Gertrude’s thoughts, however, were so much with Reuben, that she heeded but little of what she saw around her.  She spoke of him incessantly, and begged again and again to hear the story of how he had been found.  Her cheek flushed a delicate rose tint each time she heard how he had called for her ceaselessly in his delirium.  That showed her, if nothing else could convince her of it, how true and disinterested his love was; that it was for herself he had always wooed her, and not for any hope of the fortune she had at one time looked to receive from her father as her marriage dowry.

When they had passed the last of the houses, and stood in the sunny meadows, with the blue sky above them and the songs of birds in their ears, Gertrude heaved a great sigh of relief, and her eyes filled with tears.

“O beautiful trees and fields!” she cried; “it seems as though nothing of danger and death could overshadow the dwellers in such fair places.”

“So Benjamin and I thought,” said Joseph gravely; “but, alas, the plague has been busy here, too.  See, there is a cluster of houses down there, and but three of them are now inhabited.  The pestilence came and smote right and left, and in some houses not one was left alive.  Still death seems not so terrible here amid these smiling fields as it does when men are pent together in streets and lanes.  And the dead at first could be buried in their own gardens by their friends, if they could not take them to the churchyards, which soon refused to receive them.  Many were thus saved from the horror of the plague pit, which they so greatly dreaded.  But I know not whether it is a wise kindness so to bury them; for there were hamlets, I am told, where the plague raged fearfully, and where the living could scarce bury the dead.”

Gertrude sighed; death and trouble did indeed seem everywhere.  But even her sorrow for others could not mar her happiness in the prospect of seeing Reuben once again; and as they neared the place, and Joseph pointed out the twisted chimneys and thatched roof peeping through the sheltering trees and shrubs, the girl could not restrain her eager footsteps, and flew on in advance of her companion, who was retarded by his barrow.

The next minute she was eagerly kissing Benjamin (who, together with Fido, had run out at the sound of her footsteps), and shedding tears of joy at the news that Reuben was no worse, that there were now no symptoms of the plague about him, but that he was perilously weak, and needed above all things that his mind should be set at rest.

At the sound of voices Mary Harmer came softly downstairs from the sick man’s side, and divining in a moment who the stranger was, took her into a warm, motherly embrace, and thanked her again and again for coming so promptly.

“Nay, it is I must thank thee for letting me come,” answered Gertrude between smiles and tears.  “And now, may I not go to him?  I would not lose a moment.  I am hungry for the sight of his living face.  Prithee, let me go!”