"A tall, thin, comely man, with a brown skin, and no color on cheeks or lips: dark hair somewhat unkempt, bright dark eyes, and a very soft, persuasive tone of voice. His clothes had been good, but were then ragged, and he looked as if he had been ill, or might become so. I always wondered if it could be my father; but as he died when I was but a child, that is not possible."
"And what was the day, Madam?"
"Some day in November, 1710."
"I think I can guess who it was, Madam Celia. No, it could not have been your father; and I know but one who answers to that description, yet I knew not that he had been in England so late as that. It was my husband, Gilbert Irvine."
"Patient!" exclaimed Celia, interested at once. "Had he been ill?"
"Nay, Madam, 'twas the other way: he fell ill afterward. He died about twelve months thereafter."
"Poor Patient!"
"Do not pity me, Madam. I had nought but what I deserved."
"I am afraid I should not like to have all I deserve, Patient. But what do you mean?"
"Madam, do you mind the Israelites under Joshua, which accepted the Gibeonites because of their spoiled victuals and clouted shoon, and asked not counsel at the mouth of the Lord? That was what I did. I was a plain, portionless maid, having nought but my labor, and he was my Lady's gentleman-usher, in a better place than I, and a rare hand at talking any one over to what he had a mind to—ay, he was that! And so I took him because of his comely face and his flattering tongue, and such like, and asked not counsel at the mouth of the Lord. And 'tis mine experience, Madam, that while the Lord never faileth to bring good out of evil for His people in the end, yet that oft for a time, when they be obstinately bent on taking their own way, He leaveth them to eat of the fruit of it. I say not how 'tis with other believers; but this I know, that my worst troubles have ever been them I have pulled on mine own head. There is a sort of comfort in a trouble by Divine ordinance, which it lacks when 'tis only by Divine permission, and you know you are yourself to blame for it. And little comfort I had with Gilbert Irvine. I've envied Isabel Paterson in the cave with her guidman—ay, many and many a time! And I have asked the Lord to do more than a miracle for me—for to turn Gilbert's heart would have been on the thither side of a miracle, I'm thinking,—more wonderful yet. You mind, Madam," added Patient, suddenly, as if afraid of being misunderstood on this point, "Gilbert was no a Papist when I and he were wed. I should have seen my way through that, I think, for all the blind fool that I was; but it was no for five years thence. He professed the Evangel then, and went to the preaching like any Christian. The Lord forgive him—if it be no Papistry to say it: anyhow, the Lord forgive me!"