if Jacques came in her I would--would listen to him
again."

"And that was all thy promise, maiden?"

"Ay, and enough, for before we landed on yonder Rock, and 't was Mary
Chilton and not thee, John, who first skipt ashore"--

"Oh, mind not that just now, Priscilla."

"Well, before I myself came ashore I knew that I cared not for Jacques
De la Noye. Beside the deathbed of my mother, and again by that of my
brother, I knew that life was darker and deeper than he could fathom."

"Ay, maid, and nobly didst thou bear that sorry load of woe and care."

Priscilla's color rose, and her dark eyes flashed a message of thanks,
but without other reply she went steadily on,--

"And so soon as Philip saw me, he delivered himself of the news that
Jacques, some three months since, was wed at Saint Peter's Church to
Gertrude Bartholmei, a merry Flemish maid, who ever looked kindly on
him, and now is welcome to him."

"Say you that honestly, Priscilla?"

"As honestly as thyself could speak, lad."

"And thou 'rt heart-whole?"

"Nay, I said not exactly that."

"What! Dost really care for the captain?"

"As I care for the governor and the doctor; no more, no less."

"Priscilla, wilt be my wife?"

"Nay then, John, why didst not ask that at first rather than at last?
Thou 'rt too fond of quip and quirk and wordy warfare, John, too much
given to fence and intrigue."

"I, Priscilla! Nay then, I'll not be turned aside again, try as thou
wilt. Priscilla, wilt be my wife?"

"Nay then, I never could bear a cuckoo song all on two notes, and if
thou 'rt bound to say that phrase over and over till 't is answered"--

"'T is just what I am bound to do. Priscilla, wilt be my wife?"

"Yes, John, I will, and now I hope thou 'rt content."

"Wait till I see thee alone this evening, and I'll tell thee how
content. Oh, maiden"--

"I will wait in what patience I may until that threatened evening hour,"
interrupted Priscilla as restively as the young colt who, after long
coquetting, at last feels the bridle slipped over his head. "Mary, an'
thou hasten not there'll be little done toward supper at supper time.
Desire is naught and less than naught now that she's going home, and
Bessy Tilley thinketh only of John Howland, and the dear mother hath her
son, so who is left but thee and me to do a hand's turn."

"Here am I, Priscilla, and I'll help thee in any way thou 'lt say,"
suggested John Alden a little presuming upon his recent accept