"But a boy may not speak insultingly to his father with impunity, Master Giles Hopkins," said Stephen Hopkins, advancing close to the lad with his quick temper afire. "One word more of such nature as I just heard and I will have you publicly flogged, as you richly deserve, and as our community would applaud."
Giles bowed, his face as angry as his father's, and passed on cutting the young sprouts along the road with a stick he carried. And thus the two burning hearts which loved each other--too similar to make allowances for each other when the way was open to their reconciliation--were further estranged than before.
In the meantime Constance, Priscilla, and the younger girls, were starting out, tools in hand, baskets swinging on their arms, to prepare the first garden of the colony.
"Thank--I mean I rejoice that we are not sent to work amid the graves on the hillside," said Priscilla, altering her form of expression to conform with the prescribed sobriety.
"Oh, that is to be planted with the Indian corn, you know," said Constance. "It grows high, and will hide our graves. Why think of that, Prissy? I want to be happy." She began to hum a quaint air of her own making. She had by inheritance the gift of music, as the kindred gift of love and taste for all beauty, a gift that should never find expression in her new surroundings.
Presently she found words for her small tune and sang them, swinging her basket in time with her singing and also swinging Humility Cooper's hand as she walked, not without some danger of dropping into a sort of dance step.
Over seas lies England; Still we find this wing-land; Birds and bees and butterflies flit about us here. Eastward lies our Mother, Loved as is no other, Yet here flowers blossom with the springing year.
We will plant a garden, Eve-like, as the warden Of the hope of men unborn, future of the race; Tears that we were weeping, Watering our keeping, Till we make the New World joy's own dwelling place.
Priscilla Mullins stopped short and looked with amazement on her younger companion.
"Did you make that song, Constance?" she demanded, being used to the rhyming which Constance made to entertain the little ones.
"It made itself, Pris," laughed Constance.