"
The eyes of both turned, by a common and melancholy feeling, towards the
ruin of the block. The stranger then pressed the hand of his friend in
both his own, and said in a struggling voice--
"Mark Heathcote, adieu! he that had a roof for the persecuted
wanderer shall not long be houseless: neither shall the resigned for
ever know sorrow."
His words sounded in the ears of his companion like the revelation of a
prophecy. They again pressed their hands together, and, regarding each
other with looks in which kindness could not be altogether smothered by
the repulsive character of an acquired air, they parted. The Puritan
slowly took his way to the dreary shelter which covered his family; while
the stranger was shortly after seen urging the beast he had mounted,
across the pastures of the valley, towards one of the most retired paths
of the wilderness.
Chapter XVII.
"Together towards the village then we walked,
And of old friends and places much we talked:
And who had died, who left them, would he tell;
And who still in their father's mansion dwell.
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