It was perhaps a week later, but as fair and peaceful a summer evening as that when Priscilla Alden showed herself more worldly-wise than vain, that Myles Standish, according to his constant custom, climbed the Captain’s Hill to sit upon the sunset seat, and with sad eyes fixed upon the horizon line to muse in lonely bitterness upon the sorrow he endured but did not accept. Half an hour of solitude no more than sufficed to deaden the physical pain, aggravated by the steep climb, against which the soldier in his latter years fought in the grim silence of hopelessness, and with a long breath of relief he leaned back against one of the trees supporting the seat and wiped his forehead. The sound of a light footstep, the rustle of a woman’s dress, disturbed him, and with a sudden flush of emotion he turned, half fancying that Lora herself had come to meet him at her favorite tryst. But instead of the fair pale face, the golden hair, and spiritual blue eyes of his daughter, it was the joyous and brilliant face of Betty Alden, or as we now must learn to call her, Bettie Pabodie, subdued indeed by tenderest sympathy, but rich in color, in light, in abounding health, that met his gaze, and with a peevish exclamation he turned away, fixing his eyes again upon the water. “Mayn’t I come and sit with you a little minute, Captain?” asked Betty, seeing and hearing all, but noticing nothing, and without waiting for reply she sank down upon the other end of the bench, and for some minutes remained quite silent; then she said very softly,-- “I came here to find you, sir, for it seemed to me the fittest place.” “For what?” asked the father hoarsely, as his unwelcome companion paused. “To speak of one I loved more than ever I loved mine own sisters.” And the round firm voice grew very sweetly tender and tremulous, for it spoke no more than the truth. “I cannot talk of her--I know you loved her, and she you--but”-- Again there was silence, for the great heart bled inwardly and made no sign. At last the girl ventured again:-- “Oh, forgive me, sir, if I seem to fail of respect to your wish, or of tenderness to your exceeding sorrow, but there’s something she fain would have you know. God forgive me if I profanely touch his mysteries, but it seems to me that she who has gone straight to his presence has been sent to bring to mind words she spoke and I never yet have dared repeat. Will you say nay to her wish, dear and honored friend?” “Words she said?” echoed the father, and, uncovering his face, he turned and fixed upon Betty such stern demanding eyes, that even her high courage almost quailed; but though her lips turned pale, she steadfastly replied,-- “Yes, words she said in the night before she went. Only I heard them.” “And God,” suggested the captain as severely as if he were administering an oath. “And God who hears me now,” replied Betty, her eyes meeting his so bravely and so truthfully that his own softened as he said,--