“I want you now, my little one. And, Anne, I will try to give you all the pretty things I can get by honest toil.”
“Don’t, John; don’t. I do not want them,” she cried, her heart stung by his loving words. “I only want you, John; I desire nothing else.”
“Tom,” cried Mrs. Forrest to her husband, “come here quickly. Look through the window. Is it not a pretty sight? The Lord has answered my prayer.”
Looking out, he saw John Laydon under the trees, holding Anne in his arms.
“Come away,” said his wife, taking him by the sleeve; “’tis too sacred a scene for us to look upon.”
It took but a few weeks for Anne to be ready for John, for an elaborate trousseau was not necessary. Mrs. Forrest, true to her feminine instincts, delighted in sorting out linen from her store as a wedding present for the happy couple.
On a lovely autumn day, when the haze of the Indian-summer cast its dreamy spell over the little church, John and Anne took each other for better or worse, as long as life should last.
Adam acted as master of ceremonies, marshaling in the Indians invited to the first marriage in Virginia. Standing by Captain Smith, and as close to the bridal couple as possible, was Pocahontas, her curious eyes watching every movement made by Mr. Hunt and the wedding party. When John placed the simple gold band upon the finger of Anne, the Indian maid held out her left hand to Captain Smith, and with a humoring smile he made an imaginary circlet around the marriage finger.
As soon as the ceremony was completed she stepped up to Anne and held out a bundle of soft doeskins.
“Pocahontas likes the white squaw now. White squaw has warrior of her own.”