“Sail with you?” and she looked up eagerly.

“There!  I knew it!  She would not be four-and-twenty hours ashore, but she would be off into the woods again, bow in hand, like any runaway nymph, and we should never see her more.”

“It is false, bad man!” and she burst into violent tears, and hid her face in Mrs. Leigh’s lap.

“Amyas, Amyas, why do you tease the poor fatherless thing?”

“I was only jesting, I’m sure,” said Amyas, like a repentant schoolboy.  “Don’t cry now, don’t cry, my child, see here,” and he began fumbling in his pockets; “see what I bought of a chapman in town to-day, for you, my maid, indeed, I did.”

And out he pulled some smart kerchief or other, which had taken his sailor’s fancy.

“Look at it now, blue, and crimson, and green, like any parrot!” and he held it out.

She looked round sharply, snatched it out of his hand, and tore it to shreds.

“I hate it, and I hate you!” and she sprang up and darted out of the room.

“Oh, boy, boy!” said Mrs. Leigh, “will you kill that poor child?  It matters little for an old heart like mine, which has but one or two chords left whole, how soon it be broken altogether; but a young heart is one of God’s precious treasures, Amyas, and suffers many a long pang in the breaking; and woe to them who despise Christ’s little ones!”

“Break your heart, mother?”

“Never mind my heart, dear son; yet how can you break it more surely than by tormenting one whom I love, because she loves you?”

“Tut! play, mother, and maids’ tempers.  But how can I break your heart?  What have I done?  Have I not given up going again to the West Indies for your sake?  Have I not given up going to Virginia, and now again settled to go after all, just because you commanded?  Was it not your will?  Have I not obeyed you, mother, mother?  I will stay at home now, if you will.  I would rather rust here on land, I vow I would, than grieve you—­” and he threw himself at his mother’s knees.

“Have I asked you not to go to Virginia?  No, dear boy, though every thought of a fresh parting seems to crack some new fibre within me, you must go!  It is your calling.  Yes; you were not sent into the world to amuse me, but to work.  I have had pleasure enough of you, my darling, for many a year, and too much, perhaps; till I shrank from lending you to the Lord.  But He must have you. . . .  It is enough for the poor old widow to know that her boy is what he is, and to forget all her anguish day by day, for joy that a man is born into the world.  But, Amyas, Amyas, are you so blind as not to see that Ayacanora—­”

“Don’t talk about her, poor child.  Talk about yourself.”

“How long have I been worth talking about?  No, Amyas, you must see it; and if you will not see it now, you will see it one day in some sad and fearful prodigy; for she is not one to die tamely.  She loves you, Amyas, as a woman only can love.”