“If then it be a wrong not to weave all our thoughts to the self-same pattern, are we not all sinners together? But thoughts are like running water, they go where they will and only our Father follows them and knows that they all flow down to the same sea. Trust Him who loves us much, and let Him guard our faith and us. And let it be that after our time people will say of us, not merely that we wore grey coats and never smiled, not that we walked a narrow way and persecuted our brethren, but let them say, ‘They braved much, those Pilgrim fathers, they laboured valiantly, they trusted God, they planted a new spirit of freedom in this good New World, and they did well.’” He ceased speaking and there was a pause, broken at last by Goodman Allen’s long sigh of relief. The men moved, relaxed, smiled at each other and came forward to grasp Master Simon’s hand. The danger was at an end. “Margeret, child,” said Master Simon, turning to his daughter, “do not look so anxious that I am here. Did you think to keep all this from your poor old father, who should stop at home now that age has bowed him down? No, I felt that I must speak to my comrades once more, and that this was a fitting time. I doubt if I have strength ever to step beyond my own doorstone again.” Amid the general hum of voices that followed now, Samuel Skerry’s was lifted once more. The little shoemaker, apparently unmoved by Master Simon’s words, seemed determined still to attain his end. “I ask again,” he shouted in tones so loud that all were forced to listen; “I ask why that youth, Roger Bardwell, did not later follow his father beyond the seas, as he could well have done these three years past? Why does he still lurk here if it be not for some evil purpose of heresy?” Goodman Allen looked at Roger and Margeret standing there together and laughed aloud. “No eye but one so blinded with malice as is yours, Samuel Skerry,” he said, “could fail to see why the lad has lingered here!” Margeret blushed vividly, but Roger smiled upon them all. Now that the cloud over his past had been dispelled and his secret had been discovered and forgiven, he had no more need to hide his love. But the shoemaker was not yet silenced. “Let him not deceive you,” he insisted, “he—” “Wait,” cried Roger, holding up his hand, “before you denounce me, Samuel Skerry, think well. Remember that for one who harbours such a transgressor of the law as I was, there is a fine of forty shillings for each hour spent by the sinner in that man’s house. Think, my good master, how long I dwelt with you, how many hours of toil I spent tending your field, drawing your water, mending your rows of broken shoes. Count up what your fine would be and whether there is enough to pay it in that strong-box of yours behind the—”