Folding the verses, Standish held out his hand for the letter, and placed the one carefully within the other, his deliberate movements betraying the preoccupation of his mind; then raising his gloomy eyes to the Elder’s face, he said,-- “Your son speaks of Rebecca. When Isaac’s ambassador asked her from her kinsfolk they made answer, ‘We will call the damsel, and inquire at her mouth.’ So say I to you, Elder.” “What! if Lora consent, you will not refuse her to my son?” “We will call the damsel, and inquire at her mouth. Oh, no, we will not startle her again, as your son confesses that he did on that ill-starred night. Give me the letter if you will, and I will bid her read and ponder it through the night, and to-morrow I will come and tell you; or no,--if it be as you wish, she shall come herself and tell you.” “I felt that my boy’s words must move a father’s heart,” replied the Elder with a loving complacency, which sank abashed before the fierce glance of the captain’s eyes, as he strode away, muttering,-- “Had not they suited my purpose, his mops and mows had been my scoff.” Down near the edge of the bluff that finishes Harden Hill stood Lora, leaning lightly against a birch, whose silver bark seemed some quaint ornament of her white samite robe, like the gauzy scarf thrown around her head and shoulders. One slender foot in its silver-buckled shoe showed beneath the hem of her robe as if about to follow the earnest gaze bent seaward. So profound was the maiden’s meditation that she did not hear her father’s step, and was only roused by his sombre voice asking,-- “Of what are you dreaming, Lora?” “Oh! Is it time to go home, father?” “Of what are you dreaming, child?” “Nay, father dear, my dreams are not worth the telling.” And with a pretty air of coaxing the girl turned and laid a hand upon her father’s arm; but he, withdrawing a step, almost sternly persisted,-- “But yet I will know them, Lora. Tell me truly, of what or of whom were you thinking, and why did you look so earnestly over the sea?” “The moon is rising, father,” stammered the young girl with a piteous attempt at unconcern. “I was looking at her.” “’Tis not like you, my maid, to trifle and palter in your replies. Will you tell me of what or of whom you thought?” “Nay, father, if you insist I must obey, but mayhap you’ll be vexed at my thought.” “Mayhap ’tis my own thought, child. Mayhap I’ve come to wish what you were wishing as you looked over the sea.”