"
And the great rough mastiff quieted down under her caresses, and sitting
down by her she patted and played with her, with her little thin hands.
"See the darling," said Rose Standish, "what away that baby hath! In all
the roughness and the terrors of the sea she hath been like a little
sunbeam to us--yet she is so frail!"
"She hath been marked in the womb by the troubles her mother bore," said
old Margery, shaking her head. "She never had the ways of other babies,
but hath ever that wistful look--and her eyes are brighter than they
should be. Mistress Winslow will never raise that child--now mark me!"
"Take care!" said Rose, "let not her mother hear you."
"Why, look at her beside of Wrestling Brewster, or Faith Carver. They are
flesh and blood, and she looks as if she had been made out of sunshine.
'Tis a sweet babe as ever was; but fitter for the kingdom of heaven than
our rough life--deary me! a hard time we have had of it. I suppose it's
all best, but I don't know."
"Oh, never talk that way, Margery," said Rose Standish; "we must all keep
up heart, our own and one another's."
"Ah, well a day--I suppose so, but then I look at my good Master Brewster
and remember how, when I was a girl, he was at our good Queen Elizabeth's
court, ruffling it with the best, and everybody said that there wasn't a
young man that had good fortune to equal his.
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