“I have planted a garden here in the wilderness,” he said slowly, at last, “and I must abide to see what sort of fruit it bears. I and my children and their children too, I trust, will tend it each in turn. And when we Englishmen turn our hands to the planting of such gardens we like not to abandon the task and leave others to destroy our work.” The priest seemed not to have grasped his meaning. “But gardens grow in all lands, Monsieur,” he protested. “Flowers bloom fairer in other soils than this of bleak New England. You can plant another garden across the sea.” “The flowers that I and my Puritan comrades have planted are not such as grow on other shores,” Master Simon answered. “For we have planted truth, and a new freedom in a new land. There are weeds in our garden, I grant you, the weeds of jealousy and too-narrow justice and the Gospel of Fear. But where was there ever a new garden without weeds or a new country without mistakes and bitter lessons that it must master before it comes to its glory at last. No, good friend, I have laid my hand to the plough nor will I look back!” The prow of a ship’s boat came suddenly out of the mist and grated on the beach. Two sailors leaped ashore to help the priest embark, cutting short his words of protest and farewell. A moment later the little craft had disappeared into the fog again and the muffled sound of the oars had died away. They could hear, a short space after, the creak of ropes and the rattle of an anchor-chain, while something big and grey, the ghostly shadow of a ship, slipped by through the mist that was beginning to be faintly bright with coming day. The three conspirators walked homeward through the wet field and paused at the edge of the garden where Roger Bardwell made a stammering attempt at thanks for the help they had given to his friend. His broken words were cut short, however, by Margeret as she laid her hand upon her father’s arm. “Look!” she said. The fog had lifted over the meadows showing them the sleeping town of Hopewell, every house with its doors closed and its windows blank as though drowsy with the same slumber that held those who slept within. But nearer than the village they could see Samuel Skerry’s cottage, its door open and the casements standing wide while a plume of smoke rose steadily from the chimney. The glow of the dawn was reflected like fire from one of the windows that winked at them with its red light like some wicked, baleful eye. No matter who was asleep, the shoemaker was up and stirring. “Now was he or was he not in the garden last night?” said Roger with a sigh of deep misgiving. “There is little need to waste time in pondering over that question,” returned Master Simon cheerily, “for if he was there we and all of Hopewell will know of it—and that right soon!” CHAPTER VI THE SCHOOLHOUSE LANE