“Yes, child, ’tis right, and so would your mother say if you could ask her; but she would far liever you did not, for she would then feel that she must tell your father, and he the governor, and so I should be balked of what will be a comfort to me while I am burned and bleeding in the hangman’s hands up yonder.” “Oh, sir! oh, sir! The pity on’t--and--and--indeed, I’ll carry your token.” “There, then, there, then, dear little maid,--don’t cry! I pr’ythee don’t cry! Come, now, I’ll give it up! I’ll say no more about it.” “Nay, sir, I’ll do it, and I’ll not tell, and ’twill be a comfort to you when--oh dear, oh dear,--but sith you say ’tis right, and mother would call it right”-- “Nay, I’ll not do it,--and yet--and yet”-- “But why will you not, sir? ’Tis not that I was naughty and did refuse at the first? Sometimes when I’ve been froward, father will not let me fetch his pipe or his dry slippers, and says, ‘Thank you, Elizabeth, but I’ll serve myself,’ and I’d rather he’d beat me, or scold, as mother will.” “My child, I’m not vexed, and--well, there--wait a bit--now, here it is, just these half dozen lines thou seest, Betty; surely there’s no harm in such a scrap of paper, is there, child?” “You say not, sir,” replied Betty submissively, yet sadly, for she liked not her errand, although resting in the confidence of a nature itself upright, upon the assurance of her elder that she was doing right in obeying him. At dinner time, with the tray came Betty, again with an apology from her mother; and when she had set it down she took a scrap of paper from her bosom and handed it to the knight, who, impatiently unfolding it, read in a very rude and Gothic scrawl the two words,-- “_Ask Betty._ PRISCILLA CARPENTER.” “‘Ask Betty,’” repeated the knight aloud. “That is all there is in it, Betty. But what is the message that I am to ask?” “Prissie cannot write much, but she made shift to read your billet, and she sends her love and kind remembrance,” repeated the child glibly. “And she said if you got leave to walk out, and I went with you, we should go to look for the mayflowers just below the Fort Hill, down near the palisades, and mayhap she would be there about three hours after noon. And if you cannot go to walk, or father goes with you, she will pass by this window while they are at lecture in the Fort, but it would be no more than to say good-by.” “Now that goes almost too well to be true, little Betty!” exclaimed the knight, rubbing his hands, and wincing as he did so, for they were not yet healed, while Betty, sadly changed from the careless and merry little maid of the morning hours, withdrew without a word.