Forty years later, in 1697, an aged woman was yet alive at Charlestown
in America, who was still remembered as the heroine of the famous
journey so many years before. Although twice widowed since then, and
now with children and grandchildren around her, she was spoken of to
the end by her maiden name. A shipwrecked visitor from the other side
of the Atlantic describes her in his letters home as 'one whose name
you have heard of, Mary Fisher, she that spoke to the Grand Turk.'
In the dwelling of that ancient widow, however old she grew, however
many other relics she kept--remembrances of her two husbands, of
children and grandchildren--between the pages of her well-worn Bible
was there not always one pressed sprig of the fadeless sea-lavender
that grows on the rocky shores of the Black Mountain? And, somewhere
or other, in the drawer of an inlaid cabinet or work-table there must
have been also one precious packet, carefully tied up with ribbon and
silver paper, in which some favourite grandchild, allowed for a treat
to open it, would find, to her indescribable delight, a little
tasselled pair of Turkish