could, and said her prayers always.  But letters came more frequently than ever to the little remote manor, carried now by some farm-servant, now left by strangers, now presented as credentials; and Booth’s Edge became known in that underworld of the north, which finds no record in history, as a safe place for folks in trouble for their faith.  For one whole month in the summer there had been a visitor at the house—­a cousin of old Mr. Manners, it was understood; and, except for the Catholics in the place, not a soul knew him for a priest, against whom the hue and cry still raged in York.

Derbyshire, indeed, had done well for the old Religion.  Man after man went in these years southwards and was heard of no more, till there came back one day a gentleman riding alone, or with his servant; and it became known that one more Derbyshire man was come again to his own place to minister to God’s people.  Mr. Ralph Sherwine was one of them; Mr. Christopher Buxton another; and Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Garlick, it was rumoured, would not be long now....  And there had been a wonderful cessation of trouble, too.  Not a priest had suffered since the two, the news of whose death she had heard two years ago.

* * * * *

Marjorie, then, sitting quiet over the fire that burned now all the winter in her mother’s room, was thinking over these things.

She had had more news from London from time to time, sent on to her chiefly by Mr. Babington, though none had come to her since the summer, and she had singled out in particular all that bore upon Father Campion.  There was no doubt that the hunt was hotter every month; yet he seemed to bear a charmed life.  Once he had escaped, she had heard, through the quick wit of a servant-maid, who had pushed him suddenly into a horse-pond, as the officers actually came in sight, so that he came out all mud and water-weed; and had been jeered at for a clumsy lover by the very men who were on his trail....  Marjorie smiled to herself as she nursed her knee over the fire, and remembered his gaiety and sharpness.

Robin, too, was never very far from her thoughts.  In some manner she put the two together in her mind.  She wondered whether they would ever travel together.  It was her hope that her old friend might become another Campion himself some day.

A log rolled from its place in the fire, scattering sparks.  She stooped to put it back, glancing first at the bed to see if her mother were disturbed; and, as she sat back again, she heard the blowing of a horse and a man’s voice, fierce and low, from beyond the windows, bidding the beast hold himself up.

She was accustomed now to such arrivals.  They came and went like this, often without warning; it was her business to look at any credentials they bore with them, and then, if all were well, to do what she could-whether to set them on their way, or to give them shelter.  A room was set aside now, in the further wing, and called openly and freely the “priest’s room,”—­so great was their security.