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Title: From Kingdom to Colony

Author: Mary Devereux

Illustrator: Henry Sandham

Release date: November 7, 2010 [eBook #34232]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34232

Credits: Produced by Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM
KINGDOM TO COLONY ***

Dorothy Devereux Southorn with George Washington

FROM
KINGDOM TO COLONY

BY

MARY DEVEREUX

ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY SANDHAM

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1904

Copyright, 1899,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

All rights reserved.

PRESSWORK BY
S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.

TO
MY FATHER

OF WHOM IT IS INSCRIBED

"EMINENT IN LIFE AND NOBLE IN HEART, LOVING
TO MEN AND LOYAL TO CHRIST, HE WAS A BLESSING
TO THE WORLD AND AN HONOR TO THE CHURCH"

PROLOGUE
CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X
VII VIII
CHAPTER XI CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER
XII XIII XIV XV
CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER
XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX
CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER
XXI XXII XXIII XXIV XXV
CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER
XXVI XXVII XXVIII XXIX XXX
CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER
XXXI XXXII XXXIII XXXIV XXXV

From Kingdom to Colony

PROLOGUE

When William, Duke of Normandy, invaded England in 1066, and
achieved for himself the title of "Conqueror," one of those who
accompanied him was Robert D'Evreux, younger son of Walter, Earl of
Rosmar, feudal owner and ruler of the town of his name in Normandy.

After the battle of Hastings, in which William won so great a victory, he,
wishing to honor the memory of the noblemen and knights by whose aid it
had been accomplished, placed their names upon a roll which was
suspended in a stately pile, called "Battle Abbey," erected by him upon the
field of battle.

In the several exemplifications of "Battle Abbey Roll," as it was termed,
the name of Robert D'Evreux is variously expressed as "Daveros,"
"Deverous," "Conte Devreux," and "Counte Devereux."

It was the close of an early May day in 1639. Charles I. was reigning
monarch of England, and the Scotch Covenanters were disturbing his
kingdom's peace.

Against these malcontents Charles had sent his army, and Robert
Devereux, only son of the beheaded favorite of Elizabeth, and now third
Earl of Essex, had been made Lieutenant-General, he having already, by his
resolution and activity no less than by his personal courage, done good
service to the King and won much honor for himself.

On this May day, in Warwick, far from all scenes of war or rumors from
court, Bromwich Castle, the home of Sir Walter Devereux, Baronet—cousin

and present heir of the King's unmarried Lieutenant-General—lifted its
turrets, about whose clinging ivy the late afternoon sunshine played golden
and warm.

It was a huge pile, massively irregular in architecture, and its thick walls
bore traces of those times when a Baron of England was a power in the
land,—monarch of his domain, and chief of his own people.

A rugged old tower was its keep, flanked by four symmetrical turrets,
and crowned by a battlement overlooking the whole country around. About
these clung ivy in a thousand thick wreaths; and here and there, where it
was not, the centuries had woven a fantastic tracery of moss, green as the
ivy itself, and delicate as frost-work.

What had been the moat was now but a pleasant grassy hollow, carpeted
thickly with golden cowslips and fragrant violets, their growing lipped by a
tiny stream of purest water.

The castle was surrounded almost to its walls by the forest of ancient
oaks, spreading in all directions, and becoming denser and more wild as it
stretched miles away. And here were the deer, numerous and fat, that well
supplied the larder for Sir Walter's board, or cooled their sides amid the
rankly growing brake and ferns, where naught troubled the intense silence
of the dusky aisles save the whir of the pheasant, or the foot of the hare,
light as the leaf dropping from the green arch overhead.

Sir Walter was in the forest this day, and with him were his three goodly
sons, besides several retainers. The notes of the horn had come faintly to the
castle now and again, as they pursued the chase; and up in her apartments
Anne, the seventeen-year-old wife of Sir Walter's youngest son, sat
watching for a first glimpse of the returning huntsmen.

Upon her knees lay an open volume, bound in white vellum, and with
clasps of pearl. It was richly illuminated, every page presenting a picture
gorgeous with color, and it was a carefully narrated story of travel and
adventure in that far-away country across the ocean for which she and her
young husband were soon to set sail.

She paused over one of the illustrations, and gazed at it long and
earnestly, while her agate-gray eyes grew wide, and became filled with
consternation. It was the picture of an Indian chief, in all the formidable
toggery of war dress and paint; and his fierceness of mien brought to her
young heart a hitherto unknown dread and terror.

The golden of the sun was turning to rose, when a clatter of hoofs and
the sound of men's voices drew her eyes toward the courtyard below.

Resting her dimpled arms upon the rough stone of the window-ledge,
she leaned over and smiled down into the upturned face of her twenty-two-
year-old husband, whose dark eyes sought her casement ere he dismounted
from his tired horse, which the esquire at its head had now little need to
hold. He waved his hand to her, while a bright smile illumined his grave
face, and she responded by blowing him a kiss from the tips of her taper
fingers.

The old Baronet, who had been the first to dismount, looked up as well,
and shook his hunting spear at her.

"Ah, rogue!" he called out. "Wait till I catch thee! With never a kiss to
spare thy old father!"

Her fresh young laugh rang out gayly as she retorted, "But I have many
an one, if you choose, good sir, as surely you wot right well."

"'T is a dear child,—a sweet lass, Jack," the old man said to his youngest
son as the two entered the castle side by side. "My heart misgives me at
thought of her going to the far-off heathen country, amongst savages and
wild beasts; for, alack, who can tell what may befall there?"

Behind them followed Leicester, Sir Walter's eldest son, and beside him
was young Will,—in his boyhood a page, and now the heir's special esquire.
Walter, the next son, came after them, and then the retainers.

These latter bore the deer slain that afternoon,—a famous buck, with
great spreading antlers; and the hounds were close by, sniffing about the
carcass with repressed excitement.

The three sons of Sir Walter Devereux were much alike in coloring and
stature, being tall and stalwart, with broad shoulders, deep chests, and
martial bearing. Their faces were dark, with regular features and full
rounded foreheads, and the narrow, strongly marked eyebrows arched over
unusually large dark eyes.

But the eyes of these three young men were totally different in
expression. Those of Leicester were apt to glow with over-haughtiness; for
albeit proof was not lacking to show that he had done kind deeds and was a
loyal friend and subject as well as a valiant soldier, he was feared, rather
than liked, by his subordinates.

Walter's eyes bespoke his true nature,—a rollicking one. Indeed an
enemy of "Wat" Devereux were a hard matter to find.

But, favorite though he was, his younger brother, John, went far beyond
him in this respect. His was a quiet nature, much given to contemplation;
one that drew the best from all hearts about him. He had been his mother's
idol; and his face was the last her dying eyes sought three years before, as
he sat, pale and silent, by her bedside, calmly and prayerfully awaiting her
end. He it was to whom the old Baronet always opened his heart, when the
elder son's haughty reserve perplexed or hurt him, or Walter's recklessness
brought trouble.

Up in the dusking turret room, on the cushions by the open casement,
John Devereux now sat, dressed for the evening meal.

Putting his strong arm about Anne, he drew her head to his shoulder, and
laughed when she showed him the picture that had so affrighted her, while
she confided to him her fears lest some such demon should work evil upon
him in that strange land in which they were about to find a new home.

"Nay, sweetheart," he said earnestly, "never would I think to take thee to
such perils. There be few, if any, such Indians in the country where we shall
abide. These writings treat of long-ago days, when goodly English hearts
were few on that shore. 'T is changed now; and albeit somewhat rougher
than here in our father's castle, 't is every whit as safe. And think,

sweetheart," he added proudly, "we shall be the head of our name in this
new land,—the same as our brother Leicester here, in old England."

She clung to him silently, while he stroked her soft hair and bent his
handsome head to see her face, now smiling, and looking more reassured.

"Art thou still fearful, little one?" he asked presently.

She lifted her face to look into his eyes, and clasped her arms about his
neck.

"Fearful?" she repeated. "Nay, not I, so long as thou art with me."

He drew her head against his breast, and a brooding peace fell upon
them, broken only by the cawing of the rooks circling about the tower, or
the melancholy notes of the ringdoves ensconced amid the ivy on the
ancient turrets.

Across the broad Atlantic, on the rocky shore of Marblehead, the May
sun had been shining as golden and warm as in old England; and the new
home, although lacking the renown which age and legend had brought to
every stone of Bromwich Castle, was enveloped by the glory that comes
from the love of pure, brave hearts and God-fearing lives.

Facing the open sea along a portion of the shore of what is now known
as Devereux and Clifton, lay the acres—forest and meadow land—of which
John Devereux was owner. The house—a low, rambling stone building, of
somewhat pretentious size for those days, and fitted with stout oaken doors
and shutters—stood in a small clearing.

Only a few yards away were the sheds for cattle, placed thus near for
greater protection against thieving Indians, as well as the pilfering pirates
who at rare intervals swept along the coast and descended upon the unwary
settler, in quest of food or booty.

The virgin forest rose all about, save to the southwest, where the fields
were planted to the extent of several acres; and beyond these the forest
came again, stretching away to the site of the present town of Marblehead,
more than a mile off.

In front of the house was a small open space where the trees had been
cut away and the undergrowth removed, that a glimpse might be obtained of
the sea; and the land, sloping to the sands, ended in a noble sweep of beach.

A mile or more to the south and southwest, by Forest River, dwelt the
Indians, their wigwams not so many as a few years before; for want and
pestilence had sadly weakened the once proud Naumkegs.

Their chief, the renowned Nanepashemet, was now dead; and the present
ruler, his widow, the "Squaw Sachem," was, like her tribe, too greatly
broken by the vicissitudes of fate to resist the encroachments of the whites.
And her only surviving son, Weenepauweekin, or, as the settlers called him,
"George," was either indifferent, or else too wise to risk incurring further
trouble for his tribe by assuming other than an amicable attitude toward his
white neighbors.

And thus it was that between the settlers and the Naumkegs all was at
peace.

The wife of Weenepauweekin, Ahawayet by name, was well known to
Anne Devereux and her husband; and both she and her daughter, a girl of
seventeen, were frequent visitors at the house of the "English Chief," as
John Devereux was called by the Indians.

In her own gentle, coaxing way, Anne had undertaken to instruct
Ahawayet in the Christian faith, and hoped to impress also the wayward,
wild-eyed daughter, Joane, who would sometimes come from her dignified
playing with the children of the "English Chief" to crouch by her mother,
and listen to these teachings.

When the news of Sir Walter's death had come across the sea, tears
gathered in Anne's eyes as she raised them to those of her sad-faced
husband.

"I cannot but think," she said, "on Sir Walter's face, as we saw it fade
away while we stood on the ship's deck that morn, with the tears streaming
down his cheeks like I never saw them come from a man's eyes before."

"Aye," her husband added, "he was a dear, good father, and a friend as
well. God grant that we and them that come after us do naught to bring
reproach or sorrow to the name he hath worn, as have so many before him,
with pride, and right good dignity."

The sun was sinking fast, and the odor of the forest growths was
beginning to mingle with the tang of the sea.

The voices of men and women busy about the cattle and milking were
making a cheerful sound of life and bustle from the sheds and outhouses;
and on the low-roofed porch in front of the house door, overhung with
drooping vines, John Devereux's three sons, Humphrey, John, and Robert,
were busy at play.

But they were not too busy to pause now and then to send searching
glances into the forest in quest of their father, whom they all united in
adoring as the wisest and greatest of created beings.

Humphrey, the eldest, was looking forward proudly to his ninth birthday,
now almost at hand, when he was to have the promise fulfilled of being
permitted to go along with his father to hunt in the forest, or out on the sea,
to fish.

Near them sat their mother, stouter and more matronly than the slender
Anne of ten years ago. The aforetime dainty hands were not guiltless of toil
stains, and the dark hair was now gathered beneath a snowy mobcap, with
only here and there a short, wayward curl stealing out to trail across her
brow or touch her pretty ears.

A sudden shout from the boys announced their father's appearance, as he
came out of the woods and across the clearing, and with him Noah, the
darkey servant, well loaded with game.

"Thou hast had a most successful hunt!" exclaimed Anne, smiling a
bright welcome into her husband's fond eyes, while the children's small
hands clung to him, and tiny brown fingers were poked into the mouths of
dead rabbits, or tweaked their whiskers to see if they were really dead, or
tried to pull open the beaks and eyes of slain birds.

"Aye," was his laughing reply, as he gently freed himself from the little
clinging hands; "and I have found more in the forest than game alone, in
that I have a most ferocious appetite,—one I trust thou wilt have a plenty to
satisfy."

"Give the game to David," said Anne, as a younger and smaller edition
of Noah approached, "and come thou within and see, for the supper hath
been ready this half hour."

An hour later the children were all safely in Nodland, and husband and
wife were sitting either side the fireplace, where the burning wood was
pleasant to feel, for a chill had crept into the air. But the outer door was
open, and through it came the hoarse notes of the frogs down in the swampy
lands, mingled with the roar of the surf along the near-by shore.

They sat in silence, each content with the other's nearness, as they
watched the leaping flames, which made the only light in the room. And
this was reflected in a thousand scintillating sparks from the brass fire-dogs
that upheld the logs, and in the handles of the shovels and tongs, scrubbed
and polished with all the power of arm possessed by Shubar, the Indian wife
of old Noah.

Suddenly a lithe, girlish form slipped through the half-open door,
coming with a tread as noiseless as the leaping shadows about the far
corners of the room, and Joane, the Squaw Sachem's granddaughter, glided
to the hearth and stood between John Devereux and his wife.

So accustomed were they to such things that neither of them was
startled, but kindly bade her welcome.

Crouching on the hearth, she turned her dusky face and glittering eyes
toward John Devereux, and said quietly and in a low voice, "Strange boat—

big boat in harbor, English Chief."

He looked troubled, and Anne glanced at him apprehensively, while
Joane continued, now speaking more rapidly, "Gran'mudder sent me tell
better keep door shut—better get gun."

"Thou dost mean that the Squaw Sachem sent thee to tell there be
danger?" John Devereux asked, half rising from his chair, and looking
toward the door. "She thinks they mean evil?"

"Don't know how answer. English Chief talk too fast—ask too many
questions all same time. Go slow—then Joane hear right—tell him right."
And she smiled up into his face while she touched the slender forefinger of
her left hand with the fingers of the right, as if waiting to enumerate his
questions.

"Thy grandmother sent thee?"

The girl nodded, and touched a second finger.

"She thinks the men on the ship may do us harm?"

"Say don't like looks—got bad black faces," replied Joane, scowling as
though to illustrate her meaning.

"Have any of them come ashore yet?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes—so many," holding up seven brown fingers, "come 'shore. Get
water to drink—then go back to ship when sun shines. But no go 'way yet—
no mean to go. Tell gran'mudder want somethin' eat. Take our corn, and pay
no money."

"Pirates!" John Devereux exclaimed, now starting to his feet, while he
looked at his wife, whose face paled.

He hurried across the room, bolted and barred the stout door, and
examined the window fastenings, the Indian girl still crouching by the
hearth and watching him placidly, as if a pirate raid were a matter of small
moment.

But her sparkling eyes, and the heaving bosom agitating the many bead
necklaces hanging from throat to waist, betrayed her.

"See thou to the children, sweetheart, and warn the maids," John
Devereux said to his wife, as he took down his gun and examined it
carefully, "while I go to the men and see that the cattle be safe, and the back
of the house made secure."

"Good!" exclaimed Joane, with quick approval. "English Chief no sleep
—heap good. Give Joane gun, too."

"Had thou not best return to the wigwam, Joane, and to the Squaw
Sachem?" inquired Anne, pausing as she was about to leave the room.

"What go for?" the girl demanded, while her eyes flashed with fierce
intensity. "No good go—can fight here—fight good, too. Joane stay and
fight by English Chief and his 'Singing Bird,'"—this being the name given
by the Naumkegs to Anne, on account of her musical voice.

Knowing that nothing would turn Joane when once her ideas were fixed,
and knowing too that her skill with the bow and gun was equal to that of
any warrior, Anne was silent,—grateful indeed for any addition to the
slender force at hand for defence.

There were in all but nine men, servants and laborers,—two of them
white, and the others either Africans or Indians; but they were all, saving
old Noah, young, stalwart, and fearless.

John Devereux posted these men in the outbuildings and sheds, as cattle
were generally the spoil sought by the marauders when they visited the
coast. And when assigning them their positions, he warned them, should
they find themselves in danger of being overpowered, to give a signal and
retreat to the house, where a side-door would be opened for their entrance.
Then, having left with them a plentiful supply of ammunition, he went
within to mount guard over his wife and babies.

He had five guns wherewith to arm his household, without counting his
own piece, and every woman in his service was acquainted with their use.

Even Anne herself had, under his own tuition, become no mean
markswoman.

Within doors he found the women greatly excited, and fluttering about
aimlessly; but a few quiet words soon brought order amongst them, and
with it a return of their courage. Then, having accomplished this, he went
once more through the house, from the rooms downstairs to the low-
ceilinged sleeping apartments above, and satisfied himself that all was
secure.

