“My mother is beholden to you for remembering her companion, but I doubt if Gillian Brewster can be spared,” said William a little hastily, and perhaps a little haughtily, for he shrank from seeing the siren who had wrought such mischief among some of his friends introduced to others under shelter of his mother’s name. But Joseph, heedless of his brother’s tone and only half hearing his words, replied almost in the same breath,-- “You’re very thoughtful, Abby, and I doubt not Gillian will like to come. I’ll bring her in my boat.” “Gillian Brewster!” murmured Betty in a tone of dismay that drew William Bradford’s attention to her face, suddenly pale and disturbed, and going close to the girl who had been to him almost a sister for the first ten years of their lives, he whispered, “Shall I prevent it, Betty?” “No, no, Will! Why should I care? She’s naught to me.” “Nay, I thought”-- “’Tis a poor custom, Will; better break it off while you can.” “The custom of thinking?” “Ay. How is Mercy, and when did your mother hear from her last?” Half an hour soon ran away, and so did the great stone pitcher of cider which the miller’s wife insisted upon producing, and the young men took leave, promising to be ready at an early hour for the evening’s frolic. CHAPTER XXXI. JENNEY’S MILL BY MOONLIGHT. “For ’tis the twenty-first of June, The merriest day in all the year,” sang Jack Jenney, the younger brother of the mill and the miller, as to amuse his sister’s visitors he threw the great wheel into gear and set the machinery in motion. “Put in a grist, you young idiot, and don’t grind off the face of the stones,” growled Samuel, standing by, and not so hospitable as to forget business. “Well, here’s Squire Pabodie’s Indian waiting--English, too, but that wants daylight. Here, bear a hand, Sam, with the Indian.” And the two young men poured the two bushels of gold-colored maize into the hopper, while little Hope Howland, bending over to see it drawn down the vortex of the cruel stones, cried,-- “Poor Indian! Do you know, Jack, one of those Englishmen that came from Boston to see the Rock where our fathers first landed was at the governor’s to dinner, and father was there, and Master Bradford said he must have some more Indian ground, and the man made great eyes and said,-- “‘But does your excellency chastise the savages in such fashion as that?’ He thought, poor gentleman, that we ground up the Indians!” “And doubtless he feared our governor next would roar,-- ‘Fee, fie, faw, fum! I smell the blood of an Englishman! And be he alive, or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!’” And John Howland junior put his great hands upon his sister’s shoulders to draw her back, saying, “But we won’t have you ground this grist, Hope; so don’t tumble in. Mother wouldn’t like it.”