to Him, for He will ease thee of all thy pain.”

So the good pastor comforted the lambs of his fold, commending each to the Great Shepherd as they passed one by one out of his own keeping; and after that, the child’s little moan, growing ever fainter and fainter, was only, “ I want to go to Him! He’ll make my head well. I want to go ! ”

So they laid her beside her grandmother ; but still the call went on. Only a few days and little Willy had been taken into the other flock. Then the two who were left drew closer together than ever before.

One morning, after the long seclusion was at an end, Joel came out of the cottage, and went to the village spring to get water.

Dame Lowe, at her gate, was ready for a little conversation on his return; but when he set his burden down before replying to some remark of hers, she extended her cane warningly.

“ Don’t come nigh me! ”

I worn’t coming nigh ye,” he returned, rather indignantly. “But the parson told us we could go out to-day, if we were Well. An’ he said that ’s folly about the Gabriel hounds.” The latter observation sounded inconsequent, but, as a matter of fact, it corresponded very neatly in Joel’s own mind to Dame Lowe’s injurious suspicions of him. And though he did not venture to mention a wagging tongue to his ancient neighbor, anything which suggested doubt of her prescriptive right to interpret the marvelous for the benefit of the community was quite sufficient to anger her.

“ Said he so ? she replied, with asperity. “ Well, his reverence does n’t know everything. Them knows that hears ’em. And" — she fixed her piercing eyes upon Joel—“they may be barkin’ for thee next.”

With that she turned about and gat herself silently into the house. She could be a very terrible old woman at times. The poor boy felt his legs tremble under him, and looked at the pails with a sudden sensation of powerlessness, as if he should never have strength to lift them again. It was not until Margery called to him to bring the water that he took them up and went in.

“ What was Dame Lowe saying to thee ? ” asked the young housekeeper, in almost a cheery tone. She had been thinking, while Joel was gone, that she would try to be bright for his sake. And what cause for thankfulness it was that they had each other still! There were instances already where whole families had been swept away, or perhaps only one left. “ What was she sayi ng to thee ? ”

“ She said ” — He stopped.

“ Well, what ? ”

“She said—his reverence doesn’t know everything.”

“ What ever made her say that ? ” inquired Margery, after pondering the statement for a while. And when there was no reply, she was at his side in a moment. “ Oh, Joel, is aught the matter wi’ thee ? ”

He was seated by the hearth, and looked up in her face, smiling a little feebly.

“ Nay, there is naught. ’T is only that I’m tired wi’ carrying the water.

I ’ve not done it for so long.” He was trying to convince himself as well as her.

“ I ’ll make thee a posset,” said Margery. “ It ’ll strengthen thee.”

After that, silence ; both thinking their own thoughts.

Joel had never before had a posset made for himself alone; it was an event in his experience. But somehow he did not care for it; if it strengthened him it would be well, but his mind was on other things. He wondered if Dame Lowe really knew. There was no barking up the chimney. And his reverence had said, “ I think you have escaped infection, my children (praise be to God !), and to-morrow, if you are well ” — He had felt a little dizzy in the morning, but only for a minute. And he had been out, so it could n’t be that. But he did feel ill now! He would n’t say so, though, because of Margery. She was afraid. She kept looking at him. But he did n’t want the posset. There was something he wanted.

He looked helplessly about the room, which seemed to wear a strange aspect; all the familiar things were there, and yet it was different. Just to see it made him feel worse. And then, on a sudden, he could bear up no longer, and his head sank on his hands.

“ Oh, Joel! Joel! ” cried Margery in anguish. Then, with the calmness of despair, “ Put thy arm around my neck, an’ I ’ll help thee to bed.”

