It was several days after the governor’s return to Plymouth, and Alice had wondered more than once if aught beside the gloom and sorrow of Billington’s execution lay upon her husband’s mind, when, after noon of one of those heavenly days in late September, in which one’s whole life goes out to the joy of living, Bradford after hesitating a moment at the door, turned back and said,—
“Come, Elsie, do on your hood and walk with me a little.”
“Gay and gladly, Will,” replied she, and in a few moments they had passed down by Elder Brewster’s house toward the brook, and then turning to the right crossed on the stepping-stones, and striking into the Namasket Path strolled along until, reaching a lovely intervale, afterward called Prence’s Bottom, and now Hillside, they sat down upon a fallen tree trunk, and Bradford abruptly asked,—
“Was it not one Sir Christopher Gardiner that our Pris spoke of when she first came as some sort of sweetheart of hers?”
“Yes. He gave her that lordly neckerchief she wears betimes. She calls him a Knight of the Golden Melice, and then again Knight of the Holy Sepulchre,—poor maid!”
And Alice laughed as matrons do at the follies of maidenhood. But Bradford shook his head, and plucking a great frond of goldenrod softly smote his own palm with it, while he said,—
“’Tis a bad business, Alice, a bad business, and I fear worse may come of it.”
“Worse! Worse than what, Will? There’s no harm done as yet. The girl’s not wearing the willow, nor needing pity; it’s not likely she’ll see or hear of him again, and after a while she’ll wed William Wright, who woos her honestly and openly.”
“Alice, the man is here.”