“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!”