Constance was white from weariness and the fear that she fought down with merry chatter, but now a warm flush spread to her hair.
"Oh, Mistress Hopkins, if you would not hate me, if you would but think me just a little worthy of kindly thoughts—for indeed I am not wicked—the hardship of this voyage would be a cheap price to pay for it! I would not be so unhappy as I am if, though you did not love me, you would at least not hate me, nor mind that my father loved me—me and Giles!" Constance cried passionately, trembling on the verge of tears.
Then she dashed her hand across her eyes as Giles might have done, and laughed to choke down a sob.
"Priscilla! Priscilla Mullins, come! I need your help," she called.
"What to do, Constance?" asked Priscilla, edging her way from the other end of the crowded cabin to the younger girl.
Priscilla looked blooming still, in spite of the conditions to dim her bright colour.
Placid by nature, she did not fret over discomfort or danger. Trim and neat, she was a pleasant sight among the distressed, pallid faces about her, like a bit of English sky, a green English meadow, a warm English hearth in the waste of waters that led to the waste of wintry wilderness.
"What am I do to for thee, Constance?" Priscilla asked in her deep, alto voice.
"Help me get these children up into the air in a sheltered nook on deck," said Constance. "They are suffocating here."
"No, no!" cried two or three mothers. "They will be washed away, Constantia."