“Dennis,” said madam, “call the women of the Relief Committee here to-night, all of them—now.”
“Let us hear what more the boy has to say.”
“No; suffering has no right to be delayed one moment of relief. Go now.”
Dennis went out into the night. He returned with the women, who began to knit stockings for the barefoot soldiers of Valley Forge.
Madam addressed the women.
“I belong to the Pilgrim Colony,” said she, “but of that I would not boast. Hear the rain, hear the sleet, and the wind rising! You have met here in the rain. The fire burns warm.
“Let me tell you my thoughts—something that comes to me. It was such a night as this when John Howland with a band of Pilgrims sailed in the deep darkness, near the coast, on the shallop of the Mayflower, and he knew not where he was.”
“What did he do?” asked one of the knitters.
“He sang in the storm. Darkness covered him—there was ice on the oars as they lifted and fell. There was no light on the coast. The wind rose and the seas were pitiless, but he sang—John Howland.”
“What did he sing?”