"Thus, Mynheer. You are God's elect, out of the house of Cardinal Granville."

"That's a good way of looking at it."

"It is true, Mynheer," Dirk said confidently. "The true way must be the good way, since God is good. If a man is elected at all, he is elected to everything God sends-chosen for it, and it for him. God makes no mistake, leaves nothing out. So I knew- Dirk caught in his the hand that rested on his shoulder, though as he spoke he turned his face away, 66 so I knew that-unto what happened two years ago-God had chosen her, and you."

"I know it now," Adrian answered very low, and giving the hand of Dirk a grasp that hurt him, with a welcome pain.

But, Dirk," he resumed after a pause, "what about the other people, who are not elect?"

Dirk's eyes, which were tremulously moist, took a perplexed, wondering look. He was a child of his own age, and this question was not for it. His world was like a chess-board, in clear, distinct squares of black and white; the black representing wicked people-like Philip, and the Cardinal, and the murderers of his father-who would get their deserts; while the white represented good people, who would get, through the grace of God, far more and better than they deserved.

He said at last, "I don't know, Mynheer ; perhaps even I don't quite understand you. God's ways are like the Latin you teach me. I know most of the easy words now- -the hard ones not yet. But you know them, and you will teach them to me in time, if I go on learning. So with God. It is all right."

CHAPTER XXIX. THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

NEXT morning Dr. Kasper Maldeer came again,

He found it in his pocket, he said, when taking off his coat; and he was full of apologies for having forgotten it the night before, that atrocious Ban, he pleaded, had driven everything else out of his head.

Adrian thought, though he forebore to say, that he ought to have delivered the letter before he heard of the Ban; and could not help recalling the want of sincerity which had embittered their relations in Utrecht, until Death came to make peace between them. However, he accepted the excuse with courtesy, and handed the letter to Marie, to whom it was addressed.

It proved to be from Amsterdam. It had been sent to Utrecht, in ignorance of the departure of Adrian and his sister, and the Floriszoons had forwarded it through Maldeer. The writer was the mysterious Béguine, who signed herself "Ellinor Wallingford." It appeared that, in the violent expulsion of the Roman Catholics from the city, the Béguines had been spared, either out of compassion for their helplessness, or out of gratitude for their ministrations to the poor and

sick. But the English lady was herself sick now, and believed her end to be drawing near. It was her earnest wish to see the promised bride of her nephew once again; and she hinted that the visit, if Mademoiselle Marie found it possible to accomplish it, might have a favourable effect upon his fortunes.

Hope, which just before had been either dead in very deed, or simulating death with wonderful success, sprang up again as much alive as ever. No matter what the inconvenience or the difficulty might be, Marie must go to Amsterdam, and go at once. Adrian quite agreed with her. He thought at first of accompanying her, but his work in Antwerp was too important to be left. Several of his patients were in a critical condition. and his treatise on the Hand was going througi the press. Dirk should escort Marie instead (and no doubt he would prove a more useful squire than Adrian). Neeltje too should go with her as her waiting woman. Adrian had grown very tender and considerate for his sister since they two were left alone altogether.

"But what will you do?" she asked.

"I shall do passing well," he answered with a smile. "Dame Catherine is my very good friend, and will take all the care of me I need, and more; she remembers the old days."

So Marie, Dirk, and Neeltje went their way; though Marie feared greatly that, owing to the delay of the letter, they would not find the aged Béguine still living.

Adrian remained alone, yet not lonely. As Dame Catherine watched his tall, slightly stooping figure pass along the street on his way to visit his patients, she said within herself, "The world would say of that man, that he went out full from this and came home empty, leaving the wife he loved in Leyden, and the child he loved in Utrecht. But I think it is the other way. God can fill.”

Days, weeks, months passed away, for Marie's absence prolonged itself unexpectedly. She write to her brother from Amsterdam, saying that ber honoured kinswoman had recovered from her indisposition and might live for years; that she had assured her of Edward's welfare, but was unable, or unwilling, to say more; and that, as for herself, she would return by sea, visiting Leyden on her way, the rather as Dirk would be thus set at liberty to rejoin the army.

Marie's visit to Leyden was a happy one. She had many friends there, beloved as friends are who have shared sorrow with us. Much was she amazed at the prosperous, thriving look of the city which she remembered as a city of the dead; and at the vigorous growth of the new University, to the rapid and marvellous success of which this prosperity was chiefly owing. Still, thinking of her brother's loneliness, she withstood all importunities to extend her visit, and was about to return to Antwerp, when the wife of one of her friends, the mother of several young children, was prostrated by a sudden and alarming illness. All her tenderness and sympathy, her energy and helpfulness, were called into action at once; and she knew her brother would have seconded the wish of her own heart to remain until the need

should be over. But the need lasted, as it often does, much longer than was at first expected.

