Before Dorothy could reply, she saw her husband approaching; and Johnnie, seeing him as well, turned to go.
"Won't you wait and speak to him?" she asked, a little shyly.
"No, no, Mistress Dorothy," was his emphatic answer,—"don't ye ask that o' me. I could n't stummick it—not I. God keep ye, sweet mistress, an' bring ye back to this land some day, when we 've driven out all the d——d redcoats."
With this characteristic blessing, the pedler hastened away, and was soon lost to sight amongst the barrels and casks piled about the wharf.
A few hours later, Dorothy stood with her husband's arm about her, watching through gathering tears the land draw away,—watching it grow dim and shadowy, to fade at last from sight, while all about them lay the purple sea, sparkling under the rays of the late afternoon sun.
Her eyes lingered longest upon the spot in the hazy distance near where she knew lay the beloved old home.
"How far—how far away it is now," she murmured.
"What, little one?" her husband asked softly.
"I was thinking of my old home," she answered, surprised to have spoken her thought aloud. "And," looking about with a shiver, "it seems so far—so lonely all about us here."
"Are you frightened or unhappy?" he asked, drawing her still closer to him.