The sun was shining brightly on the battlements and casements of Lovell Tower. The season was spring, and the year 1395. Within the house, though it was barely seven o'clock in the morning, all was bustle and confusion, for Dame Lovell was superintending her handmaidens in the preparation of dinner. A buxom woman was Dame Lovell, neither tall nor short, but decidedly stout, with a round, good-natured face, which just then glowed and burned under the influence of the fire roaring on the large grateless hearth.

"Why, seeing times are not hidden from the Almighty, do they that know Him, not see His days?" From the earliest ages of the world, the needs-be of suffering has been a mystery. Down to the latest, it will be a mystery still. Truly, the more we "know Him," the less mystery it is to us: for even where we cannot see, we can trust His love.

There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death." That is one of the main lessons to be learned from the strange story of the Gunpowder Plot. The narrative here given, so far as its historical portion is concerned, is taken chiefly from original and contemporaneous documents. It has been carefully kept to facts-in themselves more interesting than any fiction-and scarcely a speech or an incident has been admitted, however small, for which authority could not be adduced.

Those to whom "Lettice Eden" is an old friend will meet with many acquaintances in these pages. The lesson is partly of the same type-the difference between that which seems, and that which is; between the gold which will stand the fire, and the imitation which the flame will dissolve in a moment; between the true diamond, small though it be, which is worth a fortune, and the glittering paste which is worth little more than nothing.

"Girls " said my Aunt Kezia, looking round at us, "I should just like to know what is to come of the whole four of you " My Aunt Kezia has an awful way of looking round at us. She begins with Sophy-she is our eldest-then she goes to Fanny, then to Hatty, and ends up with me. As I am the youngest, I have to be ended up with. She generally lays down her work to do it, too; and sometimes she settles her spectacles first, and that makes it feel more awful than ever. However, when she has gone round, she always takes them off-spectacles, I mean-and wipes them, and gives little solemn shakes of her...

The afternoon service was over in Lincoln Cathedral, and the congregation were slowly filing out of the great west door. But that afternoon service was six hundred years ago, and both the Cathedral and the congregation would look very strange to us if we saw them now. Those days were well called the Dark Ages, and how dark they were we can scarcely realise in the present day. Let us fancy ourselves coming out of that west door, and try to picture what we should have seen there, six hundred years ago.

More than three hundred years have rolled away since the events narrated in the following pages stirred the souls of men; since John Bradford sat down to his "merry supper with the Lord;" since Lawrence Saunders slept peacefully at the stake, lifted over the dark river in the arms of God; since Ridley and Latimer, on that autumn morning at Oxford, lighted that candle in England which they trusted by God's grace should never be put out.

It is a proverbial truth that thunderstorms clear the air. And it would seem as though that eventful and terrible period of English history, known as the Wars of the Roses, had cleared the political air for the coming Reformation. How little those who took part in it realised the time to follow

The story of the following pages is one of the least known yet saddest episodes in English history-the first persecution of Christians by Christians in this land. When Boniface went forth from England to evangelise Germany, he was received with welcome, and regarded as a saint: when Gerhardt came from Germany to restore the pure Gospel to England, he was cast out of the vineyard and slain.

"Give you good den, Master Clere " said a rosy-faced countrywoman with a basket on her arm, as she came into one of the largest clothier's shops in Colchester. It was an odd way of saying "Good Evening," but this was the way in which they said it in 1556. The rosy-faced woman set down her basket on the counter, and looked round the shop in the leisurely way of somebody who was in no particular hurry. They did not dash and rush and scurry through their lives in those days, as we do in these. She was looking to see if any acquaintance of hers was there. As she found nobody she went to business....