In the nursery he found his wife looking at the little boys, who were
lying on two great bags of ticking, stuffed with the feathers of wild geese,
and placed on the floor, in lieu of bedsteads.

They were sleeping soundly, oblivious of the alarm about the house; and
standing beside his wife, his arm around her waist, John Devereux looked
down at them.

On one of the pallets lay Humphrey, his strong young arms outstretched,
and his chest—broad for his years, and finely developed—-showing white
as alabaster where the simple linen garment was rarely buttoned by his
impatient fingers.

On the other were the two younger boys; and Robert, the gentlest of the
three, with his father's own winsome nature, lay with his head half pillowed
against his brother John's shoulder.

"What a blessed thing is childhood, and ignorance of danger!" murmured
Anne, looking at her husband.

"Aye," he said softly, as they turned away. "So may we know no fear of
dangers that threaten, sweet wife, while we trust to Him who watcheth us,
—who 'slumbers not, nor sleeps.'"

And as she had answered him ten years before, so she said to him now,
"So long as we be together, I have no fear."

A long and shrill sound now broke the silence. It was the blowing of the
conch shell suspended in front of the outer door; and it announced a visitor
seeking admission.

Surprised at this, and alarmed as well, husband and wife hurried to the
front room below stairs, where they found Joane still crouched upon the
hearth. Her bow, now unslung, lay close at hand, and she was examining
with pleased curiosity the clumsy blunderbuss resting across her knees,—
one that John, at her earnest request, had intrusted to her.

"No enemy—make heap too much noise," was her sententious remark,
as she looked up from her inspection of the weapon.

"Mayhap they but do that to disarm us," John replied, as he went
cautiously toward the door.

He knew there was no way, except from the beach, for any one to
approach the house unseen by his faithful outposts. And he had reckoned
upon no attack coming from that quarter, as there was no sailing breeze.
Then, again, the pirates would be more likely to come from the direction of
the forest, hoping to effect a greater surprise than if they came from the
water.

The wailing cry of the conch shell pierced the air for the second time, to
echo again in falling cadences that died away in the woods and over the sea.

Placing his lips to the loophole near the door, John Devereux now
demanded to know who was outside.

A nasal, whining voice replied; and although the words were
indistinguishable, their sound caused the Indian girl to laugh scornfully.

She said nothing, however, but springing quickly to her feet, sped to the
small opening. Then, before her purpose could be understood, she thrust the
muzzle of the blunderbuss through the aperture.

"Hold, Joane!" commanded John, as he caught her arm. "What is't thou
wouldst do,—kill, perchance, an innocent man? Put the gun down, child,

until I challenge again, and know for a surety who it be. Methinks the voice
hath a familiar sound."

Joane obeyed him, still smiling maliciously as she said: "Only want give
him heap big scare. Him big 'fraid—him coward."

"'T is Parson Legg!" exclaimed Anne, now recalling the piping voice,
and enlightened by Joane's contemptuous words.

Her husband opened the door, and a slim, weazen-faced, bandy-legged
little man stepped hastily within, his eyes, small and keen as those of a
ferret, blinking from the sudden passing out of darkness into light.

"Good e'en to thee, Parson Legg; thou art late abroad," said Anne,
coming forward. She did not smile, nor was there aught of welcome in her
voice or manner.

But this lack of cordiality was not felt by the unexpected visitor, for he
doffed his steeple-crowned hat, which, like the rest of his apparel, was
much the worse for wear, and responded briskly, "Good e'en, Mistress
Anne, an' the same to you, neighbor John; I hope the Lord's blessin' is upon
all within this abode. Ah, who have ye here?" and he peered down at Joane,
who had resumed her place before the fire, her back turned squarely toward
Parson Legg as he stood in the centre of the room.

He came closer to her, but for all the notice she vouchsafed of his words
or presence she might have been one of the brass fire-dogs upholding the
blazing logs.

"'T is the Squaw Sachem's granddaughter, Joane," replied John
Devereux, turning from the door, which he had refastened.

"Aye, so it be," said the little man; "one o' the unregenerate heathen,
upon whom, if they turn not from their idolatrous ways, shall descend
smitings sore from the Lord. Hip an' thigh shall they be smitten, and their
places shall know them no more."

"Joane hath no idols, good sir, that I know on," said his host, as he came
forward and offered the visitor a seat, and then took one himself by the
door. "She seemeth ever ready to heed the words of my good wife, and our
babes could not have a more gentle playfellow."

Anne had seated herself near Joane, by the fire; and she looked with no
very friendly eyes at the Parson, as she said, "Think you not, good sir, it
were better to chide the 'unregenerate heathen,' as you call them, with more
gentleness?"

His little eyes narrowed into yet meaner lines as he fixed them upon her
face. Then leaning forward to lay a finger upon the gun that again lay across
Joane's knees, he answered, "It would seem but poor excuse to prate o'
gentleness to one who at unseemly hours and seasons goeth about with
death-dealin' weapons, seekin' whom she may devour."

The Indian girl still sat immovable; a statue could not have appeared
more bereft of hearing or speech. But to Anne's face there came a look of
fine scorn, which softened however into almost a smile as she glanced at
her husband.

"Joane came to warn us of danger," John said quietly. "She tells us there
is a strange ship in harbor, and we be now armed to guard against pirates,—
for such they promise to be."

Parson Legg sprang to his feet as though stung by a passing insect.

"Pirates!" he repeated, in a shrill cry of alarm. "Pirates,—say ye so? I
heard naught o' such matter. I was in the woods hereabout all the afternoon,
readin' the psalmody, an' makin' joyful melody unto the Lord, till darkness
o'ertook me, an' I bethought myself to make my way to this abode, neighbor
John, as peradventure thou an' Mistress Anne, thy wife, would give me food
an' shelter in the Lord's name till mornin'."

Parson Legg was only an itinerant preacher, having long striven, but
without avail, to be accepted by the colonists as successor to their late
beloved pastor, the Reverend Hugh Peters, who had gone to England some

years before to act as their agent, and was likely to remain there for some
time to come, being now a chaplain in the army of Cromwell.

But Legg was entirely unfitted, both by birth and education, for the
position to which he aspired. He was selfish and irritable, with a grasping,
worldly nature, despite his outward show of humility and sanctity, and was
regarded by the colonists with suspicion and illy concealed dislike, while
the Indians held him in positive hatred.

Since the summer day, two years before, when he had come upon Joane
in the forest, attired in the manly habiliments of her tribe,—this being only
for greater convenience while hunting—and had hurled at her young head
anathemas such as fairly smelled of brimstone, it had been open war
between the two; and the very sight of one to the other was like that of a
plump kitten to a lively terrier.

Anne had by this time set forth a meal upon the table, and
notwithstanding his recent fright, Parson Legg's little eyes glistened
voraciously as he drew up his chair, while he smacked his thin lips more as
would a sturdy yeoman, than like a meek and lowly follower of the creed
which crucifies the flesh and its appetites.

John still kept his seat by the door, his keen ears listening intently for
any unusual sound without, while Parson Legg crunched away at the
venison and corn bread,—doing this with more gusto than was pleasant for
either eye or ear.

Anne had left the room, motioning to Joane to follow her, and an intense
silence seemed to lie about the house, save as it was broken by the
sputtering of the fire upon the hearth and the sound of Parson Legg's
gastronomic vocalism, and now and then the subdued murmur of women's
voices from one of the rooms in the rear.

A sudden roar of firearms, followed by wild yells and cries without,
shattered the peaceful brooding of the place, and caused Parson Legg to
spring wildly from his chair.

"The heathen are upon us!" he gasped, his articulation being somewhat
impeded by the presence of a huge piece of venison in his mouth. "The
heathen are come upon us with riotin' an' slaughter! John—John Devereux,
hide me, I beseech thee,—hide me from their vengeance. I am a man o'
peace, an' the sight o' bloodshed is somethin' I could ne'er abide."

John paid no attention to the terrified little man, but springing up with an
impetuosity that sent his chair flying across the room, stood erect and
scowling, his face turned toward the sounds of strife, and his strong fingers
gripping his gun.

"Anne—wife—where art thou?" he cried, as the din increased, and more
shots were fired.

"Here." And she quietly entered the room, her face pale, but perfectly
calm. "The noise hath awakened the little boys, but I have left Shubar with
them, and promised to return shortly."

"Where is Joane?" her husband asked quickly.

"With Shubar and the boys."

"Good; for then there be one gun near, to assure the little ones."

He had been nervously fingering the hammer of his own piece, and
while speaking he crossed the room and took a position near that side of the
house from whence came the sound of firearms.

Anne remained by the hearth, watching him closely, her tightly clenched
hands being all that told of the agitation within.

"Are the little ones much affrighted?" he asked.

"No," she said, still in her calm, sweet fashion; "they do not seem to be
—that is, not much. Humphrey begged that he might have a gun, and
Robert sat quiet, looking at me with eyes so like your own as he asked, 'Art
fearful, mother? Father will ne'er let them hurt us.'"

John Devereux smiled proudly, for the moment forgetting the din about
them.

"And John," he asked,—"what said our second son?"

"He seemeth most affrighted of all," she replied. "He wept at first, and
hid his face in my gown; but he was calm when I came away. Thou
knowest, John, that the lad hath not been well since the fever, last fall."

"Aye, true,—poor little Jack!" the father said. And he now wondered
what might have happened outside, for there was a ceasing of the uproar.

He listened intently a moment. "Methinks, sweetheart, I'd best go outside
and see what this silence doth mean. Thou'lt not be fearful if I leave the
house awhile?"

She grew still paler, but only shook her head. Then she asked suddenly,
"Where be Parson Legg?"

Husband and wife looked about the room, and then at one another.

"He was here when the firing began," said John, finding it difficult not to
smile as he recalled the scene.

"But wherever can he have gone?" persisted Anne.

"Hiding somewhere, I warrant me," was her husband's reply. "He is an
arrant—"

His words were drowned by the roar of a blunderbuss, coming
apparently from just over their heads, and this was followed a moment later
by a wild yell of triumph from outside.

It was from John's men, and he started to open the door. But before he
could do this there arose such a clamor in the nursery above that he and
Anne, forgetful of all else, sped up the stairway.

Old Shubar's voice came to them raised in shrill cries, echoed by those
of the boys,—only that Humphrey and Robert seemed to speak more from

indignation than fright.

Wondering what it could all mean, they hurried into the room, where an
absurd sight met their alarmed eyes.

In one corner, beside Humphrey's pallet, stood Shubar, still uttering the
wild shrieks they had heard, and huddling about her were the three boys,—
John clinging to her gown, while Humphrey and Robert, both facing about,
were shouting at a strange figure that burrowed frantically into the pallet
occupying the opposite corner of the chamber.

"Shubar says 't is a witch," cried Robert. "Take thy gun and slay her
before she bring evil upon us."

"Be quiet, my son," said his father, scarcely able to repress his laughter,
for at the sound of his voice Parson Legg's weazened face, all blanched by
fear, was lifted from out the pillows, and a pair of terror-stricken eyes
peered over his shoulder.

He had been lying face downward, partially covered by the bedclothes,
under which he was still trying to conceal himself; and his steeple-crowned
hat, now a shapeless wreck, was pulled down over his ears, as if to shut out
more effectually the sounds of strife that had well-nigh bereft him of
reason.

"It would seem thou canst preach far better, Parson Legg, than defend
thyself from the enemy," John Devereux said rather grimly, looking down
with unconcealed contempt upon the little coward, while Anne busied
herself in reassuring the children and quieting Shubar's angry mutterings.

"Even so, neighbor John, even so," answered the Parson, in no wise
disconcerted at the sarcasm of the other's words and tone, and making no
movement to emerge from his retreat. "As I told thee below, I am a man o'
peace, an' I like not the sound o' war an' the sight o' bloodshed. But what
doth this silence portend?—are the enemy routed,—are they vanquished, an'
put down, smitten hip an' thigh, an' put to flight by thy brave followers?"

His anxious queries met with no reply, for John Devereux, who was
standing upon the threshold of the room, had become conscious of a sharp
current of air blowing upon his cheek. It told him that the scuttle was open
overhead, and turning about, he darted swiftly up the ladder.

He was soon upon the roof, and here he stood a few moments and looked
keenly about.

The voices of his men came to him from the ground below. They had left
their concealment, and the lightness of their tones told him that all danger
was past.

As his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, the dim starlight
revealed to him the outlines of a form crouching behind the great chimney
not far away.

"Joane!" he called softly, suspecting who it might be.

She arose and came to him, and he heard her laughing to herself.

"What camest thou up here for?" he demanded, speaking quite sharply.

"Joane shoot pirate captain," she answered, still laughing. "Heap scare
'em—no know where shot come from—all run away to ship."

And so it proved. The marauders, having received a very different
reception from the one they had expected, were utterly discomfited when an
unseen enemy—in the person of Joane and her blunderbuss—scattered a
mighty charge of slugs and bullets in their midst. Their leader was struck in
the arm, and fearing they had fallen into an ambuscade from which it would
be difficult to escape, he shouted to his men that he was wounded, and bade
them fly to the ship.

This was the last of the raids that had so annoyed the colonists, and
thenceforth they were free from such molestation.

John Devereux's days passed on, full of peace and pleasantness, until he
died at a ripe old age, respected and loved by all his fellow-townsmen, and

mourned deeply by the faithful wife who did not long survive him.

The boys lived to man's estate, were married, and had children of their
own. But Humphrey and John died in their father's lifetime; and so it was
that Robert, the second son, became the heir.

CHAPTER I

Marblehead, and July, in the year of our Lord 1774.

In the harbor (now known as Great Bay) the water lay, a smooth,
glistening floor of amethystine hue, shut in protectively by the "Neck,"
thrust out like a strong arm between it and the rougher sea beyond,
stretching, purple and endless, to the rim of the cloudless horizon.

To the north and northwest lay the islands, the nearer ones sharply
outlined in trees and verdure, but showing here and there a grayness of
beach or boulder, like the bald spot among some good man's otherwise
plentiful locks.

Looking eastward, Cat Island was closest of all to the mainland, the
charred ruins upon it showing sharply in the brilliant afternoon sunshine;
and here, amid the desolation, a few of the blackened timbers still remained
upright, like arms lifted in protest against the vengeance visited upon the
hospital a short time before by the well-meant zeal of the infuriated
townsfolk.

In August of the previous year, during an epidemic of smallpox, a
meeting was called in the townhouse, and Elbridge Gerry, John Glover,
Azor Orne, and Jonathan Glover petitioned that a hospital be built on Cat
Island, for the treatment of smallpox patients, or else that the town permit
certain individuals to do this at their own expense.

The town refused to build the hospital, but gave permission to the
individuals to construct one, provided the adjoining town of Salem gave its
consent; it being also stipulated that the hospital should be so regulated as
to shield the inhabitants of Marblehead from any "danger of infection"
therefrom.

The necessary approval having been obtained from Salem, preparations
were made in September for erecting the hospital.

By this time some of the people of Marblehead had become impressed
with the fear that by the establishing of the hospital the dread disease would
become a prevailing pest amongst them. Their terror made them
unreasonable, and they now fiercely opposed the scheme to which they had
once given their consent, and demanded that the work be abandoned; but
the proprietors, filled with indignation at what they considered rank
injustice, persisted in carrying out their worthy project to completion.

In October the hospital was finished, and placed in charge of an eminent
physician from Portsmouth, who had attained a wide reputation for his
success in the treatment of smallpox. Several hundred patients came under
his care, with gratifying results. But a few had died, and this fact brought
about bitter and active hostility from the malcontents. They demanded that
the place be abandoned at once; and threats of violence began to be made.

The feeling gained in strength and intensity, until at length the
proprietors gave up the contest. And then, to assure themselves that the
hospital should not be reopened, a party of the townspeople, closely
disguised, crossed to Cat Island one night in the following January, and left
the buildings in flames.

But now these summer weeks found the town excited and tumultuous
over still graver matters. The British government had found it impracticable
to enforce the duty upon tea, and resorting to subterfuge, adopted a
compromise whereby the East India Company, hitherto the greatest losers
by the diminution of its exports from Great Britain, was authorized to send
its goods to all places free of duty.

Although the tea would now become cheaper for the colonists, they were
not deceived by this new ministerial plan. And when the news was received
that the East India Company had freighted ships with tea consigned to its
colonial agents, meetings were held to devise measures to prevent the sale
or unloading of the tea within the province.

The agents, when waited upon by the committee chosen for that purpose
in Boston, refused flatly to promise that the tea should not be unloaded or
sold by them; and they were forthwith publicly stigmatized as enemies to
their country, and resolutions were adopted providing that they, and all
such, should be dealt with accordingly.

In December, 1773, the historical "Tea Party" took place in Boston
harbor; and in the following spring Governor Hutchinson resigned, and
General Thomas Gage was appointed in his stead.

Bill after bill was passed in Parliament and sanctioned by the King,
having in view but the single object of bringing the people of Massachusetts
to terms. The quartering of English troops in Boston was made legal. Town
meetings were prohibited except by special permission from the Governor.
And finally the infamous "Port Bill" was passed, which removed the seat of
government to Salem, and closed the port of Boston to commerce.

