“I pray God our zeal in these times may be so kindled with pure fire from God’s altar that it may rather warm than burn, enliven rather than inflame, and that the spirits of good men may truly be qualified with Gospel principles, true fruits of the Divine Spirit. And truly I believe that the members of the Church, if not the leaders—notwithstanding all the perfections of times before us, so much pictured or applauded—have very much yet to learn. For I am persuaded that Christian love and affection is a point of such importance that it is not to be prejudiced by supposals of difference in points of religion in any ways disputable, though thought weighty as determined by the parties on either side; or by particular determinations beyond Scripture, which, as some have observed, have enlarged divinity, but have lessened charity and multiplied divisions. For the maintenance of truth is rather God’s charge, and the continuance of charity ours.”—Letters of Benjamin Whichcote, 1651.

And were they married here in this very porch where we’re sitting, grandfather?” said little Bobbie Coke, looking up into the Vicar’s kindly face, which the forty-five years had made only somewhat thinner and paler.

“Here in this very porch, Bobbie,” he replied, his arm about the lad, while on his knee sat little Mollie Harford, the orphan daughter of Gabriel’s brother, Bridstock, who had died seven years before.

“Never was there such a happy wedding before or since, for it is not often that the bridegroom is rescued at the last moment from the jaws of death. The villagers were ready to cry for joy, and the soldiers—brave fellows!—why, they were only too glad to be let off the horrid piece of work their Colonel had set them to do.”

“And when did my grandfather come?” asked Mollie.

“He came that evening, and Mrs. Harford with him, and they all stayed at the Vicarage a couple of days, rejoicing. Then the bride and bridegroom went to say farewell to the Bishop at Whitbourne, and thence to London, where Madam Harford gave them a right loving welcome, and took good care of Hilary, while her husband joined Cromwell, and began his career as mate to the surgeon of his regiment. It was in that fashion that he again saw Colonel Norton. For after the great battle at Naseby, when he was going about the field succouring the wounded, he came upon the Colonel lying there half dead, and was able to bind up his wounds, and bring him the water he cried out for. When the Colonel had drunk it, he looked up with startled eyes at his helper.

“‘Why, God bless my soul! Is it you?’ he cried. ‘What are you doing?’

“‘Helping the sick and wounded,’ said Gabriel.

“‘Confounded queer work for a gentleman,’ said Norton.

“‘It was good enough for Christ,’ said the other.

“Then up came the surgeon, said ’twas no use spending time over one that couldn’t live an hour, and bade his mate come and rest. But Gabriel, saying that he knew the wounded officer, asked to remain with him.

“‘Why should I lie shivering here for an hour?’ said Norton, in his devil-may-care tone. ‘It will be quicker work if I die on my feet, and I’ll be bound you think I shall be hot enough in the next world.’

“‘Lie still,’ said Gabriel. ‘Here’s the cloak Lord Falkland gave me at Marlborough. We’ll wrap it about you.’

“Now at the word Marlborough, the face of the dying man changed, and he fell a-thinking.

“‘Say the words you said that night,’ he gasped.

“Gabriel, unable to think what he meant, said the first words that came to his mind:

“‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, and the power and the glory, for ever.’

“And after that the dying man lay in his arms fighting hard for breath, but never speaking, only once he gripped Gabriel’s hand and looked in his eyes, as though he would have thanked him. Then, as darkness fell on the blood-stained field, he passed away.”

“And what happened to my uncle Gabriel?” asked Mollie.

“The war ended not long after that, and he went to London, and studied for two years under Sir Theodore Mayerne, and then for two years more at Paris. In 1650 he settled finally in London, and there became a celebrated physician, and all went well with him. He had twenty years of happy wedded life, marred only by some trouble at the time of the Restoration for the part he had played in the Civil War. However, that was no very serious matter, and there were few happier homes in the country till the year of the Great Plague.

“Knowing that his duty lay with the poor sick folk in London, he parted from his wife and four children, sending them, as he hoped, out of all risk to Katterham, a country place some eighteen miles off. But it fell about that, as they halted at Croydon to bait the horses, some that were also flying from the plague, sat with them at the common table in the inn, and even as they dined one of these fellow-travellers was seized with illness. Spite of all precautions, my dear niece herself sickened the next day, and ere twenty-four hours had passed she and her children were dead.

“An old comrade, Sir Joscelyn Hey worth, travelled to London to break the news to his friend, who seemed for the time wholly crushed. But as they sat together talking very sadly, there came in Sir William Denham, who for many years had known them both.

“‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘I scarce like to break in upon your sorrow, but my friend Judge Wharncliffe and his wife have just died of the plague, and their two sons are at death’s door, with no one but an old man-servant to care for them, and the doctor who had attended them hath now died in the very house.”

“At that Gabriel put aside his own trouble, and went forth to see what he could do. He found the elder lad, a fine fellow of one and twenty, beginning to rally, but the younger, a tiny, delicate child of but two or three years, lay at the point of death. He fought for its life, and never left it till it had passed the crisis, and by that time, as he afterwards told me, life had again become bearable to him, and he found what the joy of battle meant; it was not the brutal love of bloodshed, it was the God-like desire to overcome evil with good, disease with health, and death with life.”

“And did the little boy get quite strong?” asked Mollie, eagerly.

“Ay, to be sure, he’s alive to this day, and has lived a right noble life. Few men have suffered with a better courage than Hugo Wharncliffe, and one day I’ll tell you his story.”

“And now tell me the rest about Uncle Gabriel,” said Mollie. “Did he live much longer?”

“Only five years more, but they were five years full of good Work. It was in 1670, I remember, that he wrote to say he was advised to take a few weeks’ ............