“It is not a very great sum,” he said, “but the little shoemaker’s penitence should make it equal to all the riches in the world.”
“It will buy back the land that, in the necessity of war, had to be sold,” answered Clotilde, “the land that Master Sheffield valued at just that sum—all the riches in the world.”
Thus it came about that the strip of meadow land running down to the sea became once more a part of the garden, and its blossoming hedge that had escaped the fire, bloomed, that Spring, for Clotilde and for Hopewell and not for tight-pocketed Ephraim Paddock.
By this time every flower bed and border was filled again, the May sunshine had brought out the apple blossoms and the linden leaves, had quickened the growing hedges and made green the grass of the Queen’s garden.
“Another year,” reflected Clotilde, rising from her task of setting out the last plant, “and the place will be all itself again.”
She was working near the hedge that separated that part of the garden from the lane, and as she stood there, surveying her handiwork, she heard two men talking together as they passed on the other side of the bushes.
“They say there is a ship from England come to anchor in Salem harbour,” said one. “John Ashby rode up to see her, as she is partly his, the Star of Hope. She was caught in an English port when war began and has been held back by the winter storms ever since the peace was declared. She is the first vessel to come to these parts from England since the war ended.”
“Ay,” said the other. “John Ashby must be a glad man. It is a happy sign for all of us when ships ply the seas again between the Old Country and the New. I wonder what she carries!”
He could not have wondered so much as did the little maiden who stood on the other side of the hedge, her heart beating as though it would choke her. A ship—from England! No, no, he would not come, she must not let herself believe it. Through all the long morning she forced herself to go on with her work, and very badly indeed was it done, for her thoughts were upon one subject to the exclusion of all else.
The shadow of the sundial had dwindled almost to the marking of noon, when she heard feet in the lane again, the running feet of men and boys, hurrying past and up the hill.