



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Joyce Morrell's Harvest, by Emily Sarah Holt.

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This book is one of a series involving the same late sixteenth century
family.  Its predecessor is "Lettice Eden", and its successor is "It
might have been."  Readers may find a little difficulty with the
language, for it is written in Elizabethan English, though that won't
bother you if you are familiar with the plays of Shakespeare.

Three young teenage girls, and their aunt Joyce are chatting together
one evening, when one of the girls suggests they might all try to keep a
journal.  The idea is scoffed at, because, it was said, nothing ever
happens in their neck of the woods.  A few exaggerated examples of the
daily events that might be recorded were given, but nonetheless, they
applied to their father for the paper, pens and ink, that they would
need, and set to work, taking it in turns to write up the journal.

It is slightly annoying that every proper name is written in italics,
which your reviewer found rather unusual, but you can get used to
anything, and once you have done that it doesn't seem too bad.

The author was said to be a good historian, and so you will find the
book informative and interesting, as the great issues of the day are
discussed, many of them being of a religious nature.

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JOYCE MORRELL'S HARVEST, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT.



PREFACE.

Those to whom "Lettice Eden" is an old friend will meet with many
acquaintances in these pages.  The lesson is partly of the same type--
the difference between that which seems, and that which is; between the
gold which will stand the fire, and the imitation which the flame will
dissolve in a moment; between the true diamond, small though it be,
which is worth a fortune, and the glittering paste which is worth little
more than nothing.

But here there is a further lesson beyond this.  It is one which God
takes great pains to teach us, and which we, alas! are very slow to
learn.  "Tarry thou the Lord's leisure."  In the dim eyes of frail
children of earth, God's steps are often very slow.  We are too apt to
forget that they are very sure.  But He will not be hurried: He has
eternity to work in, "If we ask anything according to His will, He
heareth us."  How many of us, who fancied their prayers unheard because
they could not see the answer, may find that answer, rich, abundant,
eternal, in that Land where they shall know as they are known!  Let us
wait for God.  We shall find some day that it was worth while.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE DWELLERS AT SELWICK HALL.

"He would be on the mountain's top, without the toil and travail of the
climbing."--Tupper.

             SELWICK HALL, LAKE DERWENTWATER, OCTOBER YE FIRST, MDLXXIX.
It came about, as I have oft noted things to do, after a metely deal of
talk, yet right suddenly in the end.

Aunt _Joyce_, _Milly_, _Edith_, and I, were in the long gallery.  We had
been talking a while touching olden times (whereof Aunt _Joyce_ is a
rare hand at telling of stories), and _Mother's_ chronicle she was wont
to keep, and hath shown us, and such like matter.  When all at once
quoth _Edith_--

"Why should not _we_ keep a chronicle?"

"Ay, why not?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, busied with her sewing.

_Milly_ fell a-laughing.

"Dear heart, _Edith_, and what should we put in a chronicle?" saith she.
"`_Monday_, the cat washed her face.  _Tuesday_, it rained.
_Wednesday_, _Nell_ made a tansy pudding.  _Thursday_, I lost my temper.
_Friday_, I found it again.  _Saturday_, _Edith_ looked in the mirror,
and Aunt _Joyce_ made an end of a piece of sewing.'  Good lack, it shall
be a rare jolly book!"

"Nay, I would never set down such stuff as that," answered _Edith_.

"Why, what else is there?" saith _Milly_.  "We have dwelt hither ever
since we were born, saving when we go to visit Aunt _Joyce_, and one day
is the very cut of an other.  Saving when Master _Stuyvesant_ came
hither, nought never happened in this house since I