share the fruits of his toil.

One day he was sitting with the maiden, awkwardly holding a skein of
yarn for her to wind, when a messenger arrived in frantic haste
bringing terrible news from the village. Miles Standish was dead, shot
down by a poisoned arrow as he was leading his men to battle. Remorseful
and yet glad that nothing now stood between him and the fulfillment of
his hopes, John Alden turned to Priscilla and won her ready consent to
become his bride.

[Illustration]

So one bright summer's day the simple wedding took place according to
Puritan custom. Just as the service was ending, a somber figure clad in
steel armor appeared on the threshold. The bridegroom turned pale at the
sight and the bride hid her face on his shoulder. When the last prayer
had been said, the figure strode into the room, and with amazement the
people beheld the Captain of Plymouth whom they had mourned as dead.
Grasping the bridegroom's hand Miles Standish begged his forgiveness,
which was gladly granted; he then saluted the bride and a new bond of
friendship was entered into by all three. Full of eager questions the
guests then gathered round the Captain, all speaking at once, till the
poor man declared he had far rather break into an Indian encampment than
come to a wedding to which he had not been invited.

When the confusion had at length subsided, John led out his snow-white
steer covered with crimson cloth and with a cushion for a saddle. His
wife, he declared, should ride to her home like a queen, not plod like a
peasant. And so the bridal procession set out, Priscilla riding and John
leading her gentle steed. No sad thoughts marred their homecoming, for
their friend had been saved from a cruel death and his kindly words
added a crowning joy to their happiness.

_Lady
Wentworth_

One bright summer morning, rather more than a hundred years ago, comely
Mistress Stavers stood with folded arms at her tavern door and watched
her husband drive his stage-coach, four-in-hand, down the long lane and
out into the country. Above her head hung the tavern sign--a portrait of
the Earl of Halifax, resplendent in his scarlet coat and flaxen wig.
Looking down, he was struck afresh with the charms of the
tavern-keeper's handsome wife, and, though he was in a somewhat battered
condition owing to his advanced age and the extremes of weather to which
he had been exposed, he almost made up his mind to fall at her feet and
declare hi