In July subscriptions were being solicited by order of the town of
Marblehead for the relief of the poor of Boston, who were suffering from
the operation of the "Port Bill," and all the buildings which could be
utilized, even to the town-house, were placed at the disposal of the
merchants, for the storage of their goods.

In defiance of Parliament, whose act had practically suppressed all town
meetings, the people of Marblehead continued to assemble and express their
views, and discuss the grave questions then agitating the entire country. The
very air of the sea seemed to murmur of war and the rumors of war; and the
hearts of thinking men and women were heavy with forebodings of the
struggle they felt to be imminent.

But the little town was lying brooding and peaceful this July afternoon.
Its wooded hills to the west sent shadows across the grassy meadows and

slopes, rising and falling to meet the sand-beaches, or ending in the
headlands of granite that made sightly outlooks from which to scan the sea
for threatening ships.

Under the pines that made shadows along the way, a horseman was
going leisurely along the road leading to the Fountain Inn.

To his left lay level meadow lands, rising into hills as they neared the
inn, the old Burial Hill—the town's God's Acre—being highest of all. To his
right, the green fields and marshes stretched unbroken to the sea, save for
here and there a clump of bushes and tangled vines, or a thicket of wild
roses. The road before him ended in two branches, one leading to the rising
ground on the right, where stood the Fountain Inn, while to the left it
terminated in a sandy beach, before which stretched the peaceful waters of
Little Harbor, now whitened with the sails of East Indian commerce, and
the craft belonging to the fishing fleets that plied their yearly trade to the
"Banks" and to Boston.

No large ship could come nigh the shore in Little Harbor; whereas in the
deep bay lying between the Neck and the town, the enemy's vessels might
anchor by the land itself. And here the townsfolk kept a most active
lookout, which left the hills and beaches of Little Harbor almost deserted.

CHAPTER II

The bridle was lying slack upon the neck of the horse, who picked his
way carefully along the road, his hoofs now clicking over the stony
highway, now falling noiselessly upon the brown pine needles. And the
occasional clatter of his shoes, or the busy chatter of a squirrel high up in a
tree, were the only sounds to interrupt the musings of the stalwart rider,
whose head was bowed, and whose eyes strayed moodily about.

He was dark and tall, well knit, and of powerful build, yet lithe and
graceful. The wandering breeze whipped out stray curling locks about his

ears and temples from the mass of dark hair done up in a queue. The broad-
brimmed riding-hat was pulled well down over his strongly marked brows,
and the smooth-shaven face betrayed the compressed lips of the large but
finely formed mouth.

A flash of something white speeding across the road a few yards in front
of him caused the dark eyes to open wide, and brought his musings to a
sudden end.

Across the marshes to the left he caught a glimpse of twinkling feet,
encased in low steel-buckled shoes that seemed to be bearing away from
him a fleeting cloud of white drapery.

It was a female, with her so-called "cut" (a dress-skirt so narrow and
straight as to make rapid movement very difficult) thrown up over her head
and shoulders, as she went over the grass toward the beach at the side of the
road facing the Neck.

Recognizing her at once, the horseman called out, "Dorothy!" and
spurred his horse out of the road and across the marsh.

As though hearing him, she paused, and without lowering the "cut,"
turned to look over her shoulder.

The wind, catching her dress, blew the white folds aside, showing a
roguish face, and one bearing a strong family resemblance to the man in
pursuit. But her features were small and delicate, while his, although not
lacking in refinement, were far bolder in strength of outline.

She had the same dark eyes, set far apart under delicate but firmly
marked brows,—the same swart curling lashes, and riotous locks.

But here the likeness ceased; for while his face was grave, and full of a
set purpose and resolution, hers was almost babyish, and full of witchery,
with a peachy bloom coming and going in the rounded cheeks.

She was panting a little from her running, and now stood, waiting for
him to speak, her red lips parted in a mocking smile that showed two rows

of little teeth, white as the meat of a hazel-nut.

"What mischief have you been up to, you little rogue, and why are you
running away from me?" he asked. He spoke with quiet good nature, but
looked down at her with an elder brother's reproof showing in his face.

She did not answer, but only glanced up at him from the sheltering folds
of the skirt, billowing about her face like a cloud, while the horse,
recognizing a loved playmate, whinnied, and bowed his head to her
shoulder as if mutely begging a caress.

"You have been to see Moll Pitcher again," the young man asserted; "and
you know our father would be angry that you should do it. And 't is very
wrong, Dorothy, in these times, that you should be over in this part of the
town alone."

Her brother called her so rarely by her full name that a change from the
caressing "Dot" to the solemn-sounding "Dorothy" was a sure mark of his
displeasure.

The smile died from her face, and her eyes fell. But she looked
mutinous, as she raised a small hand to stroke the horse's nose.

"I did not come alone, Jack," she explained. "Leet rowed me over, and
Pashar came with us; and I had little 'Bitha, too."

"An old darkey, who sits dozing in the boat, half a mile away from you,
with his twelve-year-old grandson, and little Tabitha! These make a fine
protection, truly, had you met with soldiers or other troublesome people,"
he said with some sarcasm. "Do you not know there was a new vessel, filled
with British soldiers, went into Salem harbor yesterday—and belike they
are roaming about the country to-day?" He switched his riding-boot as he
spoke, scowling as though the mention of the matter had awakened
vengeful thoughts.

"Hugh Knollys has but just ridden over from Salem; and he said they
were all housed there, along with the Governor," the girl said eagerly, glad

to find something to say in her defence, as well as to turn the current of her
brother's thoughts.

"Hugh Knollys!" he repeated. "Has he been at our house this day?"

"No-o," she answered hesitatingly. "We met him just now as we came
out of Moll's. He is at the Fountain Inn."

"We," he said, a smile showing about the corners of his lips. "Are you
His Gracious Majesty, Dot, that you speak of yourself as 'We'?"

At the sound of her baby name, all the brightness returned to her face,
and glancing up at him, she whispered mischievously, "Look in the thicket
behind you."

He turned to send a keen glance into the clump of bushes and vines
growing some dozen yards closer to the road he had just left; and there he
caught a glimpse of pale blue—like female raiment—showing amid the
foliage.

Wheeling his horse quickly, he rode toward it; and what he now saw was
a tall, blonde girl of eighteen or thereabouts, who arose slowly from where
she had been hiding, and came forward with a dignity that savored of
defiance, although there seemed to be a smile lurking in the corners of her
mouth.

Her gypsy hat hung by its blue ribbons on one white rounded arm, bared
to the elbow, as the fashion of her sleeve left it. The neck of her pale blue
gown was low cut; but a small cape of the same material was over it,—
crossed, fichu-wise, on her bosom, and then carried under the arms, to be
knotted at the back.

Her round white throat rose out of the sheer blue drapery in fine, strong
lines, to support a regal head, crowned with a glory of pale brown hair, now
bared to the sun, and glinting as though golden sparkles were caught in its
silky meshes.

As she approached, the rider held up his horse, and sat motionless,
staring at her, while a merry peal of laughter, silvery as chiming bells, broke
from sixteen-year-old Dorothy.

"Mary Broughton!" the young man exclaimed at length, as he looked
wonderingly at the fair-haired girl.

She paused a yard away and swept him a mocking courtesy as she said,
—and her musical voice was of the quality we are told is "good in
woman,"—"Aye; at your service, Master John Devereux."

"Then you have been with our madcap here?" he asked, now finding his
tongue more readily.

"All the afternoon—an it please you, sir," she replied in the same tone of
playful irony.

"It does please me," he said, now with a smile, "for it was much better
than had Dot been alone, as I supposed at first. But think you it is safe for
you two girls to come wandering over here by yourselves?" And in the look
of his dark eyes, in the very tone of his voice, there was something
different,—more caressing than had been found even for his small sister,
who had now drawn close to them.

Mary Broughton slipped her arm through Dorothy's, and the mockery
left her face.

"I suppose not," she answered frankly. "But, to tell the truth, I had not
thought of such a thing until you mentioned it. We've not met a soul, save
Hugh Knollys, who was riding into the inn yard as we came from Moll
Pitcher's."

"And so you have been to consult Moll's oracle?" the young man said
banteringly.

The white lids fell over the honest blue eyes that had been looking
straight up into his own. The girl seemed greatly embarrassed, and her color

deepened, while Dorothy only giggled, and slyly pinched the arm upon
which her slender fingers were resting.

Mary gave her a quick glance of reproof. Then she raised her eyes and
said hesitatingly, "We heard she was down from Lynn, on a visit to her
father."

"You girls are bewitched with Moll Pitcher and her prophecies," he
exclaimed with a laugh.

"Ah—but she tells such wonderful things," began Dorothy, impetuously.
But Mary Broughton laid a small white hand over the red lips and glanced
warningly at her companion.

"What did she tell?" the young man asked. But now Dorothy only
smiled, and shook her head.

"Come, Dorothy," Mary said, "we had best get back to the boat." And
she turned to go; but the younger girl hung back.

"Are you going to a meeting at the inn, Jack?" she inquired, looking at
her brother.

"Little girls must not ask questions," he answered, yet smiling at her
lovingly. "But do you hasten to the boat, and get home, Dot, you and Mary.
It troubles me that you should be about here. Hurry home, now,—there's a
good little girl." But he looked at both of them as he spoke.

"Shall you be home by evening?" his sister asked, keeping her face
toward him as she backed away, obliged to move in the direction of the
beach; for Mary, still holding her arm, was walking along.

He nodded and smiled; then riding back to the highway, wheeled his
horse and stopped to watch the two figures making their hurried way across
the marsh. But his eyes rested longest upon one of them, tall and regal, her
blonde head showing golden in the waning light, the vivid green of the
marshes and the deep purple of the sea making a defining background for

the beauty of the woman to whom John Devereux had given his lifelong
love.

CHAPTER III

"Oh, Mary, there is Johnnie Strings!" exclaimed Dorothy, as they drew
near shore, where lay the rowboat, beached on the sand, with Leet, the
faithful old darkey, sitting close by, awaiting the pleasure of his adored
young mistress.

Near him a little girl of seven was gathering pebbles, her heavy blonde
braids touching the tawny sand whenever she stooped in her search. And
crouched by his grandfather Leet was the boy Pashar, looking like an
animated inkspot upon the brightness all about. His white eyeballs and teeth
showed sharply by contrast with their onyx-like settings, as he sat with his
thick lips agape, literally drinking in the words of the redoubtable Johnnie
Strings, a wiry, sharp-faced little man, whose garments resembled the dry,
faded tints of the autumn woods.

Johnnie, with his pedler's pack, stored with a seemingly unlimited
variety of wares, was a well-known and welcome visitor to every housewife
in town. He lived when at home (which was rarely) in a hut-like abode up
among the rocks of Skinner's Head; and the highway between Boston and
Gloucester was tramped by him many times during the year.

He owned a raw-boned nag of milk-white hue, and rejoicing in the name
of Lavinia Amelia; and these two, with a yellow cur, constituted the entire
ménage of the Strings household.

Johnnie, like Topsy, must have "just growed," for aught anyone ever
knew of a parent Strings. The one item of information possessed by his
acquaintances was that his name was not Johnnie Strings at all, but "Stand-
fast-on-high Stringer,"—an indication that he must have received his
baptism at Puritanical hands.

Either "Stand-fast-on-high" became more unregenerate as his infancy
was left behind, or else his associates had no great taste for Biblical terms
as applied to every-day use; for his real name had long since become
vulgarized to the common earthiness of "Johnnie," and "Stringer" had been
reduced to "Strings."

He now sat upon his pack—a smaller one than he usually carried—and
was saying to Leet, "Now that there be so cantankerous a lot o' them pesky
King's soldiers 'bout us, there's no sayin' what day or night they won't
overrun the hull country, from the Governor's house at Salem, clean over
here to the sea; an' every man will be wise, that owns cattle, to sleep with
one eye an' ear open, an' a gun within reach."

"What are you saying, Johnnie Strings?" called out Dorothy, as she and
Mary came up. "Are you trying to frighten old Leet into fits?"

The little pedler sprang to his feet and snatched off his battered wreck of
a hat, showing a scant lot of carroty hair, gathered tightly into a rusty black
ribbon at the nape of his weather-beaten neck.

"Only sayin' God's truth, sweet mistress," he answered, bowing and
scraping with elaborate politeness. "I've just come from over Salem way;
an' yesterday evenin' ye could scarcely see the ground for the red spots that
covered it. There were three ship-loads came in yesterday, to add to the
ungodly lot o' soldiers already there."

Mary looked troubled, but Dorothy only laughed. And little 'Bitha,
abandoning her search for shells and pebbles, pressed closely against her
cousin, looking up out of a pair of frightened eyes, blue as forget-me-nots,
as she asked, "Does Johnnie say the soldiers are coming after us, Dot?"

Dorothy checked herself in what she was about to say, and bent to
reassure the little one, putting an arm about her neck to draw the golden
head still closer to her.

"What are they come down from Boston for, Johnnie?" Mary asked; "do
you know?"

He cocked his head aslant, and resumed his hat, screwing up one eye in a
fashion most impudent in any man but himself, as he looked at her with a
cunning leer. Then he said: "There's no harm to come from 'em yet. But
soldiers be a lawless lot, if they get turned loose to look after we folk 'bout
the coast here, as is like to be the case now. An' so I was just meanin' to hint
to ye that 'twould be as well to stop nigher home, after this day."

Old Leet, who had listened with a stolid face to all this, was now
pushing the boat into the water, while Pashar stood gaping at the pedler,
until ordered gruffly by his grandsire to stand ready to hold the craft.

"Have you knowledge that they are coming down here?" inquired Mary,
speaking more insistently than before.

"We-l-l, yes, I have," he admitted with a drawl, and was about to add
something more, when Dorothy, who had deposited 'Bitha in the boat, and
was now getting in to take her own place in the stern, said to him, "Come
with us, Johnnie, and we'll take you home, as we pass quite close to
your"—hesitating a second—"your house."

"No, thank ye, mistress," he replied, grinning proudly at the dignity she
had bestowed upon his humble abode. "I've that will take me up to Dame
Chine, at the Fountain Inn, an' I should be there this very minute, an' not
chatterin' here. But I was tired, an' when I came along an' saw old Leet, sat
down to rest a bit."

"When are you intending to fetch that pink ribbon you promised me
weeks ago, and the lace for Aunt Lettice?" demanded Dorothy, as Mary
Broughton stepped over the intervening seats, past Leet, at the oars, with
small 'Bitha alongside him, and took her place beside her friend.

"I've both in my pack, up at the hut; I'll bring 'em to the house this week,
ye may depend on it," answered Johnnie, as Pashar pushed off the boat,
springing nimbly in as the keel left the sand.

"If you do not, I'll never buy another thing from you so long as I live,"
the girl called back, with a wilful toss of her head, as Leet pulled away with
strong, rapid strokes.

"'T is all wrong for two pretty ones like them to be roamin' 'round in
such fashion," said Johnnie to himself, as he stooped to take up his pack.
Then suddenly, as if remembering something, he turned to the shore and
called out, "Shall ye find Master John at home, think ye, Mistress
Dorothy?"

Her voice came back silvery clear over the distance of water lying
between them. "No; he is up at the Fountain Inn."

"Ah, as I thought," the pedler muttered, with a meaning smile. "I'll just
be in the nick o' time."

"What think you it all means, Mary?" Dorothy asked, the two sitting
close together in the boat.

"What all means?" echoed Mary, in an absent-minded way, her head
turned toward the shore they were leaving, where on the higher land the far-
away windows of the Fountain Inn were showing like glimmering stars in
the light of the setting sun.

"Why," Dorothy explained, smiling at Mary's abstraction, "all these
soldiers coming down here? And Johnnie acts and talks as if he could tell
something important, if he chose."

"You know, Dot, we are like to have serious trouble,—perhaps a war
with the mother country."

"And all because of a parcel of old tea!" exclaimed Dorothy, with great
scorn.

Mary now turned her face in the direction the boat was going, and
smiled faintly. "The tea is really what has brought matters to a head," she
said. "But there is more in it than that alone, from what I've heard my father
say. And there is much about it that we girls cannot rightly understand, or
talk about very wisely. Only, I hope there will be no war. War is such a
terrible thing," she added with a shudder, "and you know what Moll told us.
I almost wish we had not gone to see her to-day."

"I am not a bit sorry we went," said Dorothy, stoutly. "I am glad. What
did she say,—something about a big black cloud full of lightnings and
muttering thunder, coming from across the sea, to spread over the land and
darken it? Was n't that it?"

"Yes, and much more. Do you think she was asleep as she talked to us,
Dot? She looked so strangely, and yet her eyes were wide open all the
time."

"Tyntie does the same thing at times. She says it's 'trance.' But Aunt
Penine always puts me out of the kitchen when Tyntie gets that way, and so
I don't know whether she talks or not. I mean to try and find out, if I can,
the next time Tyntie gets into such a state."

