Beth broke down a little at the end of this first attempt at public speaking. The applause, as newspapers say, reporting political meetings, “was tremendous.” Then every one in the room came up to Beth and made her a little gift; every one, even to the cook, a forbidding man whom Beth did not know and the woman who helped him, whom she had never seen before. Stories of Beth’s sweetness, her friendliness, her desire to make every one around her happy had stolen to the unknown parts of the house and to those who presided there, and all were sorry that the dear little girl was going away. Riggs was the greatest surprise of all. His solemnity seemed like a case, through which nothing could penetrate. It was a pleasant shock to discover that Beth had broken through this armor of respectability and won affection from the butler. Riggs came with his farewell offering to Beth and presented it with a smile and real feeling. “Hit’s a bit of ’awthorn from Stratford-on-Avon, miss,” Riggs said. “Hi thought you’d like something from Shakespeare’s ’ome. Hi’ve ’eard you talkin’ hinterested hand hinterestingly hon readin’. Hi made bold to send hover to a member hof my hown family, ’oo keeps an hinn near Stratford-on-Avon, for this bit of ’awthorn. Haccept hit, Miss Beth, hif you please, hin token hof my hadmiration hand respect.” Mr. Leonard gave Beth a tiny packet. “We’re like minded, Riggs and I; thought you’d like something with venerable associations, Beth! That’s a piece of the British man-of-war, _Somerset_. The ship Paul Revere rowed under ‘with muffled oar’ when he was making for the Charlestown shore to arouse the Lexington men. The _Somerset_ went to pieces on the Cape Cod shore a few years later and was uncovered long afterward. This little piece of black English oak was part of her. I thought you’d like it.” Beth lightly touched the dried hawthorn leaves, the square of oak, blackened by time. Her imagination was fired by the contact of her pink-tipped, twentieth century fingers with these objects which had been near such great deeds, such reverend associations. She could hardly bring herself back to thank Mr. Leonard and Riggs. “We’ll meet again, little Beth,” said Mr. Leonard. “If I did not know that I should not know how to say good-bye.” “You saved Dirk’s life,” said Beth. “But I was fond of you before.” Which was a satisfactory good-bye, as Mr. Leonard’s eyes betrayed. Annunciata’s offering to Beth, made with tempestuous sobs, for Annunciata never felt anything by halves, was a pretty and gay striped apron, such as Italian peasants wear. “It’s for curiousa-tee,” explained Annunciata, between gasps. “And for to remember your poor Nunciata, who will died, die, dead without to see you, loveliest!” “Now, Beth, this is the most serious case of all!” whispered Natalie. “It’s dreadful to kill the child in so many ways.”