Mrs. Endicott did plead desperately and tearfully but to no avail, for the bitter night winds took her words away and her father heard not.
Then, the storm coming up apace, she was fain to go into the barn, and there to lay her down on the straw till the morning.
When her father made his round he saw her there, with her clothes frozen on her and her eyes wet and wild.
“Good morrow, father,” she said. “I have had a dreary night, but it had been worse had not God sustained me.”
“No matter for that,” he answered; “here you stay until you promise never to frequent meetings again and never to speak to John Bunyan.”
Thereupon she hung upon him with vain tears and entreaties, but he would have none of it without her promise, and that she would in no wise give; so at length he flung her from him roughly, and she lay along a byre and wept for comfortlessness.
At noontide up came her brother-in-law, and made the endeavour to conclude a peace, but this was beyond his powers, for George Endicott was obdurate and his daughter would not give her promise; neither would she leave her father’s house, but dwelt without it for several days, living on such food as the pity of the servants gave her and sleeping on the ground or in the stalls of the horses.
And day by day came Gilbert Farry and tempted her with promises of love and comfort, but she would have none of it, but remained a beggar before her father’s door.
On the tenth day her father came to her and again demanded of her her promise; and if she gave it not, he added, she should no longer have even the shelter of his barns, but be cast out upon the high-road among the knaves and gipsies. Grace Endicott rose up from the straw and stood erect in her torn, soiled garments, with her hair unbound and her cheeks stained with weeping.