"Nothing seems strange for Indians to do or to be," Mary said musingly;
"but I never heard of such things amongst white people."

"Oh, yes, you did," Dorothy answered quickly. "Whatever are you
thinking of, not to remember about the witches? 'T is said they could
foretell to a certainty of future happenings. I wish I'd lived in those days,
although it could not have been pleasant to see folks hanged for such
knowledge. As for Moll Pitcher,—I guess she might have been treated as
was old Mammie Redd."

CHAPTER IV

There was a long silence, broken at last by Mary saying, "Perhaps what
some folk say of Moll is true,—that it is an evil gift she has. And yet she
has a sweet face and gentle manner."

"I wonder if 't is truth, what they say of old Dimond, her father," said
Dorothy, her chin supported in one soft palm, while her eyes looked off
over the water, motionless almost as the seaweed growing on the scarred
rocks along the shore, left bare by the low tide.

"What is that?" Mary asked.

"Why, that whenever there was a dark, stormy night, with a gale
threatening the ships at sea, he would go up on Burial Hill, and beat about
amongst the grass, to save the crews from shipwreck."

Mary laughed. "What an idea!" she exclaimed. "How could beating the
ground about the dead benefit or protect the living, who are surely in the
keeping of Him who makes the tempests?"

"I don't know," was Dorothy's simple answer. "Only that is what I've
heard, ever since I was a child. And such talk always took my fancy."

"Well, old Dimond doesn't look now as if he could have strength to beat
the ground, or anything else. Poor old man, he is very feeble, and I should
say 't is a happy thing for him that Moll can come down from Lynn now and
then, to attend him."

"Yes," Dorothy assented. Then, with a lively change of tone and manner,
"'T was odd, Mary, for her to say that when you left her door you were to
see your true-love riding to meet you on horseback."

Mary started, and without answering, turned her head away, while the
blood rushed to her lovely face.

"Which was he, sweetheart?" Dorothy persisted teasingly, bending her
head so as to bring her smiling face directly under the down-dropped blue
eyes, and then laughing outright at the confusion she saw there.

"Which one was it?" she repeated. "You know Hugh Knollys rode down
the road directly toward you, and then—"

But Mary's white hand was over the laughing lips and silenced them.

"If your father should hear you talking in such fashion, Dot, I feel sure
he would be displeased with me for having gone with you to see Moll."
Mary made an effort to look and speak naturally, but her eyes were very
bright and her face was still deeply flushed.

Dorothy smiled, and shook her curly head wilfully. "Not he," she said
with decision; "leastway, not for long. He is stern enough, at times, to
others; but he can never be severe with me."

"Ah, Dot, but you are surely a spoiled child," said Mary, with a fond
glance at the winsome face.

Dorothy shrugged her small shoulders. "So Aunt Penine is always
saying; but all the aunts in the world could never come 'twixt my father and
me."

Little 'Bitha, who had been crooning softly to herself, and improvising,
after a fashion of her own,—

"The sea is blue, blue, blue,
The sea is blue, and I love the sea,"

suddenly cried out, "Oh, Dot, look, look! What an ugly fish!"

They all looked, and saw a dead dogfish, its cruel teeth showing in the
gaping jaws, go bobbing by, entangled in a mesh of floating seaweed.

"Him look like dead nigger," said Pashar, as he flung a pebble at it.

Old Leet scowled over his shoulder at his lively descendant.

"Dere'll be anudder, an' real true, dead nigger ter keep him company, ef
ye don't sit still, an' quit grampussin' 'bout de boat," he growled; and. Pashar
became very quiet.

They were now drawing in nearer to the shore, where the strip of sand-
beach lay down below the rocky headland, upon the highest point of which
stood Spray House, the home of Nicholson Broughton and his daughter
Mary.

The house—a low, rambling building, with gabled roof—was perched
upon the highest of a series of greenstone and syenite ledges, whose natural
jaggedness had no need to be strengthened by art to render them a safe

bulwark against the encroaching seas, when the storms flashed blinding
mists and glittering spray about the diamond-paned windows.

These looked off over the open water, and past the point of land
intervening between Great Bay and Marblehead Rock. Upon the latter was
an odd beacon,—being a discarded pulpit from one of the Boston churches,
whence, after hearing much of the noise and commotion of men, it had been
transferred to this barren rock, there to listen to the ceaseless tumult of the
battling sea.

Inland from Spray House stood the many great warehouses; and back of
these stretched the pasture-lands, breaking here and there into rough hills,
showing fields of golden splendor, where the wood-wax, or "dyer's weed,"
was growing in luxuriant wildness.

Several small boats were drawn up on the beach; and anchored a little
way out, and directly opposite the front windows of Spray House, were two
goodly-sized schooners, and a brig, their topmasts now touched by the fiery
gold of sunset.

"I wish you were coming home with me, Mary," said Dorothy, as Leet
ran the boat's nose into the shingle, and Pashar leaped out to hold the stern.

"I wish so, too. But you know it will not be many days before father
goes up to Boston, and he said I should abide with you until he returned."

"That will be fine," said Dorothy, her face aglow with pleasure, as Mary,
after dropping a light kiss upon her check, arose to leave the boat. "Only, if
I were you, I should coax him to let me go to Boston."

"I did ask him; but he goes on public matters, he said, and was like to
have a quick and a rough trip." Mary was now standing upon the beach.

"Well, be he gone a long or a short time, we shall all be very happy to
have you with us. That you know, surely." And Dorothy kissed her hand to
her friend, as Leet pulled out again into the water and rowed toward the
upper end of the bay, while Mary took her way across the beach to the

thread-like path leading up to the plateau that formed the back dooryard of
Spray House.

In the yard was Joe, the darkey serving-man, busy cutting more wood to
increase the already generous pile stored in the building near by, while
Agnes, his niece, was in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal.

In the long, low, oak-panelled "living-room" of the house, its windows
facing the water, Mary found her father. He was standing—a tall, finely
built man, nearly fifty—gazing through an open window. His sturdy legs
were well apart, as with hands in his trousers' pockets he was jingling his
keys and loose coin in a restless sort of way, while he hummed to himself.

Mary entered so softly, or else his thoughts were so absorbing, that he
did not notice her until she stood close beside him and slipped a hand
within his arm. Then he started, and the scowl left his brow as he turned the
frank, blue-gray eyes, so like her own, down upon her upturned, smiling
face.

"Ha, Pigsney!" he exclaimed, now smiling himself. "And have you had a
pleasant water-trip?" He looked at her lovingly, while he caressed the
blonde head that just reached to his broad shoulder.

"Yes," she replied hurriedly. "And I met Johnnie Strings, who has but
just come from over Salem way. He says there are quantities of soldiers
there, and that they are like to come this way and spread all over the town."

"You speak of them, sweetheart, as if they might be another epidemic of
smallpox," he said grimly, "And so they are, so they are, if not indeed
something worse." And the scowl came back to his face as he looked off
over the water at his brig and schooners.

"But what does it all mean, father?" Mary asked anxiously. "Think you
they will meet with opposition should they actually come down here? Oh, it
would be dreadful to have any fighting right here in our streets and before
our very doors." The girl trembled, and her cheeks paled.

"Nay, nay, lass," and he patted her shoulder reassuringly; "cross no
bridges until you come to them." Then he added rather impatiently, "What
does Johnnie Strings mean by telling such tales to affright women-folk?"

"We—Dorothy Devereux and I—met him, and we made him talk. But he
did not seem to want to tell us all he knew about it."

"And quite right," said her father, smiling again. "Lord pity the man who
is fool enough to tell women—and girls, at that—all he knows of such
matters, in days like these."

Mary looked up at him a little reproachfully, but he only bent and kissed
her, as he said, now quite gravely: "I've much on my mind this night, my
child, and I have to ask if you can be ready soon after supper to drive with
me to the house of neighbor Devereux, and to stop there a few days with
Dorothy. I have certain matters to talk over with him, and will pass the
night there; and before daylight I must be on my way to Boston."

CHAPTER V

On Riverhead Beach, at the extreme southwest end, the Devereux family
kept sundry boats, for greater convenience in reaching the town proper,
without going around the Neck, by the open seaway; and some distance
from the boat-house was their home, the way being along the shore and
across the thriftily planted acres and through the woodland.

The same low stone house it was that had withstood the pirates' raid over
one hundred years before. But the forests were now gone, although a noble
wood still partially environed it. And beyond this were sloping hills and
grassy meadows, through which ran a stream of pure, sweet water,
wandering on through the dusk of the woods until it found the sea.

Here fed the flocks and herds of Joseph Devereux, the grandson of John
and Anne.

There had been some additions to the original building, but these were
low and rambling, like the older portion. And before it, broader of expanse
and to the vision than in the early days, stretched the sea, a far-reaching
floor of glass or foam, to melt away in the pearly dimness of the horizon.

The hush of lingering twilight was over the place, and now and then the
note of a thrush or robin thrilled sweet on the golden-tissued air. But from
the vine-draped door of the low stone dairy came sounds less inviting,
uttered by Aunt Penine, the widowed sister-in-law and housekeeper of
Joseph Devereux, as she goaded her maids at their evening work.

In sharp contrast with her, both as to person and manner, was her invalid
sister Lettice, who was sitting on the porch before the open door, with little
'Bitha, her orphaned grandchild, hanging lovingly about her.

Opposite these sat Joseph Devereux, smoking his evening pipe; and
crouched on the stone step, her curly head resting against his knee, was
Dorothy, now gentle and subdued.

There was an irresistible charm about the girl's wilfulness that blended
perfectly with the sacred innocence of her childish nature. She was
impetuous, laughter-loving, and somewhat spoiled; but she was possessed
of a high spirit, strong courage, and a pure, tender heart.

Her father's idol and chief companion she had always been since, in his
sixtieth-odd year, she was laid in his strong arms,—vigorous as those of a
man half his own age. And he was looking into her baby face, so like his
own, when he heard that she was all he had left of his faithful wife.

He had lost many children; and such sorrow, softening still more a never
hard heart, had made him dotingly fond of those left to him,—his twenty-
seven-year-old son John and the wilful Dot.

The girl's education had been beyond that of most maids in those times,
as had also that of her only friend, Mary Broughton; and for much the same
reason. Both girls had been carefully trained by their fathers; and Aunt
Penine, at Nicholson Broughton's request, had taught Mary housewifery in

all its branches, at the same time she was undertaking the like portion of her
niece's education.

But this was an art in which Mary far exceeded Dot; and Aunt Penine
lectured her niece unceasingly, while seeming to find nothing but praise for
Mary's efforts.

It was pretty sure to be something of this sort: "Dorothy, Dorothy! Ye'll
ne'er be a good butter-maker; ye beat it so, the grain will be broke. Why
cannot ye take it this way?" and Aunt Penine would show her. "See how
fine Mary does it! Ye have too hot a hand."

Dot would give her head a toss, and remind her aunt that it was not she
herself who had the fashioning of her small hand, nor the regulating of its
temperature. And then Aunt Penine would be very sure to go to her brother-
in-law with complainings of his daughter's disrespectful tongue, and it
would end in Dot being persuaded by her father to beg Aunt Penine's
pardon, which she would do in a meek tone, but with a suspicious sparkle in
her eyes. And after that she was very likely to be found at the stables,
saddling her own mare, Brown Bess, for a wild gallop off over the country.

Aunt Penine was one who never seemed to remember that she had ever
been young herself; and this made her all the more unbending in her
disapproval of Dorothy's flow of spirits, and of the indulgence shown her
by her father.

She was now coming across the grass from the dairy,—a tall, lithe
figure, from which all the roundness of youth (had she ever possessed
anything so weak) had given way to the spareness of middle age. Her hair,
still plentiful, was of a dull, lustreless black; her complexion sallow, with
paler cheeks, somewhat fallen in; and she had a pair of small gray eyes that
seemed like twinkling lights set either side a very long, sharp nose.

Her gown was now pinned up around her like that of a fishwife; a white
cap surmounted her severe head, and her brown arms were bare above the
elbows, where she had rolled her sleeves. She well knew that her brother-in-
law in no wise approved of her going about in such a fashion; but this was
only an added reason for her doing so.

There was a silken rustling of doves' wings, as the flock scattered from
in front of her on the grass, where, obedient to Dorothy's call, they had
come like a cloud from the dove-cote perched high on a pole near by.

"Joseph," she cried, sending her shrill voice ahead of her as she walked
along, "do you know that the last two new Devonshires have either strayed
or been stolen?"

"So Trent told me." He spoke very calmly, letting several seconds
intervene between question and answer, puffing his pipe meanwhile, while
the fingers of one hand rested amongst the curly, fragrant locks lying
against his knee.

"Told you! Then why, under the canopy, did n't ye tell me?" she
demanded, as she now stood on the stone flagging in front of the veranda,
her arms akimbo, while she peered at him with her little twinkling eyes.

He looked at her gravely, and as if thinking, but made no reply.

Her eyes fell, and she seemed embarrassed, for she said in a lower tone,
and by way of explanation: "Because, you see, Joseph, I cannot look after
the pans o' milk properly, if I know not how many cows there be to draw
from. There was less milk by twenty pans, this e'en; and I was suspecting
the new maid we've taken from over Oakum Bay way of making off with it
for her own folk, when Pashar came in and said he was to go with Trent, to
hunt for the missing Devonshires. And that was the first I'd heard of any
strayed cattle."

"And even had they not been missing, Penine, you had no right to think
such evil o' the stranger," Joseph Devereux said reprovingly. "'T is a queer
fashion, it seems to me, for a Christian woman to be so ready as you ever
seem to be for thinking harsh things o' folk you may happen not to know
well. Strangers are no more like to do evil than friends, say I."

He now handed his pipe to Dot, who rapped the ashes out on the ground
and returned it to him. He thanked the girl with the same courtesy he would
have shown an utter stranger, while Aunt Penine, looking very much
subdued, turned about and went back to the dairy.

Joseph Devereux was still a handsome man, with a dark, intellectual
face, framed in a halo of silvery hair, worn long, as was the fashion, and
confined by a black ribbon. About his throat was wrapped snowy linen
lawn, fine as a cobweb, and woven on his own hand-looms by the women
of his house, as was also that of the much ruffled shirt showing from the
front of a buff waistcoat, gold-buttoned.

The same color was repeated in his top-boots, that came up to meet the
breeches of dark cloth, fastened at the knee with steel buckles.

His tall figure was but slightly bowed; and there was a mixture of
haughtiness and softness in his manner, very far removed from provincial
brusqueness, and belonging rather to the days and surrounding of his
ancestors than to the time in which he lived.

John, his son, was a more youthful picture of the father, but with a freer
display of temper,—this due, perhaps, to his fewer years. But father and son
were known alike for kindly and generous deeds, and as possessing a high
ideal of truth and justice.

CHAPTER VI

"Do you suppose, Joseph, that Jack will have had his supper?"

Aunt Lettice asked the question a little anxiously, as she drew about her
shoulders the soft shawl that little 'Bitha's impetuous clasping had
somewhat disarranged.

"Aye; I think the lad is sure to have taken it at the inn." His voice was
very gentle, as it always was when he addressed her.

"There he is!" shouted 'Bitha. And she darted down the steps to wave
frantic arms at two horsemen coming up the wooded way to the house,

while Dot lifted her head from her father's knee, as he now sat more erect in
his chair.

"Have a care, 'Bitha, or we may run you down," called out John
Devereux, laughingly. And at this the little maiden made haste to speed
back to the porch.

It was Hugh Knollys who accompanied him,—a stalwart, broad-chested
young fellow of twenty-five or six, with blunt features and a not over-
handsome face. But for all this he had an irresistible magnetism for those
who knew him; and no one could ever associate evil or untruth with his
frank, keen-glancing gray eyes and clean-cut, smiling lips.

"Good-evening, Hugh, and welcome," said Joseph Devereux, rising to
extend a friendly hand as the young man came up the steps.

Hugh removed his hat and nodded to Dorothy, glancing at her askance as
she arose and with a demure greeting passed him and went to her brother,
who was now giving some orders to old Leet.

"Jack," she whispered imploringly, under cover of the talk going on in
the porch,—"Jack, tell me, please, that you will not speak to father of Mary
and me seeing Moll Pitcher this afternoon."

He looked at her smilingly, and then took her chin in his fingers and
gave her head a gentle shake, in a way he had of doing.

"If I do as you ask, will you promise not to go over to that part of the
town again without telling me first, and then not to go unless I say you
may?"

"Yes, yes," she answered eagerly.

"Well, then, 't is a bargain." With this he put an arm around her, and they
turned toward the house.

"Did Mary go home?" he asked, as they walked slowly along.

"Yes; but she is coming soon to stop with us, as her father is to go to
Boston on business of some sort."

"He is like to go this very night," the young man said.

"This very night!" Dorothy echoed. "Why, then, Mary might have come
home with me, as I wished. But how do you know that, Jack?"

"Never mind now," was his evasive answer. "You will hear all about it
later."

