“Brethren and children, this is a day of solemn joy to us who now have become a town by ourselves, even as children going out from their father’s house to begin a home of their very own; a day to remember, brethren, and to set down in our annals, that when in time to come our children’s children shall ask, ‘Why do ye these things?’ they shall find an answer ready to their hands. Some of you upon whom mine eyes now rest were fellow-passengers with me in the ship Mayflower, and ye remember, as I do, the barren and comfortless shore whereon we landed and were fain to call it home. Some of us, turning our eyes to that southern shore, can almost see the hillside where in those first months we day by day laid away the forms of those dearest to our natural hearts, or most precious to the life of our little colony; we recall the suffering by sea, the suffering by land, the cold and hunger and misery and grievous toil we then endured; but do we recall them to lament, to sorrow like babes over our own distresses? Nay, men, we recall them in joy and praise, in wonder and admiration at His goodness who hath so wonderfully brought plenty out of famine, joy out of sorrow, the morning out of night. Well may we say with Israel, ‘I am less than the least of thy mercies; for with my staff I passed over this Jordan, and now I am become two companies!’
“Is it not verily true? There lieth Plymouth, fair and prosperous, the mother of us all in this new land; and here stand we, sturdy, well-grown children, fit to take our own part in the world, ay, and to comfort her should she call upon us. Have we not cause for rejoicing, ay, and for a firm resolve to show ourselves in some degree worthy of such singular mercies? Brethren, my heart is too full to speak further save to One. Let us pray.”
Up rose the old men, the grave and bearded men, the matronly women whose eyes ran over with the memories the elder had invoked; up rose the young men, rejoicing in their strength, yet reverent of their sires, and of the story they had learned in childhood and would not forget in age; the lads, the maidens, the little children, all rose, and stood with bowed heads and hushed breath to listen to the tremulous voice of that aged servant of God as, forgetting all save Him to whom he spoke, he poured forth one of those fervent and trustful appeals whose eloquent power are matter of history. And as he raised his hands in benediction, calling down a special blessing upon the new town and each and every one of its homes, a plume of smoke rose from Burying Hill far to the south, and the sunset gun boomed out its solemn detonation.
“Plymouth says Amen!” whispered Priscilla Alden in Betty’s ear; and the girl silently pointed to Lora Standish, upon whose head the last sunbeam had laid a finger, lighting the pale gold of her hair to the nimbus of a saint. Priscilla looked, and suddenly clasped her own child close to her side; but neither spoke.
CHAPTER XXIII.
“LOREA STANDISH IS MY NAME.”
“Lora! Aunt Bab! What do you think? Bessie Partridge has a sweetheart, and he’s going to be a minister, and his father is one of the old sort that we’re bound to hate; but the parson don’t care and has given his consent, and they’re to be married out of hand. There, now!”
“But, Betty, dear child, do catch your breath and sit down and put back your hair all blown over your face”—