“No, thank the Lord, I never have, nor shall I willingly come again, I promise you, my Betty; but being here, I fain would change a word or two with Mistress Carpenter, whom I knew in England before ever she or I came hither.”
“And that will not be hard, sir, for she often runs in to have a chat with mother, and I will tell her”—
“No, no, no, child, that will never do!” broke in Sir Christopher impatiently. “Did I not tell thee ’twas a secret?”
“Yes, sir, but you would speak with Prissie, you said,” replied Betty, her eyes wide with wonder and a growing instinct of wrong-doing. “You had best tell mother about it, sir.”
“Nay, Betty, I thought thou wert my little friend, and felt sorry that those cruel men at the Bay will presently serve me worse than they did my friend Master Morton.”
“He was here, and I liked him not at all. He miscalled Alick’s father, and mother would not make jelly for him though he asked it of her.”
“So! What a little partisan thou art, Betty! and I’ll venture thy mother is, too. But, Betty, there was another man there at Boston, whom they whipped until the blood ran down to his heels, and then they cut off his ears, and laid a hot iron on his cheek”—
“Oh, sir!” And Gardiner paused, startled at the power of expression developed in that little flower-face by horror, and anger, and pity beyond its years. His own face softened to perhaps its best expression as, laying a hand upon the glittering hair, he kindly said,—
“Nay, then, ’tis not a tale for the ears of a little maid; but thou’dst not like to have me so served, if thou couldst hinder?”
“Oh, sir, but how can I hinder?”