“But there will be another spring, Master Wingfield,” said she somewhat timidly, and then she added, and I knew that she was blushing under her mask at her own tenderness, “and sometimes the hopes of the heart come true.”

She rode on with her head bent as one who considers deeply, but I, knowing her well, knew that the mood would soon pass, as it did.  Suddenly she tossed her head and flung out her curls to the breeze, and swung Merry Roger’s bridle-rein, and was away at a gallop and I after her, measuring the ground with wide paces on my tall thoroughbred.  In this fashion we soon left the plodding blacks so far behind that they became a part of the distance-shadows.  Then, all at once, Mistress Mary swerved off from the main road and was riding down the track leading to the plantation-wharf, whence all the tobacco was shipped for England and all the merchandise imported for household use unladen.  There the way was very wet and the mire was splashed high upon Mistress Mary’s fine tabby skirt, but she rode on at a reckless pace, and I also, much at a loss to know what had come to her, yet not venturing, or rather, perhaps, deigning to inquire.  And then I saw what she had doubtless seen before, the masts of a ship rising straightly among the trees with that stiffness and straightness of dead wood, which is beyond that of live, unless, indeed, in a storm at sea, when the wind can so inspirit it, that I have seen a mast of pine possessed by all the rage of yielding of its hundred years on the spur of a mountain.

When I saw the mast I knew that the ship belonging to Madam Cavendish, which was called “The Golden Horn,” and had upon the bow the likeness of a gilt-horn, running over with fruit and flowers, had arrived.  It was by this ship that Madam Cavendish sent the tobacco raised upon the plantation of Drake Hill to England.

But even then I knew not what had so stirred Mistress Mary that she had left her sober churchward road upon the Sabbath day, and judged that it must be the desire to see “The Golden Horn” fresh from her voyage, nor did I dream what she purposed doing.

Toward the end of the rolling road the wetness increased; there were little pools left from the recedence of the salt tide, and the wild breath of it was in our faces.  Then we heard voices singing together in a sailor-song which had a refrain not quite suited to the day, according to common opinions, having a refrain about a lad who sailed away on bounding billow and left poor Jane to wear the willow; but what’s a lass’s tears of brine to the Spanish Main and a flask of wine?