All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading. Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the

stripling

Writing epistles important to go next day by the Mayflower, Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden

Priscilla;

Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret, Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of

Priscilla!

Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his

musket,

Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth:

"When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you.

Be not, however, in haste; I can wait; I shall not be im

patient!"

Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his

letters,

Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention: "Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish." Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases:

"'T is not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it; Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary; Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship. Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla, She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother

Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming,
Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying,
Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if

ever

There were angels on earth as there are angels in heaven,
Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is

Priscilla

Holds in my desolate life the place which the other aban

doned.

Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to

reveal it,

Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most

part.

Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth,
Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of

actions,

Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier.
Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my

meaning;

I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases.

You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant

language,

Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers,

Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden."

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired taciturn

stripling,

All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered,
Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with

lightness,

Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom,

Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by

lightning,

Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than

answered:

"Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and

mar it;

If you would have it well done,-I am only repeating your maxim,

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!" But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his

purpose,

Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth:

“Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it; But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for

nothing.

Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases.

I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to sur

render,

But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not. I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a

cannon,

But of a thundering 'No!' point-blank from the mouth of a

woman,

That I confess I'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it!
So
you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar,
Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of

phrases."

Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful,

Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added: Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me;

Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our

friendship!"

Then made answer John Alden: "The name of friendship is

sacred;

What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny

you!"

So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler,

Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.

III.

THE LOVER'S ERRAND.

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the

forest,

Into the tranquil woods, where blue-birds and robins were

building

Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of

verdure,

Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom.
All around him was calm, but within him commotion and

conflict,

Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous

impulse.

To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and

dashing,

As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel,

Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean! "Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild lamentation, "Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion? Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence?

1

Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England? Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption

Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion; Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly!

This is the hand of the Lord'; it is laid upon me in anger, For I have followed too much the heart's desires and de

vices,

Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal. This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribu

tion."

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his

errand;

Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and shallow,

Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him,

Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweet

ness,

Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber.

"Puritan flowers," he said, "and the type of Puritan maidens, Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla! So I will take them to her; to Priscilla, the May-flower of

Plymouth,

Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take

them;

Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and

perish,

Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver."