The next morning the stricken mother was not able to leave her bed; doctors and nurses were watching by her, and whispering together now and then; Abby could not be allowed in the room; she was told to run and play—mamma was very ill. The child, muffled in winter wraps, went out and played in the street awhile; then it struck her as strange, and also wrong, that her papa should be allowed to stay at the Tower in ignorance at such a time as this. This must be remedied; she would attend to it in person.

An hour later the military court were ushered into the presence of the Lord General. He stood grim and erect, with his knuckles resting upon the table, and indicated that he was ready to listen. The spokesman said: “We have urged them to reconsider; we have implored them: but they persist. They will not cast lots. They are willing to die, but not to defile their religion.”

The Protector’s face darkened, but he said nothing. He remained a time in thought, then he said: “They shall not all die; the lots shall be cast for them.” Gratitude shone in the faces of the court. “Send for them. Place them in that room there. Stand them side by side with their faces to the wall and their wrists crossed behind them. Let me have notice when they are there.”

When he was alone he sat down, and presently gave this order to an attendant: “Go, bring me the first little child that passes by.”

The man was hardly out at the door before he was back again—leading Abby by the hand, her garments lightly powdered with snow. She went straight to the Head of the State, that formidable personage at the mention of whose name the principalities and powers of the earth trembled, and climbed up in his lap, and said:

“I know you, sir: you are the Lord General; I have seen you; I have seen you when you went by my house. Everybody was afraid; but I wasn’t afraid, because you didn’t look cross at me; you remember, don’t you? I had on my red frock—the one with the blue things on it down the front. Don’t you remember that?”

A smile softened the austere lines of the Protector’s face, and he began to struggle diplomatically with his answer:

“Why, let me see—I—”

“I was standing right by the house—my house, you know.”

“Well, you dear little thing, I ought to be ashamed, but you know—”

The child interrupted, reproachfully:

“Now you don’t remember it. Why, I didn’t forget you.”

“Now I am ashamed: but I will never forget you again, dear; you have my word for it. You will forgive me now, won’t you, and be good friends with me, always and forever?”

“Yes, indeed I will, though I don’t know how you came to forget it; you must be very forgetful: but I am too, sometimes. I can forgive you without any trouble, for I think you mean to be good and do right, and I think you are just as kind—but you must snuggle me better, the way papa does—it’s cold.”

“You shall be snuggled to your heart’s content, little new friend of mine, always to be old friend of mine hereafter, isn’t it? You mind me of my little girl—not little any more, now—but she was dear, and sweet, and daintily made, like you. And she had your charm, little witch—your all-conquering sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike, that wins to willing slavery any upon whom its precious compliment falls. She used to lie in my arms, just as you are doing now; and charm the weariness and care out of my heart and give it peace, just as you are doing now; and we were comrades, and equals, and playfellows together. Ages ago it was, since that pleasant heaven faded away and vanished, and you have brought