I am worth the
winning I ought to be worth the wooing."

But John Alden seemed not to notice the girl's confusion until, in a
pause in his eloquence, Priscilla bent her head a little, as if to mend a
break in the flax, and said, "Prithee, John, why don't you speak for
yourself?"

Then a great light broke on the understanding of John Alden, and a great
warmth welled up in his heart, and--they were married. Myles
Standish--well, some say that he walked in the wedding procession, while
one narrator holds that the sturdy Roundhead tramped away to the woods,
where he sat for a day, hating himself, and that he never forgave his
protege nor the maiden who took advantage of leap year. However that may
be, the wedding was a happy one, and the Aldens of all America claim John
and Priscilla for their ancestors.

MOTHER CREWE

Mother Crewe was of evil repute in Plymouth in the last century. It was
said that she had taken pay for luring a girl into her old farm-house,
where a man lay dead of small-pox, with intent to harm her beauty; she
was accused of blighting land and driving ships ashore with spells; in
brief, she was called a witch, and people, even those who affected to
ignore the craft of wizardry, were content to keep away from her. When
the Revolution ended, Southward Howland demanded Dame Crewe's house and
acre, claiming under law of entail, though primogeniture had been little
enforced in America, where there was room and to spare for all. But
Howland was stubborn and the woman's house had good situation, so one day
he rode to her door and summoned her with a tap of his whip.

"What do you here on my land?" said he.

"I live on land that is my own. I cleared it, built my house here, and no
other has claim to it."

"Then I lay claim. The place is mine. I shall tear your cabin down on
Friday."

"On Friday they'll dig your grave on Burying Hill. I see the shadow
closing round you. You draw it in with every breath. Quick! Home and make
your peace!" The hag's withered face was touched with spots of red and
her eyes glared in their sunken sockets.

"Bandy no witch words with me, woman. On Friday I will return." And he
swung himself into his saddle. As he did so a black cat leaped on Mother
Crewe's shoulder and stood there, squalling. The woman listened to its
cries as if they were words. Her look of hate deepened. Raising her hand,
she cried, "Your day is near its end. Repent!"

"Bah! You have heard what I h