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with a soothing pathos:

      "Fear no more the heat o' the sun

       Nor the furious winter rages,

       Thou thy worldly task hast done,

       Home art gone and ta'en thy wages."

      The air was familiar, and Mary Winslow, dropping her work in her lap, involuntarily joined in it:

      "Fear no more the frown of the great,

       Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;

       Care no more to clothe and eat,

       To thee the reed is as the oak."

      "There goes a great tree on shore!" quoth little Love Winslow, clapping her hands. "Dost hear, mother? I've been counting the strokes--fifteen-- and then crackle! crackle! crackle! and down it comes!"

      "Peace, darling," said Mary Winslow; "hear what old Margery is singing below:

      "Fear no more the lightning's flash,

       Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;

       Fear not slander, censure rash--

       Thou hast finished joy and moan.

       All lovers young--all lovers must

       Consign to thee, and come to dust."

      "Why do you cry, mother?" said the little one, climbing on her lap and wiping her tears.

      "I was thinking of dear Auntie, who is gone from us."

      "She is not gone from us, mother."

      "My darling, she is with Jesus."

      "Well, mother, Jesus is ever with us--you tell me that--and if she is with him she is with us too--I know she is--for sometimes I see her. She sat by me last night and stroked my head when that ugly, stormy wind waked me--she looked so sweet, oh, ever so beautiful!--and she made me go to sleep so quiet--it is sweet to be as she is, mother--not away from us but with Jesus."

      "These little ones see further in the kingdom than we," said Rose Standish. "If we would be like them, we should take things easier. When the Lord would show who was greatest in his kingdom, he took a little child on his lap."

      "Ah me, Rose!" said Mary Winslow, "I am aweary in spirit with this tossing sea-life. I long to have a home on dry land once more, be it ever so poor. The sea wearies me. Only think, it is almost Christmas time, only two days now to Christmas. How shall we keep it in these woods?"

      "Aye, aye," said old Margery, coming up at the moment, "a brave muster and to do is there now in old England; and men and boys going forth singing and bearing home branches of holly, and pine, and mistletoe for Christmas greens. Oh! I remember I used to go forth with them and help dress the churches. God help the poor children, they will grow up in the wilderness and never see such brave sights as I have. They will never know what a church is, such as they are in old England, with fine old windows like the clouds, and rainbows, and great wonderful arches like the very skies above us, and the brave music with the old organs rolling and the boys marching in white garments and singing so as should draw the very heart out of one. All this we have left behind in old England--ah! well a day! well a day!"

      "Oh, but, Margery," said Mary Winslow, "we have a 'better country' than old England, where the saints and angels are keeping Christmas; we confess that we are strangers and pilgrims on earth."

      And Rose Standish immediately added the familiar quotation from the Geneva Bible:

      "For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country. For if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out they had leisure to have returned. But now they desire a better--that is, an heavenly; wherefore God is not ashamed of them to be called their God."

      The fair young face glowed as she repeated the heroic words, for already, though she knew it not, Rose Standish was feeling the approaching sphere of the angel life. Strong in spirit, as delicate in frame, she had given herself and drawn her martial husband to the support of a great and noble cause; but while the spirit was ready, the flesh was weak, and even at that moment her name was written in the Lamb's Book to enter the higher life, in one short month's time from that Christmas.

      Only one month of sweetness and perfume was that sweet rose to shed over the hard and troubled life of the pilgrims, for the saints and angels loved her, and were from day to day gently untying mortal bands to draw her to themselves. Yet was there nothing about her of mournfulness; on the contrary, she was ever alert and bright, with a ready tongue to cheer and a helpful hand to do; and, seeing the sadness that seemed stealing over Mary Winslow, she struck another key, and, catching little Love up in her arms, said cheerily,

      "Come hither, pretty one, and Rose will sing thee a brave carol for Christmas. We won't be down-hearted, will we? Hark now to what the minstrels used to sing under my window when I was a little girl:

      "I saw three ships come sailing in

       On Christmas day, on Christmas day,

       I saw three ships come sailing in

       On Christmas day in the morning.

       "And what was in those ships all three

       On Christmas day, on Christmas day,

       And what was in those ships all three

       On Christmas day in the morning?

       "Our Saviour Christ and his laydie,

       On Christmas day, on Christmas day,

       Our Saviour Christ and his laydie

       On Christmas day in the morning.

       "Pray, whither sailed those ships all three,

       On Christmas day, on Christmas day?

       Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem,

       On Christmas day in the morning.

       "And all the bells on earth shall ring

       On Christmas day, on Christmas day;

       And all the angels in heaven shall sing

       On Christmas day in the morning.

       "Then let us all rejoice amain,

       On Christmas day, on Christmas day;

       Then let us all rejoice amain

       On Christmas day in the morning."

      "Now, isn't that a brave ballad?" said Rose. "Yea, and thou singest like a real English robin," said Margery, "to do the heart good to hear thee."

      --

Chapter IV.

       Elder Brewster's Christmas Sermon

       Table of Contents

      Sunday morning found the little company gathered once more on the ship, with nothing to do but rest and remember their homes, temporal and spiritual--homes backward, in old England, and forward, in Heaven. They were, every man and woman of them, English to the back-bone. From Captain Jones who commanded the ship to Elder Brewster who ruled and guided in spiritual affairs, all alike were of that stock and breeding which made the Englishman of the days of Bacon and Shakespeare, and in those days Christmas was knit into the heart of every one of them by a thousand threads, which no after years could untie.

      Christmas carols had been sung to them by nurses and mothers and grandmothers; the Christmas holly spoke to them from every berry and prickly leaf, full of dearest household memories. Some of them had been men of substance among the English gentry, and in their prosperous days had held high festival in ancestral halls in the season of good cheer. Elder Brewster himself had been a rising young diplomat in the court of Elizabeth, in the days when the Lord Keeper of the Seals led the revels of Christmas as Lord of Misrule.

      So that, though this Sunday morning arose gray and lowering, with snow- flakes hovering through the air, there was Christmas

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