So Adrian remained alone all the summer, and great part of the following winter. His outward life was far more active than of old. Ever since he had enrolled himself amongst the world's workers by accepting the physician's calling, he had been keenly conscious of two natures, which were striving for mastery within him. When the contemplative was uppermost, he shut himself into his study and gave his whole heart up to research; when the active gained a temporary victory, he went out among his patients. There can be no doubt that the first was far the stronger, and pride and ambition strengthened it yet more, though the necessity for finding daily bread sometimes forced him into activity. Nor were the two as antagonistic as he fancied; indeed they often helped one another. It was remarkable that in every place where he fixed his abode-Antwerp, Leyden, Utrecht, and now Antwerp again-patients sought him out in ever-increasing numbers. In his long solitary study of the facts of Nature, he had acquired a clear, calm, receptive habit of mind, like that which is well expressed by the old English word Longanimity. He left Nature much to herself, only watching her and aiding her as he could. This was so contrary to the Therapeutics of his time-which dealt much in bleedings and blisterings and nauseous and loathsome medicines -that he was usually at first depreciated and calumniated, and afterwards, when his treatment was crowned with success, proportionably exalted. His former friends, the Venetian merchants, had been driven from Antwerp by the Spanish Fury; but they were now returning, and with other old friends, they "sought unto him again." So did new ones, able to repay his services; with others of a different kind, to whom nevertheless he did not refuse them. In every way he sought the welfare of the city where he dwelt. hoped in those days that the fair merchant queen might yet forget her sufferings, and put off her garb of mourning for the royal robes of a capital -the capital of a free united Netherlands, with a royal prince, the Duke of Anjou, for her titular sovereign, and large-souled, large-hearted "Father William" for her real king. The Prince of Orange at this time dwelt chiefly in Antwerp, with his modest little court, and his large loving family" the big ones taking great care of the little ones." More than once he gave a kindly word of greeting to the childless man the anguish of whose soul he had seen in Utrecht; and Adrian's heart was knit to him, not alone with patriotic fervour, but with intense personal loye and gratitude. He always believed, that the words the Prince spoke to him that day sowed in his heart the seed which sprang up afterwards in a hope full of immortality.

Men

Although at present the active life seemed to prevail with him, yet it was not this that laid to rest at last the long antagonism between the two. It was rather that a third had entered in to unite

1 So the Princess says in one of her letters to her husband.

Daily pro

them, and make one harmony of all. fessional activities were lifted so high that the light of heaven shone through them as through a transparency; and solitary study also the same. light illumined, the same purpose glorified.

One winter evening Adrian came home tired and cold, to find a bright fire burning in his sitting room-the room from whence long ago his pupil had run away, and whither Rose had come to tell him of Marchemont's illness.

He was surprised-not at the fire, for he knew Dame Catherine's care for his comfort, but-at the sight of his favourite chair occupied by a gentleman in cloak and sword, who was trying to read one of his books by the firelight.

The stranger stood up at his entrance, and threw off the cloak, which he had previously unfastened. For an instant Adrian gazed bewildered at the tall figure-brown-haired, blue-eyed, with refined thoughtful face marked, not marred, by a scar above the left eyebrow. Then he stretched out his arms with a cry-" Edward Wallingford !' Wallingford threw himself into them, embraced him, and kissed him on both cheeks.

"God be thanked! Adrian said at last. "Thou art as one given back to us from the dead. But, ah me! Marie is not here."

"I know it," Wallingford said quietly, as he disengaged himself from the embrace. "Good Dame Catherine has told me."

"She is safe and well however," Adrian continued. "As soon as she knows you are here she will fly to us. But," he added with a changed look, and in a lower voice-" another would have welcomed you."

"I know," Wallingford said gently. "Dame Catherine has told me all. Do not speak of it."

There was a moment's silence, broken by the entrance of Dame Catherine with the lamp, which she set down on the table.

Its light showed the well-remembered Orange scarf upon Wallingford's shoulder, though its bright colours had faded so that Adrian had not perceived it until then.

Wallingford pointed to it smiling. "See, I have kept it safe," he said.

"You have had more precious things, and far harder, to keep," said Adrian. "Your loyalty, and your faith."

"I have kept that," the young man said with slow emphasis.

"And,

They seated themselves beside the fire. no doubt, you have sufered for it," Adrian resumed, looking more carefully than before at the worn face of the returned wanderer. "You are greatly changed."

"Those years in prison would change any man." "How did you win your freedom at last?” "I escaped. A kinsman-he who before had saved my life at the storming of Maestricht-furnished me with the means."

"Ah, we heard how he rescued you, from another of your kindred, an English lady, who is living as a Béguine in Amsterdam."

"She told you that, did she?"