They were now at the porch, and his father, who had been conversing
earnestly with young Knollys, said: "Hugh tells me that ye both had supper
at the inn. So come within, Jack,—come, both o' ye, and let us talk over
certain matters of importance. Hugh will stop with us for the night; and,
Dot, do you go and tell your Aunt Penine, so that his room may be
prepared." And leading the way, the old gentleman went inside, followed by
his son and their guest.

"Grandame," asked 'Bitha, as Dorothy arose and went in quest of Aunt
Penine, "what did Hugh Knollys mean by his talk to Uncle Joseph just now,
of the King's soldiers at Salem?" The child spoke in an awed voice, drawing
closer to the old lady, and looking up at her with startled eyes.

Aunt Lettice tried to give her delicate features a properly severe cast as
she answered, "Hush, 'Bitha! you should not listen to matters not meant for
your hearing."

"But I've heard it before, grandame," 'Bitha persisted. "Johnnie Strings
said the same thing, this afternoon, to Dot and Mary Broughton. He said the
soldiers were coming all over here, clear to the shore, and that we best have
guns ready to shoot them."

Aunt Lettice's expression had now become really severe, for she still had
the old-time reverence for King and Parliament dwelling in her heart.

"Johnnie Strings is seditious and rebellious, to speak so of His Gracious
Majesty's army," she said with marked disapproval; "and he shall sell no

more of his wares to me, if he goes about the country talking in such
fashion. But you must have mistaken his meaning, child."

But 'Bitha shook her small head wilfully, in a way to remind one of her
cousin Dorothy, and took herself off to the charms of the kitchen regions,
where old Tyntie was ever ready to listen to her prattle, and tell her
charming tales when work was out of the way.

And this is how 'Bitha came to know that the bright green spots showing
here and there in the meadows were the rings made by the dancing feet of
the Star-sisters, when they came down in a great ball of light from their
home in the sky, striking the ball about as they danced, and causing it to
give forth most ravishing music.

And Tyntie told her, also, that the flitting will-o'-the-wisp lights that
showed on dark nights over the farthest away marsh-lands were the
wandering souls of Indian warriors, watching to keep little children from
getting lost or frightened; that the cry of the whippoorwill was the lament of
Munomene-Keesis, the Spirit of the Moon, over dead-and-gone warriors
vanquished by the white men; that the wild winds coming from the sea were
Pawatchecanawas, breathing threatenings for bad men and their ships; and
that the frogs hopping about in the cool dusk were all little Iiche, with a
magic jewel in their ugly heads.

All this was imparted as they sat out on the great stumps of hewn-down
trees, while the twilight gathered and the stars came out in the vault
overhead, and the two were at a safe distance from Aunt Penine's practical
bustling and sharp tongue.

For Aunt Penine ruled the household with a veritable "rod of iron;" and
her courtly and calm-voiced brother-in-law was the only mortal to whom
she had ever been known to show deference of manner or speech.

She had gone within, and the maids with her. The dairy was closed for
the night, and Dorothy had returned to the porch, where she was now seated
in her father's favorite chair.

"Aunt Lettice," she said presently, "what think you all these queer things
mean? Mary Broughton said we might have a war; and there seems a great
lot for the men folk to be having meetings over, and secret talk about."

"I know no more than you, Dorothy, but I wish it was all over, and that I
might have my tea once more; I miss it sadly."

"Why," exclaimed Dorothy, looking greatly surprised, "there is tea in the
house, Aunt Lettice! I thought it was not made for you because you did not
care for it."

"Indeed I do care for it very much," said the little old lady; and she
sighed wistfully. "But Penine said there was to be no more tea, as your
father had forbidden it."

"Well, some one is drinking it," Dorothy asserted with positiveness, "for
I found a small potful of tea in the store-closet this very morning."

"Are you sure, my dear?" Aunt Lettice asked wonderingly.

"Of course I am sure, for I smelled it; and as I detest the odor, I looked to
see what it came from. And I know as well that there is a big canful of tea
there, for I caught the lace of my sleeve on the lid last Sabbath day, as I
reached to get the sugar to put on 'Bitha's bread. Aunt Penine must know it
is there."

"Penine is very fond of her tea." Aunt Lettice sighed again, and this time
rather suggestively.

"Well," said Dorothy, her fiery spirit all aglow, "if she be such a pig as to
make it for herself when she lets you have none, I shall find out, and tell my
father of her doings."

"My dear, my dear, you should not speak so," the gentle old lady
protested, but with only feeble remonstrance. It was evident that Dorothy's
words had put the matter in a new light.

"Now, Aunt Lettice," continued Dorothy, as she straightened her small
figure in the chair, "you know that Aunt Penine often treats you with hard-
hearted selfishness, and then next minute she will be reading her good
books and trying to look pious. I never want to be her sort of good,—never!
And while I live, she shall not treat you so any more. I shall tell father to
ask her about the tea, I warrant you."

Before Aunt Lettice could reply to this impetuous speech, a coach drove
up, its lamps showing like glow-worms in the gathering dusk. In it were
Nicholson Broughton and Mary; and Dorothy rushed down the steps to
welcome her friend as though they had been parted for weeks.

While the new-comers were alighting, Leet came up to show the
coachman the way to the stables; and then the two girls went directly to the
porch, while Broughton himself tarried to give some low-spoken orders to
his servant.

The sound of the carriage wheels had brought John Devereux quickly to
the porch, while his father and Hugh Knollys followed after, the younger
man walking slowly, in deference to the slight lameness of his host.

"Ah, neighbor Broughton, you are just the man we were wishing for.
Heartily welcome!" And Joseph Devereux clasped the other man's hand,
while John turned away with his sister and Mary Broughton.

They were joined a moment later by Hugh Knollys; and John Devereux,
as though suspecting a possible rival, watched keenly his blunt, honest face
as he took the small hand Mary extended. But there was naught in Hugh's
look to alarm him, nor in the quiet greeting Mary gave his friend.

Dorothy now drew his attention. "Jack," she asked earnestly, "did you
warn Hugh not to speak aught of this afternoon?" But Hugh answered her
question by a slight laugh, accompanied by a comprehending nod.

"Oh, Dot," said Mary, with gentle reproach, "you should not deceive
your father in this way."

Dorothy raised her head as though she had been struck, and drew herself
up to the full limit of her small stature.

"Indeed, Mary, I intend to do no such thing," she replied almost
aggressively. "'T is only that I wish to tell him all about it myself, and in my
own fashion."

Here her father's voice broke in. "Come, John,—come, Hugh,—come
inside, with neighbor Broughton and me. We will get our matters settled as
soon as may be, while the girls visit with Aunt Lettice. But ye must all
come within; 't is getting much too damp and cold to stop longer out o' the
house."

He drove them in before him and closed the door, shutting out the roar of
the surf along the shore, as it mingled with the shrilling of the dry-voiced
insects in the grasses and woods.

CHAPTER VII

It was the dining-room of the house wherein the four men sat in earnest
consultation; and now that they were alone, their faces were grave to
solemnity.

The oak-ceiled and wainscoted room was filled with lurking shadows in
the far corners, where the light from the candles did not penetrate; and the
inside shutters of stout oak were closed and bolted over the one great
window, along which ran a deep cushioned seat.

Joseph Devereux sat by the mahogany table, whose black polish
reflected the lights, mirror-like, and—but more dully—the yellow brass of
the candlesticks. His elbow was resting upon the smooth wood, his hand
supporting his head; and in the light of the candle burning near, his face
looked unusually stern.

His son sat opposite, his face mostly in shadow, as he lay back in his
chair and thrummed the table with his slender brown fingers.

At either side sat Nicholson Broughton and Hugh Knollys, the former
looking stern and troubled as he smoked his long pipe, while the younger
man's face held but little of its usual light-hearted expression. His hands
were thrust deep in his breeches' pockets, and he whistled softly now and
then in an absent-minded way.

"Aye, 't is a grave state of affairs, Broughton," Joseph Devereux was
saying. "I love not oppression, nor tyrannical dealing. And yet, think you
that ever was a petty tyrant overthrown, and the instruments of his
punishment could always escape a pricking o' the conscience, that made it
not easy for them to look back upon their own share in his downfall? Shall
the time come, I wonder, when we must question the truth o' this inspiration
we are now acting under as a town and as a country?"

"Nay, say I,—never!" exclaimed Broughton, with fiery ardor. "Being
human, we must all feel sympathy for suffering, be it in enemy or friend.
But our land is lost, and we nothing better than slaves, did we longer submit
to the tyranny of the mother country. As God bade Moses of old lead the
children of Israel from the bondage and cruel injustice of Pharaoh, so we
should feel that He now bids us, as men with a country, and as fathers with
families to cherish and protect, to rise up and assert our manhood, and to
assure our freedom, even though it be by as fierce a war as ever was
waged."

"And war there's bound to be!" It was Hugh Knollys who said this, and
he seemed to look more cheery at the thought.

Joseph Devereux glanced at him sharply, and then turned to his son.

"You say, Jack," he asked, "that Strings said the Governor was to order a
body o' soldiers down to the Neck?"

"Yes, sir—and that right away."

At this, Nicholson Broughton spoke up, looking at his host.

"As I was saying to you awhile back, neighbor Devereux, the committee
ordered to Boston, to decide upon delegates, must get a start from town
before the redcoats get into quarters upon the Neck, or there may be trouble
which it were as well to avoid. This was decided upon when we met at the
Fountain Inn, this afternoon; and 't was agreed that all who go from here
should take the road to Boston before to-morrow's dawn. John and Hugh,
here, reckon on going along with us, to meet Brattle in Boston, for he has
sent word that he is to sail the day after to-morrow with a shipload of
supplies ordered down by the Governor for the soldiery at Salem. This will
be a fine opportunity for smuggling down the firearms and powder which
have been hid so long in Boston, waiting the chance for safe conveyance
here."

Before Joseph Devereux could speak, his son broke in eagerly: "Hugh
and I will come down with Brattle, and we'll lie off at anchor, as near our
own shore as may be. Some one must be ready to give us the signal from
the land; and if all is safe, we can put the guns and powder ashore and hide
them. This will be the safest plan, for about Great Bay the soldiers will be
on the lookout for anything unwonted; and in Little Harbor it will be as bad,
for they will have their eyes wide open to keep a sharp watch upon the
Fountain Inn, and all about it—be it on land or water."

"You say truly, Jack," his father assented, "But whom can we trust to
give the signal? Ah," with a sigh, "if only I had back a few of my own lost
years, or was not so lame!"

"Brains can serve one's land, friend Devereux, as well, oftentimes better,
than arms," said Broughton, looking at his host's massive head and
intelligent features. "We all have our appointed work to do, and no man is
more capable than you of doing his share."

"I pray it maybe so," was the reply. "But, be it much or little, all I have
and am are at the service of our cause."

"Why not let Dorothy be the one to give the signal?" asked Hugh
Knollys, as from a sudden inspiration.

"Just the one," said John Devereux, looking over at his father. "She fears
nothing, and can be relied upon in such a matter."

The old gentleman seemed a bit reluctant, and sat silent for a few
moments. Then speaking to his son, he said: "Call the child in. This is no
time to hold back one's hand from the doing of aught that be needful to help
the cause of our land."

It was not many minutes before Dorothy came into the room behind her
brother; and her eyes opened wider than ever as their quick glance took in
the solemn conclave about the table.

Her father stretched out an inviting hand. "Come here, Dot," he said
smilingly. "Do not look so frightened, my baby." And he patted her small
hand in a loving way as he drew her close beside him.

"No," added Hugh mischievously, his face having now regained its usual
jollity, "we are not going to eat you, Dorothy."

She deigned him no reply, not even a glance, but stood silently beside
her father, while she looked questioningly into her brother's face.

He explained in a few words the matter in hand; and the flash of her
eyes, together with the smile that touched the upturned corners of her
mouth, told how greatly to her liking was the duty to which she had been
assigned.

Jack had scarce finished speaking, when there was an interruption, in the
person of Aunt Penine, who entered bearing a tray, upon which were
tumblers and a bowl of steaming punch.

She shot a glance of marked disapproval at Dorothy; then, as she placed
the tray upon the table in front of her brother-in-law, she said in a tone of
acidity, "Were it not better, think you, Joseph, that the girl went into the
other room and stopped with Lettice and Mary Broughton?"

Dorothy turned her eyes defiantly upon the elder woman, her soft brows
suggesting the frown that came to her father's face as he said with grave

severity: "The child is here, Penine, because I sent for her. Let the punch be
as it is—and leave us, please."

She tossed her head belligerently, and without speaking took her
departure, casting a far from friendly look at the others.

"I strongly suspect, father," said John, as he rose and crossed the room to
close the door his aunt, either by accident or intent, had left ajar, "that we'd
best have a care how we let Aunt Penine hear aught of our affairs. Her
sympathies are very sure to be with the other side, if the struggle comes to
blows."

"I will see to Penine," his father answered quietly. "Do you go on
instructing Dot as to what she is to do."

His son bowed, and turned once more to the girl.

"And so, Dot, as I've said already, you must reckon surely upon the
vessel lying off the beach in a straight line with the Sachem's Cave, on
Friday night, at about eleven o'clock. And this being Monday, will give four
days, which will be time enough to allow for all that's to be done. But you
must watch, child, even if it prove later in the night, or even in the morning,
before we arrive. And when you see a light showing, then disappearing,
then two lights, and then three, you must answer from the shore if all be
well, and 't is safe to land, by showing two lights, and then letting them
burn for us to steer by. Mount as high as you can to the uppermost level
above the cave, so that we may get a good view of your signal. Can you
keep all this in that small head of yours?" And he smiled at her, as though
some happy outing were being planned.

She nodded quickly, but with a grave face; then, after a moment's
hesitation, she asked, "May I tell Mary?"

Her brother's eyes dropped, as Hugh Knollys flashed a laughing glance
upon him. But her father replied at once: "Aye, it were best to do so. And if
neighbor Broughton has no objections, it were more prudent that she should
be your companion."

"Not I!" responded Broughton heartily, raising to his lips the glass of
punch his host had been dispensing from the bowl in front of him. "But be
over-careful, Dorothy, as to who may be about to overhear what you say to
her. And"—his voice growing very grave—"may God keep you both, for
two brave, right-hearted girls."

"Amen!" said Joseph Devereux. And he lifted his glass to the others, as
though pledging them and the great cause they all had so devoutly at heart.

CHAPTER VIII

When Dorothy left the dining-room, it was by a door opposite that by
which Aunt Penine had made her angry exit,—one leading to the
storerooms and kitchen.

The one through which Dorothy went opened directly upon a small
platform, whose flight of three steps descended into the main hall, which
was part of the original building, and was now lighted dimly by a ship's
lantern swinging from the low dark-wood ceiling, or "planchement."

A pair of handsome antlers were fixed against the wall about midway
down the passage, and underneath these was a long mahogany table, piled
with a miscellaneous collection of whips, hats, and riding-gloves.

Directly opposite hung the family arms, placed there more than a
hundred years before by the hands of John Devereux, the "Emigrant," as he
was called. They were: Arg., a fesse, gu., in chief three torteaux. Crest;—
out of a ducal coronet, or, a talbots head, arg., eared, gu. And the motto was
"Basis Virtutum Constantia."

Other than this the long, wide hall was bare of furnishing.

Dorothy came out with her usual impetuous rush, and closing the door
quickly behind her, was startled by seeing a form rise, as it seemed, from

the platform, and then, as if retreating hastily, stumble and fall down the
steps.

The girl looked with astonishment, and saw Aunt Penine prostrate upon
the floor of the hall, her upturned face pale and distorted, as with pain.

It was quite evident that she had been eavesdropping; and Dorothy
remained at the head of the steps regarding her scornfully for a moment,
before asking if she were hurt.

"Yes, I have done somewhat to my ankle, drat it!" gasped the sufferer,
but in a low voice, as if fearful of attracting the attention of those on the
other side of the door.

"Shall I call Jack?" Dorothy inquired, a faint smile of sarcasm touching
her lips; and she made a movement as though to reopen the door.

"No, no,—oh no!" exclaimed Aunt Penine in great alarm, as she
endeavored to regain her feet.

This she at length succeeded in doing, and stood with one hand against
the wall, while she groaned, but in a suppressed way.

Just then Mary Broughton came from a room farther down the hall,
where she had been delighting Aunt Lettice with soft melodies drawn from
the spinet, upon which both she and Dorothy were skilful performers.

"What is it—is anything amiss?" she asked quickly, coming up to Aunt
Penine, and laying a hand on her trembling shoulder.

But Aunt Penine only continued to groan dismally, while her niece, with
a laugh she did not try to hide, now came down the steps.

"Aunt Penine was evidently anxious to be of my father's council," she
said to Mary; "and I chanced to open the door too quickly for her, so that
she slipped down the steps and has twisted her ankle."

Her aunt straightened herself and glanced angrily at the girl, who only
laughed again, while Mary Broughton stood regarding her with a puzzled

look.

"Shall I help you to your room, Aunt Penine?" Dorothy asked with
elaborate politeness, holding out her arm.

"No," snapped her aunt. "I wish no assistance from you, whose sharp
tongue seems ever ready with insult for your elders. Mary will help me; and
ye may find Tyntie, and send her to my room." With this she hobbled away,
leaning heavily upon Mary, who looked back reproachfully at Dorothy.

