But as the sun mounted higher, although the March winds cut on some days, then as now they do in March, yet, then as now, there were soft and dreamy days under the ascending sun's rays, made more effective by the moderating sea and flat sands. The devastating diseases of winter began to abate; the pale, weak remnants of the _Mayflower's_ passengers crept out to walk with a sort of wonder upon the earth which was new to them, and which they had so nearly quitted that nothing, even of those aspects of things that most recalled the home land, seemed to them familiar. The men began to break the soil for farming, and to bring forth and discuss the grain which they had found hidden by the savages--most fortunately, for without it there would have been starvation to look forward to after all that they had endured, since no supplies from England had yet come after them. There was talk of the _Mayflower's_ return; she had lain all winter in Plymouth harbour because the Pilgrims had required her shelter and assistance. Soon she was to depart, a severance those ashore dreaded, albeit there was well-grounded lack of confidence in the honesty of her captain, Jones, whom the more outspoken among the colonists denounced openly as a rascal. Little Damaris was fretful, as she so often was, one afternoon early in March; the child was not strong and consequently was peevish. Constance was trying to amuse her, sitting with the child, warmly wrapped from the keen wind, in the warmth of the sunshine behind the southern wall of the community house. "Tell me a story, Constance," begged Damaris, though it was not "a story," but several that Constance had already told her. "Make a fairy story. I won't tell Mother you did. Fairy stories are not lies, no matter what they say, are they, Connie? I know they are not true and you tell me they are not true, so why are they lies? Why does Mother say they are lies? Are they bad, are they, Connie? Tell me one, anyway; I won't tell her." "Ah, little Sister, I would rather not do things that we cannot tell your mother about," said Constance. "I do not think a fairy story is wrong, because we both know it is make-believe, that there are no fairies, but your mother thinks them wrong, and I do not want you to do what you will not tell her you do. Suppose you tell me a story, instead? That would be fairer; only think how many, many stories I have told you, and how long it is since you have told me the least little word of one!" "Well," agreed Damaris, but without enthusiasm. "What shall I tell you about? Not a Bible one." "No, perhaps not," Constance answered, looking lazily off to sea. Then, because she was looking seaward, she added: "Shall it be one about a sailor? That ought to be an interesting story." "A true sailor, or a made-up one?" asked Damaris, getting aroused to her task. "Do you know one about a real sailor?" Constance somewhat sleepily inquired. "Here is a true one," announced Damaris.