“But what’s to be done with our Betty?” calmly inquired John, stemming the tide of his wife’s eloquence, apparently all unconsciously. She, standing open-mouthed for a moment, looked at him, colored a little, then laughed, and nipping his arm retorted,-- “What’s to be done with our goodman, that’s lost his wits as well as lamed his foot? Didst not know that I was discoursing of Widow Ring’s will?” “But she’s left naught to us that I’ve heard, nor are we even called to distribute her goods as I can hear, so were it not the part of wisdom to attend to our own concerns instead of hers, good wife?” “Well, as for Betty, the child’s growing too fast, and mayhap has been a little too straitly tied at home, what with little Molly’s coming, and Jo’s fever, and the rest. So now that you’re laid up from work, John, why don’t you take her up to Boston in the governor’s boat that’s set to go two days from now, and tarry the night at Parson Wilson’s, as he so kindly asked you when he was down here with Governor Winthrop and his folk? Marry come up, ’twas a good supper I set before their high mightinesses that night, and our own governor did thank me kindly for so pleasantly entertaining the guests of the colony. ’Twas a better supper than they had at the Winslows’ or the Howlands’ or the Allertons’, for I know all about it. As for the Standishes, I was helping Barbara all day, and the merit of that feast lay between us, but”-- “And dost think Mistress Wilson would welcome our little maid?” “Surely she would, and why not? You’ll not find our Betty’s marrow among the pick of the Bay maidens, not forgetting Master Winthrop’s own; no, nor Simon Bradstreet’s Anne that you were so taken with when we went up to see Mistress Winthrop.” “Then if you’ll make her packet ready I’ll see the governor about the boat,” concluded John, carefully putting his wounded foot to the ground, taking a cane in each hand, and hobbling out of the room, just as the roll of a muffled drum announced the death of Samuel Fuller, the much-prized and well-beloved physician of Plymouth, deacon of her church, brother by marriage to Bradford and Wright; the constant friend of his townsmen, and valued by many an one in the new settlements about Boston Bay. Faithful to the last, he had attended the sick-beds of those who were only a trifle worse than himself, until of a sudden he succumbed, and died almost before his friends knew that he was ill. Few deaths could have been more deeply felt in that little colony, and few were noted in William Bradford’s diary with more solemn and affectionate feeling.