“I marvel that you feared to tell me anything I ought to know.” “I did not exactly fear, sir, but I knew ’twould be unwelcome, and mayhap too soon to do good.” “Well. Leave skirmishing, and come out boldly with whatever it may be. I’ll listen, at least.” And folding his arms and setting his lips, the soldier faced her with just the mien he would have worn in submitting to an amputation upon the field of battle. An answering courage lighted the face of the young woman, and although Standish did not then consciously notice how beautiful she was, doubtless that beauty made itself felt. But brave as she was, Betty could not steadily endure the sombre flame of eyes that seemed to pierce the very core of her heart, and her own gaze, after a little wandering, fixed upon the thatched roof-tree in the plain below, where her baby girl lay asleep in its cradle, and her voice was calm and steady as she made reply. “It was in the last night that our dear Lora was with us, and you had just gone somewhat hastily out of the room and out of the house”-- “Ay.” “And Lora looked after you a moment while her lips moved in prayer. Then she turned to me and said,-- “‘Dear father! He’ll miss me sore, and he’ll grieve out of measure that he denied me my love,’”-- A bitter, bitter groan burst from the father’s lips, and he buried his face in his hands for a moment, but uttered no word. Betty paused for a moment, and went on more softly,-- “‘But tell him when he can bear it,’ said she, ‘that it made no difference and it did no harm. Before ever Wrestling spoke to me I had heard one say to my soul, The Master hath come and calleth for thee! and I have long been ready, ay, and fain to go.’” “Said she so! Said my maid so! ‘Ready, ay, and fain to go’?” “They are her very words, her very, very words.” “I can believe it; I can believe my own lass would find some way to comfort me, even from the grave where she is laid.” “Nay, dear sir, from the heaven whither she has gone to live forever.” “I can believe that, too, from your lips, child, for you come to me as an angel. More, tell me more.” “I cannot tell all her words after those, for she grew faint and weak, and much was lost, but I gathered that her mind dwelt much upon some story Gillian Brewster had told her of a far away foreign convent, and she spoke of the leaves of a great tree that ever waved across an open door, and brought cool breezes to her head. I believe she wandered a little in her mind, and then she grew very still, and after a while she opened her eyes and smiled up into mine the while she whispered, ‘’Tis Mary and not Sally that will comfort him best. She’ll be a daughter to him in a place next to mine. Tell him so.’ Then she shut her eyes again, and we spoke no more alone.” “And it is all true truth?” “All God’s truth, sir. Oh, do you think I could say otherwise?”