"Did they not let you know so much to relieve your anxious thoughts for Marie? The Béguine's

tidings filled her with hope, poor child! While I, on the contrary, feared you were undergoing persecution, and that your apostacy would be made the condition of your release."

"You were not far wrong there."

"But how did it happen that you, a prisoner of war, were taken out of the country, and shut up in a house of Religion, instead of being put to ransom, openly and fairly, like other prisoners?"

"That was my cousin's doing. He claimed the right to dispose of me, and fairly, since he-since I gave my sword to him; and he brought me with him to the Jesuit College at Trèves, where he resided."

"I hear these Jesuits have shown a cunning and a malignity beyond all the other Orders in the Church of Rome."

"So it is said. Certainly they are very zealous. But I ought not to speak against them, since my cousin, who is in his novitiate, and aspires to be one of the Professed, saved my life and restored me to liberty; moreover, they were personally kind to me."

"How did your cousin contrive to get you off?" "It was not so difficult, after all. My bondage latterly was light and easy, and I was rather watched than guarded. I would have attempted it before, if I could have come by a proper disguise. My cousin said he did not feel his conscience free to assist me, so long as there was any hope of my conversion. But when he saw I continued resolute, and the fathers talked of giving me over to the Inquisition, he thought that altered the case a little."

"To the Inquisition! Thank God, who saved you from a fate so horrible."

"I had rather, truly, be here than there," Wallingford confessed with a smile.

"But there be other prisons, beside those of the Spanish Inquisition, with rack and pulley and slow starvation," said Adrian. "In spite of all you say of an easy bondage, and such it may have been at the last, your face tells me you have borne the cross since we parted."

"It may be," Wallingford said gently, after a pause. "But not such a cross as you think for. With the rack and the pulley I have no acquaintance and truth to say, I wish for none," he added with a slight, sad smile. "Nor have I hungeredsave with the heart's hunger for those it loves — for one above all. When, think you, shall I see the face of my betrothed?"

"That depends on yourself. You can take ship for Leyden, if you like, where she is now, and bring her home with you."

"That were well done. Only," he added after a moment's thought, "I must remember I am a soldier as well as a lover. I ought, no doubt, to report myself to the Estates, from whom I had my commission, or to the Prince of Orange, which is the same thing. Is he here now?"

"No; but he is expected shortly. I think he is now at Middleburgh."

"Best were it then for me to wait here until he comes."

Adrian acquiesced. "Like enough," he said, "if you did set out for Leyden, you and Marie would but cross one another on the sea."

Nevertheless, he thought within himself, "They have crushed the poor lad's spirit out of him, with their infamous arts and cruelties! Else he would never sit down tamely here, with Marie in Leyden and the Prince in Middleburgh! He has suffered; I am sure he has suffered, though he will not talk of it. Perhaps even he has suffered so much that he cannot. Or perhaps I have heard of such things -perhaps they have made him swear never to reveal the secrets of his prison-house. But, whether he can speak of his sufferings or no, he will be able to speak of Him who no doubt sustained him through them."

"Dear Edward," he said aloud, "there was One Friend-was there not?-who was with you through all those lonely, sorrowful years?"

"Do you mean my cousin?" asked Wallingford without looking up.

Then Adrian remembered that Edward could scarcely have expected such words from his lips. He said, though with an effort that cost him something, "I mean One greater, whom when we parted I knew not yet. You knew Him, or you could not have endured as you did."

A pause ensued, which Wallingford broke. "You too have suffered," he said in a low voice. "But not in vain. 'Afterwards it bringeth forth the peaceable fruits of righteousness." "

Here Dame Catherine and her handmaid entered, bearing supper; a more elaborate meal than usual, in honour of the guest.

Wallingford did scant justice to the venison pasty, the custard and the marchepane, and he drank even more sparingly of the good wine of Bordeaux, a present from one of Adrian's patients. Adrian's pity was aroused, but his experience as a physician forbade him to press him. "No doubt," thought he, "a long course of severe fasting has reduced his powers. He insisted, however, upon his taking up his abode with him. "Marie would never forgive me," he said, "if I let you go to an inn."

Wallingford objected, and with apparent earr ness; but in the end he was obliged to yield to Adrian's hospitable importunity.

Often, during the time that followed, did Adrian think of those sorrowful days in Leyden, when he found in Edward, as he thought then, the very perfection of a guest, never in the way, and never out of the way." Whatever else that long imprisonment, about which he was so reticent, had done with him, it had done no hurt to his manners, but the reverse. Good before, they were superlative now. The old Wallingford was prompt and willing in the rendering of little services, but the new Wallingford rendered them with an ease and grace that was irresistibly winning, and an air as if he were instead of conferring obligations. He talked not much himself; but he made Adrian talk as few were able to do. He was emphatically a good listener. It was natural that he should want to hear all that had happened during his imprisonment, and Adrian was glad to enlighten him. His comments and questions about public affairs were very shrewd ; but his informant some times wondered at his confused impressions of

receiving,

preceding events. One day, however, he slipped out, as he raised his hand to his head with a look of pain, that he had had a serious fever while in Trèves, and that he feared his memory since then was not so good as it used to be.

