“And Wrastle has gone with him?” asked Alick in a low voice of Joseph, who nodded assent, adding presently, as his father lapsed into silence,—
“He’ll be writer and keep the papers,—a secretary, Master Winslow called it; and Ras said there was no knowing when he might come back.”
“Now here’s the pie, and the cheese, and the cream, and some fresh nutcakes, and some metheglin; so cease your lament, John, and be merry while you may!” cried Priscilla, cutting the pie, which was baked in a great iron basin, and was more of a pudding than a pie, as it needed to be, since fourteen hungry mouths were to feed upon it.
CHAPTER XXIX.
TOO LATE! TOO LATE!
The Thursday evening lecture was over, and Barbara Standish, with her son Josias and some of the neighbors, strayed homeward along the footpath leading from Harden Hill to the Brewster and Standish farms; but Lora lingered with her father, who spoke of English politics with Kenelm Winslow, who had just received a letter from his brother Edward now at the English court.
“One moment, Captain,” said the Elder’s grave and friendly voice, as Winslow bade good-night, and Standish turned to look after Lora who had strayed down toward the water. “One moment before you summon the little maid. I have letters from England”—
“And I too, God save the mark!” growled Standish, who all the evening had worn the face of a thundercloud.