But Dot only laughed again, as she turned and went to a door at the end
of the hall which communicated with a side passage leading to the servants'
quarters; then, having summoned Tyntie, she came back and seated herself
upon a lower step of the main staircase to await Mary's coming.

Her friend's first words were full of reproof. "Oh, Dot, how could you
seem so heartless?" she said. "You should see Aunt Penine's foot; 't is
swollen fearfully, and her ankle is discolored."

"If you but knew how it came about, Mary, perhaps you'd be less ready
to scold me," Dorothy replied, making room on the step. "There are weighty
matters being talked of in the dining-room yonder, and I was to tell you
what Jack took me in for. Aunt Penine came in with the punch while I was
there, and she tried to have me sent away. She was angry that father would
not do this, but bade her mind her business and let me alone. When I
opened the door just now, she was trying to listen to what they were saying,
and I came out so suddenly as to frighten her, so that she stumbled and hurt
herself. I am sorry she is hurt; but if it had befallen me, she'd have been
ready enough to say I'd but received my just deserts."

"Why should she try to listen at the door?" asked Mary with surprise, as
she twisted one of Dorothy's short curls about her slender fingers. But
Dorothy gave her head an unruly toss, to release the curl, as she had ever a
dislike for being fondled or touched in any way, unless it were by her father
or brother.

"There is really to be a war, and that soon," she replied. "The soldiers,
they say, are coming down to the Neck in a few days—perhaps even to-

morrow; and the people propose—and rightly, too—to fight them, if needs
be, should they try to interfere with our doings. Aunt Penine sides with the
English, I take it from what I've heard her say; and I know for a surety she
has been slyly making tea to drink, for all that father has forbidden it. He
and Aunt Lettice miss their tea as much as ever she does herself, and yet
they have never touched a drop. I intend to tell him to-morrow that I know
of a canful of tea in the store-closet. I was talking with Aunt Lettice about it
when you came this evening. She supposed there was not a grain of it in the
house, and I am sure father has been thinking the same. Aunt Penine is
deceitful and disloyal to him—and so I shall tell him, if I live, to-morrow
morning."

"Whatever did she expect to hear, that she did so mean and dishonorable
a thing as to listen at the keyhole?" Mary spoke musingly, a fine scorn now
touching her lips, and it was clear that her sympathy for the afflicted one
was greatly dampened.

"Perhaps she intends to play spy, as she disapproves so entirely of the
feeling the townsfolk all have. Spies are well paid, so I've heard; and Aunt
Penine would do anything for money." Dorothy's eyes flashed, and she
stared straight ahead, pulling at her front locks in an absent-minded way, as
though she were speculating over all the mischief her aunt might have in
view.

"She may mean nothing, after all, Dot," Mary said, after a moment's
thought. "It may be that she was only curious to know why you were
admitted to the room, while she and all the rest of us were kept out. Still, if
I were you, I'd tell my father of her listening."

"Indeed I shall," was the emphatic reply, "and of the tea as well. I have a
notion she got it all from Robert Jameson. You know what they tell of him;
and he and Aunt Penine seem to have a deal to say to one another these
days. She has sent Pashar to him with notes ever so many times, as I know;
and Pashar seems to have more silver nowadays than father gives him, for
he has, more than once, brought 'Bitha sweets from the store."

Mary nodded significantly at the mention of Robert Jameson's name. He
was the nearest neighbor of Joseph Devereux, and had come to be regarded

with distrust—enmity, indeed—by most of his former associates.

He was a widower of some wealth, and had no family; and Aunt Penine
had long been suspected of cherishing a desire to entrap him into a second
matrimony.

A few months before, an exceedingly complimentary, almost fulsome,
address to Hutchinson, the recent Governor, had appeared in the columns of
a newspaper known as the "Essex Gazette," to which were attached the
names of some residents of the town, Jameson's amongst them. It endorsed
all that had been said in praise of his administration, and of his aiming only
at the public good; and it asserted that such was the opinion of all thinking
and dispassionate citizens.

This manifest untruth had raised a storm of indignation. A town meeting
was held, and a committee appointed, with instructions to inform the
signers of this false and malicious statement that they would be exonerated
only by making a public retraction of all sentiments contained therein; and
that upon refusing to do this, they would be denounced as enemies of the
province, desiring to insult both branches of the legislature, and to affront
the town.

Jameson had been one of the few who refused to comply with the
committee's demand; and he had since been shunned as an enemy to the
cause, and looked upon with suspicion and distrust.

CHAPTER IX

The household was astir early the next morning to set the travellers on
their road with a warm meal and a parting word; and despite the absence of
Aunt Penine, all the domestic machinery moved as smoothly as usual.

There could still be seen a few stars, not yet blotted out by the pearly
haze, shot with palest blue, that the dawn was putting in front of them.

Over the sea hung a curtain-like gathering of fog, and the air was heavy
with the odors from the wood and fern, brought forth by the damp.

Nicholson Broughton, having borrowed a saddle from his host, had
decided to pursue the remainder of his journey on horseback; and he, with
his two younger companions, was now about to set forth.

Mary stood near her father's horse, while he gave her some parting
words of encouragement.

"Now bear in mind, Pigsney, all I have said, and never fail to keep a
watchful eye and stout heart. All at the house will go well until my return;
and do you abide here, safe and close, with our good friends. Be sure to
keep away from the town, and whether the Britishers come to the Neck or
no, you will be safe."

She promised all this, and turned away as he rode off, waving a farewell
to his host, who stood within the porch, with Aunt Lettice and little 'Bitha
alongside him.

Hugh Knollys followed, with a gay good-by to all, while John Devereux,
who had been talking with Dorothy, now vaulted into his saddle.

As he was about to start, Mary Broughton passed along in her slow walk
to the house. She turned, and their eyes met in a look that told of a mutual
understanding. But she flushed a little, while he only smiled, doffing his hat
as he rode slowly past her down the driveway.

Dorothy was waiting, close to her father, on the porch.

"Don't you wish you were a man, Mary," she said, as her friend came up
the steps, "so that you could ride away to do battle for our rights, instead of
being only a woman, to stop at home and wonder and worry over matters,
while the baking and churning must be done day after day?"

Her father smiled at this, and pinched Dorothy's cheek; then a sadness
came to his face as he looked at her.

"To be a woman does not always mean the doing of over-much baking or
housework," said Mary, with a meaning smile, her cheeks fresher and her
blue eyes brighter, like the flowers, from the pure morning air.

Joseph Devereux nodded an assent. "If you and Mary," he said to
Dorothy, "were to ride to Boston this day, who would there be to do what
you are entrusted with the doing on? Mark ye, my daughter," and he bent a
grave look upon her bright face, "women, as well as men, have high and
holy duties to perform,—aye, indeed, some of them even higher. Where
would come the nerve and hope for the proper ambition o' men's minds,
were there no mothers and wives and—sweethearts, to make their lives
worth the living, and their homes worth fighting for,—yes, and their
country so much more worth saving from oppression. Nay, my baby, what
would become o' your old father, if he had not a little maid to console him,
when his only son must needs face risks and dangers?"

Dorothy did not answer, but her face softened, and her arm stole up
about his neck.

"Dot," said Mary, presently, "do not forget the matter we talked of last
evening,—that your father was to know."

"And pray, what is that?" the old gentleman asked briskly.

"Come into the library, father, with Mary and me, and we will tell you."
And slipping her hand around his arm, she started to lead him in. Mary was
about to follow, when he turned to her and held out his other arm. With an
answering smile she placed her hand within it, and all three went inside.

Aunt Lettice had gone off to her own apartments, taking 'Bitha for her
usual morning instructing, and so they were not likely to be disturbed.

As soon as her father was seated, Dorothy, standing by the window, burst
forth with her accustomed vehemence.

"I want to tell you, father," she exclaimed, "that I am sure Aunt Penine is
a loyalist!"

"Chut, chut!" he replied reprovingly. But he smiled, used as he was to
the differences betwixt his daughter and her exacting relative.

"I have good reason for what I say," Dorothy insisted; "and Mary can tell
you so, as well."

"Well, child, first tell me all about it, and do not begin by misnaming any
one," her father said gently.

She told him in a few rapid words,—first, what had happened the
evening before, and ending by a detailed account of finding the tea in the
store-closet.

Her father was scowling ominously by the time the story was finished;
and he sat in silence for a few moments, his head bent, as though
considering what she had told him. Then he said: "I thank you, my child, for
what you have told me. I must speak with Penine o' these matters, and that
right away. Do you go, Dot, and tell her I wish to talk with her, and must do
so as soon as she can see me in her room."

"Why not let Mary go?" Dorothy suggested. "Aunt Penine likes Mary,
and she does not like me—nor I her." And she looked quite belligerent.

"I will be glad to go, if you say so," Mary offered, rising from her chair.

"Well, well," he said, "it matters little to me who goes; only I must see
her at once. And thank you, Mary, child, if you will kindly tell her so."

As soon as Mary left the room, Dorothy came over to her father's chair
and perched herself upon one of its oaken arms.

"And now there is another thing I wish to tell you," she said, "and I'd
best do it now."

He put an arm about her and smiled up into her troubled face.

"Well, well," he said playfully, while he smoothed her curls, "what a
wise little head it has grown to be all on a sudden! We shall be hearing soon
that Mistress Dorothy Devereux has been invited by the great men o' the

town—Lee and Orne and Gerry, and the rest o' them—to be present at their
next meeting, and instruct them on matters they wot not on, despite their
age and wisdom."

She would not smile at his badinage, but went on soberly to warn him of
what she suspected between her Aunt Penine and their ostracized neighbor,
Jameson,—telling him also of the unusual amount of coin being spent by
the boy, Pashar, whom she had seen carrying notes for her aunt.

The smile left her father's face as he listened to this, and he shook his
head gravely. And when she finished, he said, as though to himself, "'T is
the enemies in one's own household that are ever the most dangerous." Then
rising, he added, "Come with me, Dot, while I speak first to Tyntie."

The old Indian woman had been devoted to the interests of the family
since forty years before, when Joseph Devereux found her—a beaten, half-
starved child of ten—living with her drunken father in a wretched hut on
the outskirts of the town, and brought her to his own house for his wife to
rear and instruct. And because of her idolatrous love for her benefactor and
his family, she had endured patiently the exacting tyranny of Aunt Penine,
whom she detested.

Her tall, spare figure was now moving about her domain with a curious
dignity inseparable from her Indian birth; but she paused in what she was
doing the moment her master and his daughter appeared at the door, and
remained facing them in respectful silence.

She was alone, the men having gone off to their duties about the farm,
and the maids to the dairy, or to the housework above stairs.

"I desire to ask you, Tyntie," her master began, addressing her with the
same grave courtesy he would have used in speaking to the best-born lady
in the land, "if, since I forbade the making or using o' tea in my house, any
has been brewed?"

"Yes, master," she answered without any hesitancy; and a sly look, as of
revenge, crept into her black eyes.

"How dared ye do such a thing?" he demanded, his face severe with
indignation.

"I never did it," was her laconic reply.

"Then who did? I command ye to make a clean breast o' the matter." And
he struck his stick peremptorily upon the floor, while Dorothy, awed by the
unusual anger showing in his voice and bearing, drew a little away from
him.

"It was Mistress Penine brewed the tea, for her own drinking." And
Tyntie showed actual pleasure in being thus enabled to expose her
oppressor.

"And how often hath this happened since I gave strict orders that none
should be had or drunk in this house o' mine?"

"'Most every day; and sometimes more than once in the day."

"And how were you guarding your master's interests, to permit such
secret goings on under his roof, without giving him warning?"

The tears rose to Tyntie's eyes and stood sparkling there; but her voice
was firm as she replied, "It was not for me to know that Mistress Penine
was doing anything wrongful, nor for me, a servant, to come to you, my
master, with evil reports o' your own kinsfolk."

She spoke slowly and with calm dignity, and her words softened the
white wrath from the old man's face.

He bent his head for a moment, as though pondering deeply; then he
looked at her and said in a very different tone: "You are a right-minded,
faithful servant, Tyntie, and I must tell you I am sorry to have spoken as I
did a moment agone. But from this day henceforth, bear in mind that should
you ever see aught being done under my roof that you've heard me forbid, 't
is your bounden duty to come and inform me freely o' such matter."

"Yes, master." Tyntie now wiped her eyes, and looked very much
comforted.

"Now," he asked, his voice growing stern once more, "know you where
aught o' the forbidden stuff be kept, or if there still be any in the house?"

Tyntie went silently to the store-closet and fetched a sizable can of
burnished copper. This she opened and held toward her master and young
mistress, who saw that it was nearly half filled with the prohibited tea.

Joseph Devereux scowled fiercely as he beheld this tangible evidence of
Penine's bad faith and selfishness.

"Do you take that in your own hands, Tyntie, as soon as may be," he
said; "or no—take it this instant, down to the beach, and throw it, can and
all, into the water. And see to it that you make mention o' this matter to no
one."

Then turning slowly, he took his way again to the front of the house,
Dorothy following in silence, and feeling unwontedly awed by the
apprehension of the storm she felt was about to break; for it was a rare
matter indeed for Aunt Penine to be the one entirely at fault in anything.

CHAPTER X

Dorothy saw Mary Broughton on the porch outside and was about to join
her, when Mary turned and called out, "Aunt Penine is waiting to see your
father."

At this Dorothy retraced her steps to the library, where she had left her
father sitting in moody silence, tracing with his stick invisible writings upon
the floor, the iron ferule making angry clickings against the oaken polish.

He made no reply to the message she gave him; so, after pausing a
moment, she said again that her aunt was awaiting him.

"Yes, yes, child; I hear ye," he replied almost impatiently, and as though
not wishing to be disturbed.

Dorothy said nothing more, but went out and joined Mary, who was
waiting on the porch; and, arm in arm, they strolled out into the sunshiny
morning.

They had gone but a little way when Dorothy's sharp eyes spied Pashar
coming from a side door of the house. His black hand held something
white, which he was thrusting into the pocket of his jacket.

She called to him sharply, and he turned his head in her direction, while
his eyes rolled restlessly. But he made no movement to come to her, and
stood motionless, as though awaiting her orders.

"Come here!" she called peremptorily; but still he hesitated.

"Do you come here this instant, Pashar, as I bid you," she commanded,
now taking a few steps toward him.

At this he came forward, but in a halting way, and at length stood before
her, looking very ill at ease.

"Give me that letter," Dorothy demanded, extending her hand for it.

"Mist'ess Penine done say—" he began in a hesitating, remonstrative
fashion; but Dorothy cut him short.

"Give me that letter," she repeated, stamping her small foot, "or you'll be
sorry!"

Trained like a dumb beast to obedience, the negro boy fumbled in his
pocket and took out a folded paper which he handed to his imperious young
mistress.

"What'll I say ter Massa Jameson when I sees him?" he asked
tremblingly, as Dorothy's little white fingers closed over the letter. "He'll lay
his ridin'-whip 'bout my shoulders, if I goes ter him now."

"My father will surely lay his riding-whip about your shoulders, if you
go near Jameson again. I'll see to it myself that you get whipped, if you dare
do such a thing," exclaimed Dorothy; and the angry flashing of her dark
eyes bore witness to her sincerity.

"Now," she added, "go about your work,—whatever you have to do. And
mind, don't you dare stir a step—no matter who bids you—to Jameson's
place; else you will get into trouble that will make you wish you had
obeyed me."

With this she turned back with Mary in the direction of the house.

"Ye won't have me whipped, will ye, mist'ess?" Pashar whimpered, as he
looked after her. "Mist'ess Penine—she tole me I was ter go. An', 'sides, I
gets money from Massa Jameson for ev'ry letter I fetches him."

"I'll see presently about your getting whipped," was Dorothy's
uncomforting reply, as she glanced over her shoulder at the trembling boy.

The two girls walked quickly toward the house, while Pashar betook
himself off with a very downcast air, digging his black fists into his eyes as
if he felt only too certain of being punished for his wrongdoing.

Joseph Devereux was ascending the stairway, bound for his sister-in-
law's room, when the two girls came in from outside. Dorothy called
quickly, and speeding after him, placed the letter in his hand, as he paused
and turned to face her.

In a low voice she acquainted him with what she had taken upon herself
to do, adding, "I was fearful of what she might have told him, if perchance
she overheard anything last night of the gunpowder and arms."

"Wise, trusty little maid," he said, a slow smile touching the gloom of his
set face. "You have acted rightly and with great discretion, Dot. And now I
will see what Penine has to say o' the matters that look so grave, as we see
them."

Pausing at her closed door, on the left-hand side of the upper passage, he
knocked, and then entered, as her querulous voice, now somewhat subdued,
bade him.

Penine was lying back on a settle, a bright-hued patchwork of silk
thrown over her spare form; and her eyes showed traces of recent tears.

Her brother-in-law seated himself in an arm-chair near her, his face
grave to sternness, as he bent a piercing look upon her troubled face.

