"I do bless God," she wrote, "that he has caused some stop to be put to the shedding of blood in this poor land.

Yet when I should rejoice with them that do rejoice, I seek a corner to weep in.

I find I am capable of no more gladness; but every new circumstance, the very comparing my night of sorrow after such a day, with theirs of joy, does, from a reflection of one kind or another, rack my uneasy mind.

Though I am far from wishing the close of theirs like mine, yet I cannot refrain giving some time to lament mine was not like theirs." [44] And now the tide was on the turn.

The death of Stafford, witnessed with signs of tenderness and remorse by the populace to whose rage he was sacrificed, marks the close of one proscription.