He spoke no evil of any man; indeed, he seldom spoke of persons at all. Adrian's curiosity was awakened about his cousin and deliverer, and he asked him one day what manner of man he was.

"I presume you mean in character," Wallingford answered. "If I know him, I believe he means well, and wishes above all things to do good. But he is weak-very."

"All the better tool for the men into whose evil hands he has fallen," Adrian observed.

"I doubt that. They are strong men themselves, and like goes to like."

There was one thing in which Adrian felt a vague disappointment in Wallingford. But this, perhaps, was owing to the change in himself. He had been wont to look upon his sister's lover as a sincerely devout and religious man, in the days when he himself had no claim to the title. Surely he could not be less near to God, now that he had suffered for Him! Yet upon all topics relating to the religious life he was silent-not to say unresponsive. "But then, perhaps," Adrian thought, "he does not yet recognise me as a brother in the faith."

He hated to ask favours or to give trouble. Late one evening, as Adrian returned from Plantin's Printing House, he saw Wallingford emerge from the dwelling of a Spanish merchant and banker, named Anastro, and pass on quickly as if he did not care to be observed. But Adrian hailed him, and claimed his company, reproaching himself as he did so for having neglected a very obvious duty towards his guest. "I ought to have remembered," he said, laying his hand kindly on Wallingford's shoulder, "that you must stand in need of a little money to spend. Prisoners do not generally come back with heavy purses."

"I suppose there is pay due to me from the Estates," Wallingford answered. "Besides, I shall get remittances from England."

It was

"Yes; but while you wait for either, you need a few ducats to keep your pocket warm. just like me to forget-but, friend, why didst thou not remind me, instead of going to a Papist and a Spaniard, and one whose affairs, I hear it said, are in such bad order that he may be a bankrupt any day? I trust thou didst not leave anything, by way of pledge, in the hands of Anastro? For if so, I would not answer for its safety."

66

'Oh no," returned Wallingford. "I was not borrowing money of him at all. I was merely asking after a mutual acquaintance, some one I happened to know a long while ago. I promise, if I need anything, to go to none but you, my kind friend, soon, I hope, to be my good brother."

"Enough said. Come home with me quickly now, for I have that with me which I am burning to read. So will you, when you hear what it is." He touched the wide sleeve of his doctor's robe, then often used as a pocket.

"What is it?" asked Wallingford.

Adrian marvelled at his stupidity--or his indifference. It was not long since he had poured out to him, with indignant eloquence, the whole story of the Ban of the Empire, which he said he had not heard of in his prison. How strangely crushed and deadened in all ways the poor lad seemed to be! Would he ever recover his old bright free spirit, and be again the Edward Wallingford they had known in Leyden?

Nothing more was said until their home was reached. Then Adrian called for lights, and seating himself at the table, unrolled his precious packet. Wallingford took his usual place by the fire, over which he leaned, warming himself, for the night was cold.

"It is addressed to the National Estates, before whom it has already been read, and by them solemnly approved." Adrian began eagerly.

Why addressed to them?" Wallingford asked. "Because to them, and to none other, the Prince is under oath of fealty. You shall hear." Adrian began to read. "What is there more agreeable in the world-especially to him who has undertaken so good and excellent a work as the deliverance of an oppressed people-than to be mortally hated by its mortal enemies, and thus through their own mouth and confession to receive a glorious testimony to his fidelity and constancy?'"

His voice rose as he read, for the words were to him as the sound of a trumpet. His whole soul went forth with the burning eloquence in which the Prince vindicated his cause before the world.

But,

He had not rebelled against his lawful King, for there was no King in the Netherlands, William said. Philip had only inherited there the power of Duke or Count, a power closely limited by constitutions more ancient than his birthright. whatever his hereditary claims, he had forfeited them by the violation of his oaths, by the tyrannical suppression of the charters of the land. Was a people not justified in rising against authority when all their laws had been trodden under foot, "not once only, but a million of times?" This was proved and illustrated with unanswerable logic and tremendous force.

The price set upon his head the rebel treated with indignant scorn. Then, for a moment, a loftier key was struck. "I am in the hands of God," said William of Orange, "my worldly goods and my life have been long since dedicated to His service. He will dispose of them as seems best for His glory and for my salvation."

Wallingford stirred, raised himself from his stooping position, and leaned back in his chair. "There speaks the Christian man," said Adrian. "Yes," Wallingford acquiesced. "But go on, I pray of you."