She cast a furtive glance at the paper he still held in his hand; then her
eyes fell, and she began to pluck nervously at the edge of the covering,
while her face became filled with an expression of guilty embarrassment.

"Penine," he began, in a voice quite low, but full of severity, "these be
times when, as you well know, it behooves a householder to look most
carefully to the doings of those about him. He must see to it that all
appearance, as well as doing, o' wrong be most strictly avoided. And so I
have come to ask you, as one o' my own household, how is it that you have

been brewing tea for yourself, after all that's been done and said; and how 't
is that you have such a supply of the stuff in my house?"

Penine flushed angrily, and tried to look him in the eyes, while her lips
half parted, as though to make some retort. Then she seemed to alter her
mind, for she remained silent, her eyes falling guiltily before his stern,
searching gaze.

"Do not seek to hide your fault by another one—o' falsehood," he
warned her, more sternly than before. "I know what I am accusing you of to
be the truth,—more's the pity. And it surprises and grieves me that a woman
o' such years as you should set a pernicious example to those who, younger
and inferior in station to yourself, look to you for a proper code of action
for their following."

"What harm is it, I would like to know," she burst out, but weakly, "that I
should drink my tea, if I like?"

"The harm you do is to defy your country's law, and make me seem
disloyal and false to my word of honor," he replied with increasing
sternness. "And this you have no right to do, while you abide under my
roof."

"My country's law is the law of His Gracious Majesty," she answered,
plucking up a little spirit, but yet unable to meet his dark, angry eyes, "and I
have never heard that he forbade his loyal subjects all the tea they could pay
for and drink."

"Do ye mean me to understand that ye set yourself up as the enemy o'
your townsfolk and kindred?" he demanded, his voice rising. "I've
suspected as much since I had knowledge o' the fact o' your sending notes
to Robert Jameson."

"You have no right to talk to me so, Joseph," she said, with a whimper,
terrified at the angry lighting of his face, now ablaze with wrath.

"And ye have no right to act in a manner that makes it possible for me to
presume to. If things be not so black against ye as they surely look, take this

note that ye sent my servant with just now, to be delivered to our country's
avowed enemy, and read every word aloud to me."

He held the letter toward her; but she made such an eager clutch for it
that a sudden impulse led him to change his mind, and he drew back his
hand.

"No," he said, "on second thought, 't is best that ye give me permit to
read it myself, aloud."

"No, no!" she exclaimed almost breathlessly; and the unmistakable terror
in her voice and eyes confirmed him in his determination to see for himself
the contents of the letter.

"I have to beg your pardon, Penine," he said with formal courtesy, "for
seeming to do a most ungallant act; but your manner only proves to me
what is my duty."

With this he deliberately broke the seal and ran his eyes over the paper,
while Penine cast one terrified glance at him, and then fell back, silent and
cowering, her ashy face covered by her trembling hands.

She had written Jameson of the intended landing of the arms and
powder. And Joseph Devereux knew she had done so with a view to having
him send word of the matter to the Governor, hoping in this way to win
honor and reward for the man she expected to lure into speedy wedlock.

He read the letter once more, and then sat silent, as though pondering
over all her selfish treachery and disloyalty. And while he was thus musing,
the clock on the mantel ticked with painful loudness, and some flies
crawling about the panes of the closed windows buzzed angrily.

When at length he spoke, his wrath seemed to have given place to pity,
mingled with utter contempt.

"I can scarce credit, Penine," he said slowly, all trace of anger gone from
his voice, "that you should have realized to the full all you were doing when
you took such a step,—that you were bringing the British guns down to slay

my son, an' like as not my innocent little maid; a fate which now, thank
God, has been kept from them."

His voice had become husky, and he paused to clear his throat. Then he
resumed, speaking in the same deliberate manner: "Because o' their
deliverance from death I will try and forgive what you have tried to do; but
I must not forget it, lest another such thing befall. And now, until you be
able to travel, you shall be made comfortable here. But so soon as your
ankle can be used, then you shall go to your brother, in Lynn, for no roof o'
mine shall harbor secret enemies to my country. And," now with more
sternness, "I warn you, that should you seek to hold converse or
communication of any sort with this man Jameson while you are in my
house, I shall report the matter to the town committee, and leave them to
settle with you."

He arose from his chair, and without another glance in her direction went
out of the room, leaving Penine in tears.

CHAPTER XI

The days intervening until Friday passed without event, and the
household affairs went on much as before, Tyntie proving herself fully
capable of replacing Aunt Penine as head of the domestic régime.

That lady kept her room, seeing no one except Tyntie and one of the
younger maids. She had refused all overtures extended by her niece and
Mary Broughton; and so, by the advice of the head of the house, they left
her to herself.

Even Aunt Lettice was refused admittance by her sister, and refrained
from seeking it a second time after being informed by Joseph Devereux of
the recent occurrences.

The gentle old lady now went about the house in a sad, subdued fashion,
secretly debating as to whether she would decide against King or Colony,
but carefully keeping her thoughts from being known to others.

Johnnie Strings had kept his word to Dorothy, and brought the ribbon
and lace. Aunt Lettice had paid him for the goods she purchased, making no
response when he said, as he strapped his pack, "The Britishers be quartered
on the Neck, ma'am,—landed there this very mornin'. The reg'lars,—they
came down by ships from Salem; an' a troop o' dragoons be ridin' over to
join 'em."

It was Mary Broughton who asked, "What are they come there for,
Johnnie,—do you know?"

"Any one can guess, mistress, I take it," he replied significantly, busying
himself with the buckles.

"And what do you guess, Johnnie?" asked Dorothy, who was examining
a sampler 'Bitha was working, which was to announce,—

"Tabitha Hollis is my name,
New England is my nation,
Marblehead is my dwelling-place,
And Christ is my Salvation."

Johnnie Strings finished his work with the straps and buckles; then
raising himself from the floor, he said jocosely: "Now, Mistress Dorothy,
surely ye don't care to burden your mind with matters o' state. Whatever
they be come down for, 't is a true fact that the redcoats be on the Neck,—a
hundred or more of 'em. An' as I was tellin' ye but t'other day, ye'd best keep
at home till they be called away again."

This was Thursday; and Friday morning the two girls, with 'Bitha, were
down in the Sachem's Cave, a small opening that ran, chasm-like, into the
rocks a few feet above the level of the sea, with a natural roof projecting
over it.

Within was a sandy floor,—whether or not the work of man, none living
could say. It was studded with shells, placed there by childish hands, and
the cave had served as playhouse for many generations of boys and girls.

The opening was hung about with a lace-like weed, wherein some drops
of water were now sparkling in the morning sunshine; and beyond,
stretching away to the horizon, could be seen the sea.

The waves creeping in against the shore broke with gentle plashings as
they touched the rocky base of the headlands; a wonderful serenity lay over
the face of the earth, and all between the land and horizon seemed a blank
and dreaming space of water.

"We are sure to have a fine night," Dorothy had just said, as she looked
out at the sea and sky.

"H-m-m," murmured Mary, warningly, and with a quick glance at 'Bitha,
who seemed to be poring intently over a small book she had taken from her
pocket.

"What are you reading, 'Bitha?" Dorothy asked; and the little girl came
close beside her.

It was Aunt Lettice's "Church Book;" and on the titlepage was:—

"A NEW VERSION OF
the
PSALMS
of
DAVID,
fitted to the Tunes ufed in the Churches:
With feveral Hymns
Out of the
Old and New Teftaments.
By John Barnard,
Paftor of a Church in Marblehead."

In the back part of the book was the music of several tunes such as were
used at that time in the churches; and amongst them was one known as

"Marblehead."

music score
* Copied literally from publication "printed by J. Draper for T. Leverett in
Cornhill 1752."

Good Parson Barnard had years since been laid away in his grave on the
old Burial Hill, which rose higher than all the land about, as though Nature
were seeking to lift as near as might be to the skies the dead committed to
her care.

The quaint child seemed to delight in pondering over these hymns, many
of which were past her comprehending; and the long s, so like an f, led her

to make many curious blunders when trying to repeat the words,—a thing
she was always proud to be asked to do.

Once she had insisted upon being told why it was that saints must have
"fits;" and it appeared that she had misread the long s in the sentence, "The
Saints that fit above."

Her greatest favorite, and the one she often read, was:—

"My Heart, like Grafs that's fmit with heat
Withers, that I forget to eat;
By reafon of my conftant Groans
I am reduced to fkin and Bones.
I'm like the Pelican, and Owl,
That lonely in the Deferts ftroll;
As mournful fparrows percht alone
On the Houfe Top, I walk and moan."

"Tell me, cousin,—what sort o' bottles does God have?" she now asked,
as Dorothy glanced at the book held against her knee.

"'Bitha!" Mary exclaimed reprovingly, while Dorothy stared at the child,
and began to laugh.

'Bitha could never endure to be laughed at; and being very fond of Mary
Broughton, she did not relish her disapproval. And so at this double attack
upon her sensibilities, she looked hurt and a bit angry.

"If," she demanded, "'t is wicked to say that God has bottles, what does
the Church Book say so for?" And she pointed to the open page.

"Whatever does the child mean?" asked Dorothy of Mary, as she took
the book into her own hands.

"There,—right there!" was 'Bitha's triumphant retort. "Read for
yourself!" And she trailed a small finger along the lines,—

"Thou hast a book for my complaints,
A bottle for my Tears."

"There!" the child repeated. "You see 't is so. Why should God keep
bottles in Heaven,—and what sort would He keep?"

"I think you will know more about such things when you grow older,"
was Dorothy's irresponsive answer; and she handed the book to Mary, while
her dancing eyes glinted with topaz hues caught from the sunshine without.

"You are an odd child, 'Bitha," Mary said, smiling in spite of herself as
she read the lines.

"That is what I am always told when I ask about anything," the little girl
pouted.

Before any reply could be made to this general accusation a shadow
darkened the opening of the cave, and looking up, all three sprang to their
feet with exclamations of dismay.

A vivid gleam of scarlet shut away the daylight, and a pair of sea-blue
eyes, set in an olive-hued face, were looking at them with much curiosity.

The two older girls stood speechless, facing the intruder, whose gaze
wandered with respectful curiosity over the regal form and gold-brown hair
of the one, whose mouth was decidedly scornful, as were also her steady
blue eyes, which regarded him fearlessly, despite her quaking heart.

Then the new-comer's eyes turned to the smaller figure; and a flash of
admiration came into them as his hand stole to his head and removed its
covering, while he said with unmistakable courtesy, "Do not be alarmed, I
beg of you,—I mean no harm."

"What do you want?" Mary Broughton demanded, seeming in no wise
softened by his gentle bearing.

"Only your good-will," he replied, with a smile that showed beautiful
teeth.

She flashed a scornful glance in return.

"Good will!" she repeated. "That is something we have not in our power
to give one who wears a coat the color of yours." She spoke defiantly,
looking the young man squarely in the face.

"Such words, uttered by such lips, almost make me coward enough to
regret the color," he said good-naturedly, and as though determined not to
take offence.

With this he took a step or two inside the cave; and small 'Bitha,
dismayed at the near approach of the scarlet-clad form, clung tightly to
Dorothy's gown, pressing her face into its folds.

"Speak him fair, Mary," Dorothy whispered, apprehending possible
danger from her friend's want of discretion.

But Mary did not hear, or else she did not care to heed, for she said:
"Neither your raiment, nor aught that concerns you, can matter to us. This is
our property you are trespassing upon; and I bid you begone, this moment."

"You are surely lacking in courtesy, mistress," he replied, still smilingly.

The words were addressed to Mary, but his glowing eyes were fixed
upon Dorothy, who was still standing with her arms about 'Bitha. The color
was coming and going in her cheeks, and something in the big eyes told
him that a smile was not far away.

"We have no courtesy for British soldiers," was Mary's haughty answer
to his imputation; and there was an angry tapping of her foot upon the shell
floor.

He shrugged his shoulders, and turning more directly away from Mary,
now spoke to Dorothy.

"I was only wandering about the shore," he declared, looking at her as
though pleading for her good-will, "and hearing voices as I stood on the
rocks above, I made bold to find out from whence they came."

Mary had not taken her eyes from his face, and now she was quick to
answer him.

"Well," she said, before Dorothy could speak, "having found where the
voices came from, you'd best go on about your own affairs and leave us to
ours."

"And what if I refuse?" he asked quickly, a flash coming from his eyes
as though she had at length nettled him.

"I should try to tumble you over the rocks at your back," she answered
with sudden anger; and she stepped toward him as if to carry out her threat.

He moved back hastily, and then, missing his footing on the slippery
granite, fell over backwards down the rocks.

Dorothy's shriek was echoed shrilly by little 'Bitha, while Mary stood as
though transfixed, looking at the opening through which the young man had
disappeared.

Dorothy was the first to find her voice. "Mary," she cried in terrified
reproach, "you have made him fall into the water, and perhaps he will
drown. Whatever shall we do?"

Mary did not reply, but speeding to the entrance of the cave, looked out
over the uneven ledges.

The Britisher was lying, apparently unconscious, only a short distance
below her, his shoulders caught in a deep seam of the rocks, while the rest
of his body lay along a narrow ledge a few feet lower.

"There he is," she said, turning a white face to Dorothy,—"lying there in
the rocks."

Putting 'Bitha aside, Dorothy came and looked down.

"See the blood on his face!" she exclaimed wildly. "'T is coming from a
cut on the side of his head. Oh, Mary, I'm afraid you have killed him!"

Mary started to reply; but Dorothy had already sprung past her through
the mouth of the cave, and was flying down the rocks to where the wounded
man lay.

Tearing the silken kerchief from about her neck, she knelt beside him
and endeavored to wipe the blood from his face, while Mary watched her in
silence from above, with 'Bitha clinging to her, and crying softly.

"I must have some water, Mary," said Dorothy, who saw that the blood
came from a cut in the side of the young man's head, "and I want another
kerchief. Throw down yours."

Mary, without replying, tossed down her own kerchief, but without
removing her eyes from the white face beneath her.

Dorothy ran to the sand-beach near by, and, having dabbled her bloody
kerchief in the water, hurried back; then laying it folded upon the wound,
she bound it fast with the one Mary had thrown her, lifting the sufferer's
head as she did this, and holding one of his broad shoulders against her
knee, while her nimble fingers deftly tied the knots.

Scarcely had she finished when she was startled, but no less relieved, to
hear a long, quivering sigh come from his lips; and her color deepened as
she looked into his face and met his opening eyes gazing wonderingly into
her own. Then they wandered over her bared neck and throat, only to return
to her eyes, dwelling there with a look that made her voice tremble as she
said, "We are sorry you are hurt, sir; I hope it is nothing serious."

He made no reply, and, after a moment's pause, she asked, "Do you feel
able to stand on your feet?"

Still he did not answer, but gave her that same intent, questioning look,
as if gazing through and beyond the depths of the eyes above him.

As she stammeringly repeated her inquiry, he sighed heavily, and seemed
to shake his dreaming senses awake, for, raising himself a little, he passed
his shapely brown hand over his bandaged head, and laughed, albeit not
very mirthfully.

"The other fair young dame must be rejoiced at my mishap," he said,
"but—I thank you for your care. I seem to have done something to my head,
for it feels like a burning coal." And he touched the bandage over the
wound.

"It is the salt water, getting into the cut," Dorothy explained, as he rose
slowly and stood before her. "I am very sorry it is so painful; but it will stop
the bleeding."

"As it was you who placed it there, I like it to burn," he said in a tone to
reach her ears alone. "But I'll not forget, even when the pain ceases." And
he looked down into her face in a way that made her eyes droop.

"I regret very much, sir, that you were injured," said Mary Broughton,
her voice coming from over his head.

He glanced up at her and bowed mockingly. Then stooping to regain his
hat, he said, bending his eyes on Dorothy, "Tell me the name I am to
remember you by."

She did not answer; and he stood looking at her as though awaiting her
pleasure.

"That can be no matter," she said at last, and in a very low voice.

"Ah, but it is—a very great matter," he exclaimed eagerly, laying a hand
on her arm, as she turned away to climb up to the cavern.

Some inward force seemed to be impelling her, and scarcely aware of
what she was saying, she murmured her own name, and he repeated it after
her.

This brought a still deeper color to her cheeks; but as if remembering all
she had so strangely forgotten in the presence of this enemy of her country,
she pushed away his detaining hand, and passed quickly up the rocks to
where Mary was standing.

The young man said nothing more, but looked up at the two; then lifting
his hat, he turned and walked slowly away.

CHAPTER XII

He had scarcely gone when the two girls made haste to leave the cave
and return to the house.

"'T is most unfortunate for us, Dot, that he found the cave, or that all this
should befall," said Mary, as they went down the rocks. "You know what we
have to do to-night; and it may make our work dangerous, now that he has
been here."

A soft whistle interrupted Dorothy's reply; and looking up, they saw the
lean visage of Johnnie Strings, who was perched upon the rocks above the
cave they had just left.

Having attracted their attention, the pedler made haste to join them.

"Well, I snum!" he exclaimed. "Mistress Mary, whatever was the
Britisher seekin' about here, an' talkin' about? What ailed his head, all tied
up, like 't was hurt?"

