"What is thy matter for counsel, friend?" asked Bradford finding that Standish strode on in what seemed gloomy silence.
"Yon ship."
"The Mayflower?"
"What other? She brought a hundred souls to these shores some six months agone."
"Ay, and now we are fifty."
"Fifty alive, and fifty under the sea, or on yon headland where to-day we level the mounds over their poor bodies and plant wheat to cheat the salvages."
"'T is too true, good friend, and well I wot that the delight of thine eyes lies buried there"—
"And thine beneath the waters of our first harbor," interrupted Standish harshly, for the proud, tender heart could not bear even so light a touch.
"Yes," replied Bradford briefly, and over his face passed a cloud blotting out all the boyish enjoyment of scene and hour that had enlivened its ordinarily thoughtful features. Was Dorothy May indeed the delight of his eyes and heart?
"Yes, we two men came hither husbands, and to-day we stand as widowers, and 't is in that matter I seek counsel," exclaimed Standish suddenly as he turned to face his friend. "Last night, Master Winslow standing between the graves of his wife and mine, read me a lecture upon the duty unwived men owe to the community. He says it is naught but selfishness to let our private griefs rule our lives, that we are bound to seek new mates and raise up children to carry on the work we have begun. Nor can we doubt his own patriotism, or the honesty of his counsels, for already he has spoken to the widow of William White, and his own wife but six weeks under ground."