It was in June that Margery was left alone. The plague had passed her by, as if it could get no hold on her sound healthiness, and as she went back and forth along the village street, looking as fair as ever in her fresh English beauty, she came to be almost as familiar a figure as the rector himself. She was Mrs. Mompesson’s right hand in arranging for the distribution of provisions at the infected cottages, and in the parceling out of medicaments for the sick at the plague-barracks or at their homes. She had, too, now and then, something of her own to dispose of. In the parcels marked for her, and left beside the brook, there would often be this or that evidently meant by John, in his kindness, for “granny” or the children; then she would put the toy, or whatever it might be, into some little hand, and turn away with tears, while the things for “ granny,” and indeed the greater part always of what was intended especially for herself, went, if appropriate, to the few among the sick who were recovering, or else to some of her grandmother’s old friends, — to Dame Lowe as often as any.

There grew up a rather singular sympathy between the old gossip and her young neighbor, in those days. The dame, cut off from her ordinary occupation of general visiting, watched Margery’s comings and goings rather wistfully, trying, at a distance, to get a word or two with her at every chance, until at last, one day, when Margery returned from her selfimposed labors, the old woman called to her : “ Come in, girl, an’ take a bit o’ somethin’ wi’ me ! Thy fire ’ll be out.” And as Margery hesitated, “ Come, then! I’m not afeard o’ thee.”

She was still shy of the cottage where death had been such a frequent guest, though finally, when Margery either would not or could not accept all the invitations given her, the old woman crossed the road, and settled herself once more in her favorite corner.

“Why should I fear? ” she said, encouraging herself in her boldness. “ It has been fumed, an’, by the smoke that poured forth, everything bad must ’a’ gone out o’ window.”

She found a sense of companionship in merely watching her old crony’s grandchild moving about the kitchen ; and once when Margery, in forgetfulness, called her “ granny,” and then burst into sudden tears, the gossip developed an allunexpected tenderness in soothing and comforting her.

“ There ! there ! don’t ’ee take on an’ break thy heart. Thou hast John still, an’ I’m tlnnkin’ thou ’it win through safe an’ sound.”

The rector, his wife, and Margery seemed to bear a charmed life, the more singular in Mr. Mompesson’s case because otherwise, as he says of himself in one of his letters, he was “ always an ailing man.” But the charm was to be broken.

One morning in August, when the plague was at the height of its devastating career, Mr. and Mrs. Mompesson crossed the fields together, going towards the rectory, and the latter suddenly exclaimed, in a tone of pleased surprise, “ Oh, the air ! how sweet it smells ! ”

Very innocent words, it would seem, with which to strike a man to the heart; but the rector, in the course of his varied experience, had discovered this sensation to be one of the signs that the destroyer was at hand.

He was not mistaken, and no devoted nursing, no agony of prayer, could save her; in her twenty-sixth year, the beautiful, delicate, noble-hearted woman fell a martyr to her loving courage. Then the churchyard was opened once more, and the villagers hastened to make a return for the sympathy that had so unstintingly been given them in their distress. All who could be afoot gathered about her grave, while the rector repeated, in trembling tones, the words that committed earth to earth and dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of a blessed resurrection.

“ The Lord comfort your reverence,” they said to him shyly, as they turned away, or, “ God preserve ye to us.” And perhaps to such a prayer as the last he would have found it hard to say “ Amen.” For, standing by that grave, an intense weariness may well have come over him, and a longing to lay his burden down.

September brought a decrease in the number of deaths, and October, with cooler weather, opened hopefully. The plague-barracks were still occupied, but at least the sick could all be accommodated there.

It was on a fine October afternoon that Margery mounted the church tower, as she had often done before, to look in the direction of Middleton Dale. Two or three of the houses could be seen from that elevation, with the church spire just peering above the trees, and it was a solace to gaze from afar upon oven thus much of the place where a happy home and a faithful heart were waiting for her.

When she descended, it was to meet the lector coming from the churchyard. He greeted her kindly, and, after a word or two, looked at her standing there, and smiled as if at a pleasant thought. “ The plague is abating,” he said. “ there is little doubt of that, and with cold weather we shall see the end of it. So, please God, I shall wed thee to John yet, my child. Thou must think of that and begin to hope again, as young folk should.”

