Constance Hopkins, young as she was, cheered and sustained her elders. Like a mettlesome horse that throws up his head and puts forth renewed strength when there rises before him a long steep mountain, Constance laughed at fear, sang and jested, tenderly helping the sick, gathering around her the children for story-telling and such quiet play as there was room for. Little Damaris was sick and cross, but Constance comforted her with unfailing patience, proving so motherly an elder sister than even Mistress Eliza's jealous dislike for the girl melted when she saw her so loving to the child. "You are proving yourself a good girl, Constantia," she said, with something like shame. "If I die you will look after Damaris and bring her up as I would have done? Promise me this, for I know that you will never break your word, and having it I can leave my child without anxiety for her future." "It needs no promise, Stepmother," said Constance. "Surely I would not fail to do my best for my little sister. But if you want my word fully, it is given you. I will try to be grown up and wise, and bring up Damaris carefully if you should leave her. But isn't this silly talk! You will not die. You will tell Damaris's little girls about your voyage in the _Mayflower_, and laugh with them over how you talked of dying when we were so tossed and tumbled, like a tennis ball struck by a strong hand holding a big racquet, but unskilled at the game!" Constance laughed but her stepmother frowned. "Never shall I talk of games to my daughter," she said, "nor shall you, if you take my place." Then she relented, recalling Constance's unselfish kindness all these dark hours. "But you have been a good girl, Constantia. Though I fear you are not chastised in spirit as becomes one of our company of saints, yet have you been patient and gentle in all ways, and a mother to Damaris and the other small ones. I can do no less than say this and remember it," she added. Constance was white from weariness and the fear that she fought down with merry chatter, but now a warm flush spread to her hair. "Oh, Mistress Hopkins, if you would not hate me, if you would but think me just a little worthy of kindly thoughts--for indeed I am not wicked--the hardship of this voyage would be a cheap price to pay for it! I would not be so unhappy as I am if, though you did not love me, you would at least not hate me, nor mind that my father loved me--me and Giles!" Constance cried passionately, trembling on the verge of tears. Then she dashed her hand across her eyes as Giles might have done, and laughed to choke down a sob. "Priscilla! Priscilla Mullins, come! I need your help," she called. "What to do, Constance?" asked Priscilla, edging her way from the other end of the crowded cabin to the younger girl. Priscilla looked blooming still, in spite of the conditions to dim her bright colour.