she; "no more crying, poppet! Didst
thou not cry half the night in spite of all I could say?"

"But how can I be gay, and father and mother both dead, and I so weak
and ailing, and alone."

"But, Mary, I have lost more than that," said Priscilla in a low voice,
and with that hard constraint of manner common to those who seldom speak
of their emotions.

"I know thou hast lost father, mother, brother"--

"And even the faithful servant whom I remember in the dear old home when
I was a toddling child," said Priscilla gloomily.

"Ay, but some have tenderer hearts than others and feel these things
more cruelly," persisted Mary weeping unrestrainedly.

Priscilla removed her arm from the others waist and stood for a moment
looking out at the open door with a mirthless smile upon her lips. Then,
with one long sigh, she turned, and patting Mary's heaving shoulder said
gently enough,--

"I'm more grieved for thee than I can tell, dear Mary; but still I find
that to busy one's self in many ways, and to put on as light-hearted a
look as one can muster, is a help to grief. See now poor Elizabeth
Tilley. She hath cried herself ill, and must tarry in bed where is
naught to divert her grief. Is it not better to keep afoot and be of use
to others, at least?"

"Ay, I suppose so," replied Mary disconsolately.

"Well, then, lay the table, while I try if the meat is boiled. Oh, if we
had but some turnips, or a cabbage, or aught beside beans to eat with
it."

"Canst not make a sauce of biscuit crumbs and butter and an onion, as
thou didst for the birds?" asked Mary drying her eyes.

"Sauce for birds is not sauce for boiled beef," replied Priscilla, her
artistic taste shocked not a little; "but if thou 'lt be good, I'll toss
thee up a dainty bit for thyself."

"And me, too!" exclaimed Desire Minter, who had just come in at the
door.

"And thee, too," echoed Priscilla. "But, Desire, dost know the Indians
are upon us, and they'll no doubt eat thee first of all, for thou 'rt
both fat and tender, and will prove a dainty bit thyself, I doubt not."

"Well, dear maids, is the noon-meat ready?" asked Mistress Brewster's
gentle voice at the door. "Dame Carver would fain have some porridge,
and if thou 'lt move thy kettle a bit, Priscilla, I will make it
myself."

"Now, dear mother, why should you do aught but rest, with three great
girls standing idle before you?" cried Priscilla gently seating the
weary woman in her husband's arm-c