“I do, your reverence, — I can’t help it, “ she answered simply ; then, with an almost ecstatic glance around at earth and sky, and drawing a deep breath, she added. “ The day ’s so fair, and the air so sweet! ”

She did not see the expression that, crossed his face, for she was looking along the road which led to Middleton Dale, nor did she notice any change in his tone when he said, —

“ Go home now, Margery, and rest thyself. Thou hast done all there is for thee to do to-day. Go home and rest.”

He could not bear to send her to the gloomy pest-house, and went in search of some one who could care for her at her cottage; but the quest was vain, and he took the way thither himself with a heavy heart, thinking that if he had not haply been mistaken, and if it were not yet too late, he might persuade the poor child to walk with him to the village green, and pass that horrid portal with his aid. So, at least, the danger of a later transportation would be avoided.

But the plague was before him, — the plague and another.

“ I ’ll not have her taken to the pesthouse,” said Dame Lowe. “ If I get the sickness myself ? Well, ’t will be God’s will, then ; for I found her lyin’ along the floor, an’ what could I do but care for her ? I’ve heared about it an’ how ’t is done. She shall not be carried to the pest-house ! ”

On the 11th of October the wind changed to the east, and swept the pestilence away. It was as if an angel had come down with a drawn sword to stand between the dead and the living, and “ so the plague was stayed.” The invisible sentinels which had kept guard around the devoted place through all those long months stole away ; but where that heroic line was drawn there lingers a sort of halo yet, after more than two hundred years.

In the latter part of November, after a final and thorough purification of the village, it was officially pronounced free to ingress, and the old life might be taken up once more.

The first person to enter Eyam was a young man who had thought his feet would not take him there fast enough, though he drew rein and paced his horse slowly along the grass - grown village street, dreading to reach his destination when he looked about on cottages closed, silent, wearing already a ruinous aspect. Even the dwellings where life had lingered were very still: the men were away in the fields where the harvest lay rotted, and the women were busy within doors ; only here and there were a few children playing, at whom he looked searehingly, but in vain. No Emmot, no Willy ! And he passed them by with an unasked question on his lips, fearing the answer that might come in their little shrill tones.

So on he went to the bend in the road that brought him close upon the Hall cottage: that, too, silent, doors and windows shut, the little plot of ground a wilderness, — though even so it looked neater than the desolated homesteads he had seen. It had always been neat.

Slowly he dismounted and fastened his horse, — very slowly, to give her time to appear. But his heart sank within him, for surely she would have heard, she would have come to the window or opened the door.

Eh, John! thou ’rt come for thy Margery,” said a quavering old voice from across the way, as Dame Lowe advanced to her garden gate. “ Thou ’lt find her in the churchyard. An’ it wanted little — Why, man, what’s the matter wi’ thee ? Thou ’rt as white as a kerchief! Dost think she’s dead ? Nay, nay ! She’s gone to look to the graves o’ her granny and the children. But it wanted little an’ she had been lyin’ there herself wi’ them that come back no more. Eh, John, it’s been a weary, weary time.”

But Dame Lowe could hardly wonder if John had no mind just then to listen to her accumulated chronicles. He strode on to the churchyard and entered at the open gate, pausing for a moment, amazed at the sea of mounds.

Close by, a girl was bending and rising as she laid on a row of graves pale autumn flowers that had lingered on in a neglected garden.

“ Margery ! ” he cried, with a sob in his voice.

She turned, and sprang to him.

“ Oh, John ! I ’ve none but thee ! In all the wide world, I ’ve none but thee ! ”

Then he bent his head tenderly on hers, and they stood there among the graves, the two young figures in a close embrace, — an emblem of the triumph of life over death.

Grace Howard Peirce.