But the purpose of life had grown yet stronger and struck yet deeper roots instead of being shaken by this storm.

The day of his setting off for Mannahatta was not once changed after it had been once fixed upon.
And it came.

Almost at the end of November; a true child of the month; it was dark, chill, gloomy.

The wind bore little foretokens of rain in every puff that made its way up the river, slowly, as if the sea had charged it too heavily, or as if it came through the fringe of the low grey cloud which hung upon the tops of the mountains.

But nobody spoke of Winthrop's staying his journey.