Busy as she was, in her new life, there was one face which Eliza- 

 beth had never forgotten, that of the young Quaker, John Estaugh, 

 whom she had heard speak "as if he were John, the Apostle," at "the 

 great May-Meeting in London." His stirring address had sunk into 

 the heart of the young girl, making a deep impression, and their meet- 

 ing was unto her a constant memory during the changing years that 

 followed. 



And now, on some errand of business or mercy, Estaugh, too, 

 had come to the colony. The poet tells us how, journeying through 

 the winter night, he met another lone traveler, who, as they went on 

 together, told him of Elizabeth and her comfortable home and her 

 many good deeds. Perhaps the urge of old memories was even 

 stronger than the need of a night's shelter. At all events, he lost no 

 time in seeking the latter, and was made welcome. 



"Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow with the night-air; 

 And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and going to meet him, 

 As if an unseen power had announced and preceded his presence, 

 And he had come as one whose coming had long been expected, 

 Quietly gave him her hand, and said, 'Thou art welcome, John Estaugh.' 

 And the stranger replied, With staid and quiet behavior, 

 'Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth? After so many 

 Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing that I find thee. 

 Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here to thy threshold'." 



And Elizabeth answered demurely: 

 "Surely the hand of the Lord is in it; his Spirit hath led thee 

 Out of the darkness and storm to the light and peace of my fireside!" 



When the guest took his departure, next morning, in the glory of 

 the winter sunshine, it was with the promise to return at the meeting 

 to be held in May. Long and cold were the months that intervened; 

 full of cheerful labor, full, too, of quiet meditation, and when spring 

 came with its "rush of blossoms and music," the inner voice once more 

 insistently called, and again Elizabeth obeyed. 



Quarterly meeting was about to open, and John Estaugh, with 

 a party of Friends on their way to attend it, stopped at the Haddon 

 Homestead, for refreshment. As they were leaving, the young mis- 

 tress of the house called him aside, and telling him she had somewhat 

 to say in private, asked him to wait. Together, they rode through the 

 leafy woods, and then, faithful to her call, she unburdened her mind: 



"Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance, 

 As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded: 

 I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee; 

 I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh." 



The poet has told us how John Estaugh, "surprised by the words 

 she had spoken," urged that his business must be finished before he 

 could consider them ; how he returned to England for a time, and then 

 "came back o'er the sea for the gift that was offered." 



In the old garden, where tradition tells us the lovers spent many 

 happy hours, the yews kept silent watch through the years that fol- 

 lowed. Long since, those first owners have passed away, but the old 

 trees survive. "They are waiting for you," says Wilhelm Miller, 



70 



