“And is there not?” cried out Goody, shrilly. She struck her hand against the hive and a loud buzzing arose from the angered bees. “Do you hear those voices from within, cobbler Skerry? Do you understand that even a feeble old woman may have helpers near by? Should I raise the lid of the hive, out they will come, a thousand assistants ready to my hand. They will not harm a bee-mistress who has worked with them until they know her, but will they be as kind to you, Samuel Skerry? Can you call even so small a creature as a bee your friend?” The shoemaker drew back, somewhat daunted for a moment. Then possessed by a gust of fury, he sprang to his great kettle and began pouring the hot brine over the nearest flowers. “I have warned you,” cried the old woman, and she flung open the top of the hive. A dark, whirring mass of bees came swarming out on the instant. Goody Parsons drew back, but there was no need, the line of their flight was straight toward the stooping shoemaker. He hesitated, turned, then clapped one hand to the back of his neck and the other against a smarting knee. Then, with a howl of rage, he made off through the garden, the buzzing cloud of enemies pursuing him even to his cottage door. Goody Parsons chuckled as she saw him go, but it was with shaking hands that she closed the hive. “May Heaven grant that Master Simon’s garden be never in such danger again!” was her quiet prayer. When Margeret and Roger returned an hour later, the old woman was sitting quietly by the kitchen fireplace, rubbing the pewter bowl until it shone in the candle light. Margeret, seeing the blue and white teapot on the table, was full of joyful but protesting gratitude over receiving such a gift. But Goody would listen to none of her remonstrances. “My children are all married and dwell in England,” she said, “and the old teapot will never cross the seas again, so it is you that must have it, and with an old woman’s blessing, too, my dearie.” The girl flung her arms about her old friend’s neck and kissed her with such energy that the pewter bowl rolled from her lap. “Why, what is this?” exclaimed Roger, stooping to catch it as it trundled across the floor. “Oh, that,” said Goody Parsons, “is a wedding gift that was left here for you an hour since. Samuel Skerry brought it, but he is a modest man and would not wait to receive your thanks.” * * * * *