"Sh-h, sweet mistress!" he said cautiously. "I won't be safe if ye sing out in such fashion. Jest ye get that scared look off yer face, while we talk nat'ral like, for the sake o' them as stands 'round. Ye see I was the only one that could risk comin', an' I'm to carry back the last news o' ye. But oh, Mistress Dorothy," and his voice took a note of expostulation, "however had ye the heart to do it? But o' course we all know 't was not really yer own doin', arter all. I tell ye, mistress, that mornin' at the Sachem's Cave saw the beginnin' of a sight o' mischief." She passed this by without comment, smiling at him kindly while she gave him many parting messages for those at Dorchester, and for Aunt Lettice and little 'Bitha, and all at the old house. The pedler promised to deliver them, and then looking into her face, he sighed mournfully. "Aye, but 't is thankful I am, mistress, that yer old father ne'er lived to see this day." "Oh, Johnnie, don't say that--how can you?" she cried impulsively. He saw the pained expression his words had brought, and added hastily, as he drew the back of his hand across his eyes, "There, there, sweet mistress, don't take my foolish words to heart, for my own is so sore this day over all that's come to pass, an' that ye should be goin' away like this, that I scarce know jest what I be sayin'." Before Dorothy could reply, she saw her husband approaching; and Johnnie, seeing him as well, turned to go. "Won't you wait and speak to him?" she asked, a little shyly. "No, no, Mistress Dorothy," was his emphatic answer,--"don't ye ask that o' me. I could n't stummick it--not I. God keep ye, sweet mistress, an' bring ye back to this land some day, when we 've driven out all the d----d redcoats." With this characteristic blessing, the pedler hastened away, and was soon lost to sight amongst the barrels and casks piled about the wharf. A few hours later, Dorothy stood with her husband's arm about her, watching through gathering tears the land draw away,--watching it grow dim and shadowy, to fade at last from sight, while all about them lay the purple sea, sparkling under the rays of the late afternoon sun. Her eyes lingered longest upon the spot in the hazy distance near where she knew lay the beloved old home. "How far--how far away it is now," she murmured. "What, little one?" her husband asked softly. "I was thinking of my old home," she answered, surprised to have spoken her thought aloud. "And," looking about with a shiver, "it seems so far--so lonely all about us here." "Are you frightened or unhappy?" he asked, drawing her still closer to him. She looked up with brave, loyal eyes, and answered, as had her ancestress, Anne Devereux, when she and her young husband were about to seek a new home in a strange, far-off land,-- "No--not so long as we be together."