Some pious people seem not to care how many of their dearest hearts the Lord in heaven takes from them.  How well I remember that in later life, I met a beautiful young widow, who had loved her husband with her one love, and was left with twin babies by him.  I feared to speak, for I had known him well, and thought her the tenderest of the tender, and my eyes were full of tears for her.  But she looked at me with some surprise, and said:  “You loved my Bob, I know,” for he was a cousin of my own, and as good a man as ever lived, “but, Sylvia, you must not commit the sin of grieving for him.”

It may be so, in a better world, if people are allowed to die there; but as long as we are here, how can we help being as the Lord has made us?  The sin, as it seems to me, would be to feel or fancy ourselves case-hardened against the will of our Maker, which so often is — that we should grieve.  Without a thought how that might be, I did the natural thing, and cried about the death of my dear father until I was like to follow him.  But a strange thing happened in a month or so of time, which according to Deborah saved my life, by compelling other thoughts to come.  My father had been buried in a small churchyard, with nobody living near it, and the church itself was falling down, through scarcity of money on the moor.  The Warren, as our wood was called, lay somewhere in the parish of Brendon, a straggling country, with a little village somewhere, and a blacksmith’s shop and an ale house, but no church that anyone knew of, till you came to a place called Cheriton.  And there was a little church all by itself, not easy to find, though it had four bells, which nobody dared to ring, for fear of his head and the burden above it.  But a boy would go up the first Sunday of each month, and strike the liveliest of them with a poker from the smithy.  And then a brave parson, who feared nothing but his duty, would make his way in, with a small flock at his heels, and read the Psalms of the day, and preach concerning the difficulty of doing better.  And it was accounted to the credit of the Doones that they never came near him, for he had no money.

The Fords had been excellent Catholics always; but Thomas and Deborah Pring, who managed everything while I was overcome, said that the church, being now so old, must have belonged to us, and therefor might be considered holy.  The parson also said that it would do, for he was not a man of hot persuasions.  And so my dear father lay there, without a stone, or a word to tell who he was, and the grass began to grow.

Here I was sitting one afternoon in May, and the earth was beginning to look lively; when a shadow from the west fell over me, and a large, broad man stood behind it.  If I had been at all like myself, a thing of that kind would have frightened me; but now the strings of my system seemed to have nothing like a jerk in them, for I cared not whither I went, nor how I looked, nor whether I went anywhere.

“Child! poor child!” It was a deep, soft voice of distant yet large benevolence.  “Almost a woman, and a comely one, for those who think of such matters.  Such a child I might have owned, if Heaven had been kind to me.”

Low as I was of heart and spirit, I could not help looking up at him; for Mother Pring’s voice, though her meaning was so good, sounded like a cackle in comparison to this.  But when I looked up, such encouragement came from a great benign and steadfast gaze that I turned away my eyes, as I felt them overflow.  But he said not a word, for his pity was too deep, and I thanked him in my heart for that.

“Pardon me if I am wrong,” I said, with my eyes on the white flowers I had brought and arranged as my father would have liked them; “but perhaps you are the clergyman of this old church.”  For I had lain senseless and moaning on the ground when my father was carried away to be buried.

“How often am I taken for a clerk in holy orders!  And in better times I might have been of that sacred vocation, though so unworthy.  But I am a member of the older church, and to me all this is heresy.”

There was nothing of bigotry in our race, and we knew that we must put up with all changes for the worst; yet it pleased me not a little that so good a man should be also a sound Catholic.

“There are few of us left, and we are persecuted.  Sad calumnies are spread about us,” this venerable man proceeded, while I gazed on the silver locks that fell upon his well-worn velvet coat.  “But of such things we take small heed, while we know that the Lord is with us.  Haply even you, young maiden, have listened to slander about us.”

I told him with some concern, although not caring much for such things now, that I never had any chance of listening to tales-about anybody, and was yet without the honour of even knowing who he was.

“Few indeed care for that point now,” he answered, with a toss of his glistening curls, and a lift of his broad white eyebrows.  “Though there has been a time when the noblest of this earth — but vanity, vanity, the wise man saith.  Yet some good I do in my quiet little way.  There is a peaceful company among these hills, respected by all who conceive them aright.  My child, perhaps you have heard of them?”

I replied sadly that I had not done so, but hoped that he would forgive me as one unacquainted with that neighbourhood.  But I knew that there might be godly monks still in hiding, for the service of God in the wilderness.

“So far as the name goes, we are not monastics,” he said, with a sparkle in his deep-set eyes; “we are but a family of ancient lineage, expelled from our home in these irreligious times.  It is no longer in our power to do all the good we would, and therefore we are much undervalued.  Perhaps you have heard of the Doones, my child?”

To me it was a wonder that he spoke of them thus, for his look was of beautiful mildness, instead of any just condemnation.  But his aspect was as if he came from heaven; and I thought that he had a hard job before him, if he were sent to conduct the Doones thither.

“I am not severe; I think well of mankind,” he went on, as I looked at him meekly; “perhaps because I am one of them.  You are very young, my dear, and unable to form much opinion as yet.  But let it be your rule of life ever to keep an open mind.”

This advice impressed me much, though I could not see clearly what it meant.  But the sun was going beyond Exmoor now, and safe as I felt with so good an old man, a long, lonely walk was before me.  So I took up my basket and rose to depart, saying, “Good-bye, sir; I am much in your debt for your excellent advice and kindness.”

He looked at me most benevolently, and whatever may be said of him hereafter, I shall always believe that he was a good man, overcome perhaps by circumstances, yet trying to make the best of them.  He has now become a by-word as a hypocrite and a merciless self-seeker.  But many young people, who met him as I did, without possibility of prejudice, hold a larger opinion of him.  And surely young eyes are the brightest.

“I will protect thee, my dear,” he said, looking capable in his great width and wisdom of protecting all the host of heaven.  “I have protected a maiden even more beautiful than thou art.  But now she hath unwisely fled from us.  Our young men are thoughtless, but they are not violent, at least until they are sadly provoked.  Your father was a brave man, and much to be esteemed.  My brother, the mildest man that ever lived, hath ridden down hundreds of Roundheads with him.  Therefore thou shalt come to no harm.  But he should not have fallen upon our young men as if they were rabble of the Commonwealth.”

Upon these words I looked at him I know not how, so great was the variance betwixt my ears and eyes.  Then I tried to say something, but nothing would come, so entire was my amazement.

“Such are the things we have ever to contend with,” he continued, as if to himself, with a smile of compassion at my prejudice.  “Nay, I am not angry; I have seen so much of this.  Right and wrong stand fast, and cannot be changed by any facundity.  But time is short, and will soon be stirring.  Have a backway from thy bedroom, child.  I am Councillor Doone; by birthright and in right of understanding, the captain of that pious family, since the return of the good Sir Ensor to the land where there are no lies.  So long as we are not molested in our peaceful valley, my will is law; and I have ordered that none shall go near thee.  But a mob of country louts are drilling in a farmyard up the moorlands, to plunder and destroy us, if they can.  We shall make short work of them.  But after that, our youths may be provoked beyond control, and sally forth to make reprisal.  They have their eyes on thee, I know, and thy father hath assaulted us.  An ornament to our valley thou wouldst be; but I would reproach myself if the daughter of my brother’s friend were discontented with our life.  Therefore have I come to warn thee, for there are troublous times in front.  Have a back-way from thy bedroom, child, and slip out into the wood if a noise comes in the night.”

Before I could thank him, he strode away, with a step of no small dignity, and as he raised his pointed hat, the western light showed nothing fairer or more venerable than the long wave of his silver locks.