"He said he heard us talking, and came to see who it was," small 'Bitha
took it upon herself to explain, "and Mary Broughton pushed him down the
rocks."

Johnnie began to laugh, but Dorothy turned to the child and said, "'Bitha,
you know that it is not true, for he stepped backward himself, and fell over."

"Yes; but 't was Mary made him," 'Bitha insisted. "And, 'though I was
sorry to have him hurt, I was glad Mary made him go away."

"Were you there all the time, Johnnie Strings, and never came nigh to
help us?" demanded Mary, indignantly. They were now walking along
together, for Johnnie seemed inclined to accompany them to the house.

"Nay, nay, mistress," he declared emphatically, but still grinning, as
though vastly pleased. "But I should say ye needed no help from me to
frighten away redcoats. I only came up as I heard Mistress Dorothy say
you'd made him fall into the water. Then I sat an' watched her tie up his
head,—more 's the pity; for belike he'll only use it to hatch more deviltry
for his soldiers to carry out hereabouts."

"Do you know who he is?" inquired Dorothy, her face taking on a little
more color.

"Yes, mistress,—he is a dragoon. I saw him over at Salem t' other day.
They call him Cornet Southorn; an' I only hope he don't get to know my
face too well." Johnnie winked as he said this, and his voice had a note of
mystery.

"I don't believe he would ever harm us," said Dorothy, paying no
attention to the pedler's anxiety concerning himself.

Johnnie's eyes fastened upon her glowing face with a look of surprise as
he remarked grimly, "He's a Britisher, an' our sworn enemy."

On the porch of the house they found Joseph Devereux, who listened
with frowning brows while the girls told him of their adventure.

"Go within, child, to the grandame," he bade 'Bitha, when they had
finished; and as soon as she was gone he said to the pedler, "Now, Strings,
you may, or may not, know aught o' the work in hand for the night."

The pedler nodded understandingly. "Me an' Lavinia Amelia jogged a bit
o' the mornin' down road with the party from here, an' I was reckonin' to
offer my help, should it be needed. I was on my way this very mornin' to

tell ye that Master Broughton an' the rest thought I'd better have some of
our own men 'round hereabouts, handy for the powder party to-night."

"'T is best that you do so, as matters have turned out. And 't is wiser that
you be trusted to give the signals to the 'Pearl,' for a safe landing o' the stuff,
and that Mary and Dorothy be left out o' the matter altogether. 'T is no work
for women to risk, with the British soldiery skulking about the place."

The day passed without event, save that a number of men—mostly
brawny, weather-beaten sailors—came to the house, to go away again after
a private converse with Joseph Devereux.

Johnnie Strings was about the place all day,—now wandering down to
the beach to look out over the wide expanse of ocean, as he whittled
unceasingly at a bit of stick and whistled softly to himself, or else sitting on
the steps of the porch, telling wonderful stories to 'Bitha. But wherever he
was, or what doing, his keen little eyes were always roving here and there,
as though on the lookout for something unexpected.

It was evident that he was nervous and ill at ease; and this, for Johnnie
Strings, was a new thing.

Toward sunset he arose from the porch steps and gave a great sigh, as of
relief that the day was ended. Then, without a word to any one, he tramped
off in the direction of the Neck.

"'T is as well," he muttered to himself, "to see what the devils be doin',
an' if they be like to suspect what is goin' on about 'em."

The sunset was of marvellous beauty. It was as if all the golds, purples,
and scarlets of the hour had been pounded to a fine dust, and this was
rolling in from over the ocean in one great opaline mist.

The waves, curling in to break upon the sands of Riverhead Beach,
seemed to be pouring out flames and sparks; while the quieter waters of
Great Bay, on the other side of the causeway, looked as though shot through
with long, luminous rays of light, that slanted athwart the mists of prismatic

coloring, to withdraw swiftly now and again, like search-lights seeking to
probe the clear water to its uttermost depths.

But the far-off eastern horizon held aloof from all this glory. It stood out
like a wall of pearl and cold gray, with no sail showing against it to Johnnie
Strings' sharp eyes, as he took his way across the narrow strip of causeway
that left the Devereux estate behind, and led to the Neck and the enemy's
camp.

The pedler knew nothing of the passion called love, else he would never
have been so lacking in shrewdness as to formulate the scheme now
working in his mind. And this, notwithstanding the suspicion that had shot
through his wide-awake brain at the way he had seen Cornet Southorn
looking into the downcast face of Dorothy Devereux, and had noted later
her words in his defence.

His present idea—and one that had been gathering force all day—was to
see the young officer, and while pretending to have come solely to inquire
as to his injury, to so lead the talk as to impress upon his mind the
needlessness of watching the Devereux place or household, which he
should be made to understand consisted only of the women-folk and one
enfeebled old gentleman,—the son being away in Boston.

And now, as he neared the enemy's quarters, he chuckled to himself at
the cleverness of his scheme.

The British troops had taken possession of the entire Neck, occupying
several large warehouses standing near the end, and appropriating even the
buildings used by the lighthouse-keeper and his wife, who, with her two
children and as many of her most precious possessions as she could carry,
had gone across the bay to abide with friends in the town.

Johnnie Strings knew this, and gritted his teeth in silent rage as he saw a
group of redcoats standing around a fire where they were cooking some of
the good woman's chickens for their evening meal.

They hailed him good-naturedly, and invited him to join them, several of
the soldiers recognizing him as one from whom they had purchased certain

things necessary for their comfort.

But he declined their offer, and pulling his hat well over his forehead, the
better to conceal his features, went on beyond to another group, and
demanded to be taken to the presence of Cornet Southorn, speaking in a
way to imply that he had an important message for that officer.

He was ushered at once into the front room of the lighthouse-keeper's
abode, where, upon a settle drawn near the window overlooking Great Bay,
sat the personage he desired to see.

The young man's head was still bandaged, and the table before him with
food and dishes upon it was evidence of his having supped alone; this
confirming what Johnnie Strings had suspected,—that the soldiers upon the
Neck were at present under the charge of Cornet Southorn.

Captain Shandon, who should have been there,—an elegant fop, high in
favor with the Governor,—was sure to avoid any rough service, such as
this, preferring to remain until the last moment in Salem, where better fare,
both as to food and wines, to say naught of the gentler sex, was to be had.

Johnnie Strings stood in the shadow, without removing his hat, as Cornet
Southorn demanded pleasantly enough to know his business.

"I came to see how your head was doin' at this hour o' the day, young
sir," the pedler answered in an obsequious tone.

As the last two words came from his lips, the officer scowled. He was
only five-and-twenty, and looked still younger; and he was boyish enough
to resent any familiarity grounded upon his seeming youth.

"Have a care, old man, as to how you address His Majesty's officers," he
said with some severity, accompanied by a pompousness illy in keeping
with his frank, boyish face.

"I meant no harm, Cornet Southorn," the pedler replied in an apologetic
way. "I saw ye over at Salem t' other day, when I was peddlin' my wares
there; an' I've been all day at the house o' Mistress Dorothy Devereux, the

young lady who tied up your hurt head this mornin'. And so"—here Johnnie
smiled knowingly—"I came to see if ye were any the worse for your fall,
which might have been a bit o' bad luck, had not the ledge caught ye an'
held ye from slippin' into the sea."

The young man's manner changed at once.

"Did Mistress Dorothy Devereux send you to inquire?" he asked eagerly.

"She send me?" said the pedler cautiously, and lowering his voice.
"Lawks! 't is well her old father don't hear ye; 'though sure he be that feeble
he's good for little but tongue fight, an' the only son be away to Boston for
this many a day. An' that," he went on to say quickly, seeing that the young
man was about to speak, "is one reason why 't is well for me to be about the
place till the brother cares to come home, with all those women-folk there,
an' no man but the old father, who is feeble, as I've said. An' 't is not very
safe for them, who be easily frighted by strange men comin' 'round,
'specially soldiers."

This was a long speech for Johnnie to make, and he watched narrowly its
effect upon the young officer. This was soon apparent, for he said at once,
"You have done well to tell me of this, and I'll see to it that none of my men
cause any annoyance to the ladies."

He fell so neatly into the trap that Johnnie Strings could scarcely keep
from laughing outright; but all he said was—and very meekly: "Ye be most
kind, sir, an' I'll tell Mistress Dorothy what ye say. An' I'll tell her as well
that your head be none the worse for its thumpin' on the rocks." With this he
backed toward the door.

"No, no," said Southorn, "my head is all right. But come back, won't
you,—come and have something to drink before you go?" And he pounded
vigorously on the table.

But Johnnie declined, with many thanks, asserting that he never drank
anything,—a statement fully in accord with his fictitious story concerning
the Devereux household. But he reckoned upon having accomplished his

purpose, and so bowed himself out, just as a red-faced orderly appeared in
response to his officer's summons.

"Never mind, Kief," said the latter, as the soldier stood stiffly in the
doorway awaiting his orders. "I don't need you now." Then, as the man
saluted and turned to go, he asked, "Who is that fellow who just left? Do
you know?"

"Johnnie Strings, sir, the pedler; 'most everybody knows 'im 'twixt
Boston town and Gloucester."

"Ah, yes, I've heard of him before. That is all, Kief; you may go."

As soon as he was alone, Kyrle Southorn, Cornet in His Majesty's
Dragoons, bethought himself of how strangely lacking he had been in
proper dignity during his brief interview with this humble pedler; and a
feeling of sharp anger beset him for a moment as he took himself to task for
his unofficerlike demeanor and manner of speech.

Then came a mental picture of the distracting face he had seen that same
morning; he seemed to be looking once more into the girl's eyes, and
feeling the soft touch of her little hands about his head.

He recalled all this, and gave utterance to a queer, short laugh, as though
in the effort to excuse his folly.

"Either that girl has bewitched me," he muttered, lying back in his chair,
"or else the cut in my head has been making me addlepated all day." And he
let his gaze wander out through the window, where the dusk was coming
fast, blotting out the fort and town like a dark veil, pierced here and there by
the dimly twinkling lights showing from the houses.

"I wonder if she sent the fellow?" his thoughts ran on. "She told me she
was sorry for my being hurt, and she looked it. But the other—the fair one
—she was a tartar." And he laughed again at the recollection of Mary
Broughton's angry blue eyes and dauntless bearing.

"From what I've seen of these folk," he said, now half aloud, "it will be
no easy matter to suppress their meetings and make them obey His
Majesty's laws. They seem not to know what fear or submission may
mean." Then, after pondering a few minutes, "I wonder if it would not be a
wise thing for me to call upon this man Devereux, as he is so old and
feeble, and assure him and his women-folk that I will see to it they be not
molested—annoyed in any way? I might see her again,—I might come to
know her; and this would be very pleasant." And now his thoughts trailed
away into rosy musings.

If Johnnie Strings had not added fresh fuel to the fire already kindled in
the breast of the impetuous young Englishman by Dorothy's sweet face and
pitying eyes,—had he not made it burn more fiercely by giving him reason
to believe that she had sent to inquire for his welfare,—he might not have
thought to carry out his present impulse.

He was seized by a strong desire to see for himself the place where she
dwelt,—to look upon her surroundings,—to make more perfect the picture
already in his mind, by adding to it the scenes amid which her daily life was
passed.

Such was the young man's desire; and his was a nature whose longing
was likely to manifest itself by acts, and more especially now, in the very
first heart affair of his life.

As soon as the guards were posted and the countersign given out, he
discarded his uniform for a fisherman's rough coat, and put on a large
slouch hat, which covered his head, bandage and all. And thus attired, he set
forth alone to visit the scene of his morning's adventure, and to investigate
its surroundings.

CHAPTER XIII

The night was clear, bright, and starlit, with not a wreath of vapor
drifting. The rising wind moaned through the woods about the Devereux
homestead, that loomed, a dark mass, and silent as a deserted house.

From the shore below came the hoarse roar of the tumbling water, to
mingle with the wailing murmur of the wind; and now and then could be
heard, clear-cut and eerie, the cry of a screech-owl from the woods.

As evening closed in, Joseph Devereux had ordered that no lights be
shown about the house, lest they might attract the attention of any
straggling soldiers; and he felt assured that this warning would be sufficient
to intimidate the women into the greatest caution.

As for the men, they were all, even old Leet, out with the party watching
at the "Black Hole,"—a bit of the sea shut in by a wood that bordered a
wide sweep of meadow known as the "Raccoon Lot." It was here that the
expected powder and arms were to be concealed by burying them in the
earth, after being wrapped in oilskin coverings.

Johnnie Strings had gone alone to the Sachem's Cave, ready to give the
signal.

The cave was somewhat farther down the shore, and a light shown above
it could be plainly seen from the open sea.

The rising wind piped softly about the closed window where Mary
Broughton was sitting in the starlight, absorbed in her own anxious
thoughts, until aroused by something unusual in Dorothy's appearance and
manner of moving about. The girl was at the farther side of the unlit room,
and Mary asked her what she was doing.

A low laugh was the only answer; and upon the question being repeated,
Dorothy came to the window, and Mary saw that she was clad in a complete
suit of boy's clothes.

The unexpected transition was so startling that for a moment she could
not speak, but sat looking at Dorothy in amazement.

"Oh, Dot," she then exclaimed, "you should take shame to yourself for
doing such a thing!"

She could see, even in the gloom, the wilful toss of Dorothy's head,
whose curls were let down and tied back with a ribbon, thus completing the
masculine disguise.

"Whatever are you thinking about, to play such pranks at a time like
this?" Mary demanded reproachfully.

"That is just it, Mary," Dorothy replied. She seemed in no wise abashed,
but spoke with perfect seriousness. "I do it because of the time, and of what
is going to happen to-night. Father said 't was not safe for us to go abroad,
because we wore petticoats. Now here is this old suit Jack outgrew years
ago, and I've always kept it to masquerade in; but to-night it will serve me
in a more serious matter. I cannot stop in the house; I am too anxious about
Jack. I want to see him and the others get ashore in safety; and I've no fear
but, dressed in this way, it will be easy for me to do so."

"But you must not," Mary protested. "How can you dare to think of such
a thing? Suppose some of the men should recognize you,—and they will be
keeping a sharp lookout for strangers—what would your father say?" And
she began to have thoughts of seeing him, and so frustrating this wild
scheme.

"I tell you I must go, and will go, Mary; so do not try to prevent me. I
know every inch of ground hereabouts, and can easily keep out of the way,
even should any one try to hinder me. Why will you not go with me?"

Dorothy spoke quietly, but very earnestly; and as she finished, she
placed both her hands on Mary's shoulders, as though to compel her
consent.

Mary hesitated. There was in her own heart a like desire to that of the
younger girl; she, too, wished to get out of doors, and see all that should
take place. But she held herself to be more prudent than the impulsive
Dorothy, and so for a time she demurred with her inclination.

But it was only for a time. Dorothy's impetuous arguments fairly swept
her off her balance, as usually happened with any one who was fond of the
girl; and Mary agreed to be her companion.

It was some minutes after this when the two stole noiselessly down the
back stairway and let themselves out of the door opening toward the sheds
at the rear of the house. As Dorothy locked it on the outside and put the key
in her pocket, she whispered: "We might have bribed Tyntie to let us out,
but 't is as well not to risk getting her into trouble. I shall tell father all about
it to-morrow, and I know of a certainty he'll not be angry. To be sure, he
may scold me a little; but"—with a low laugh—"I can soon kiss him into
good humor again."

"Don't you think, Dot, it is rather of a shame,—the way you do things,
and then tell your father afterwards?" Mary asked as they walked along.

"Assuredly not," was the ready answer, "else I might not get so many
chances to 'do things,' as you call it. I never do aught that is really wrong; I
love my father far too dearly for that. But I am young, and he is old; and
that, I suppose, is why we do not think alike about all matters. He has often
said I ought to have been a boy, and I agree with him; though I dare say I
shall be a proper enough old maid some day. Only," with a laugh, "I cannot
quite imagine such a thing."

"No," said Mary, looking into Dorothy's eyes, bright as the stars that
were now being shut away by the branches of the trees in the woods they
were entering; "no—nor I. But we'd best stop our chattering and use our
eyes and ears. Heavens! what's that?" And she clutched Dot's arm in sudden
fright as a wild cry rang out directly over their heads.

"Pooh!" said Dorothy, with a laugh, "'t is but an old hoot-owl. If you'd
been in the woods as much as I, you'd not be frightened so easily."

They came to a halt at the edge of the timber growth overlooking the
rock peak above the Sachem's Cave, and crouched among the bushes to
watch for the light, keeping a lookout as well upon the sea, for the first
signal from the ship.

And there they remained, listening to the incessant crying of the insects
in the grass and the rustling of the wind in the trees overhead, these being
mingled with the never-ceasing sound of the sea, as the breakers of the
incoming tide flung themselves against the boulders with a quavering roar
that seemed to pulse the air like great heart-throbs.

Presently Mary whispered, "Why not let us go and stop beside Johnnie
Strings?" Then quickly, "Oh, I forgot—the way you are dressed would
make it imprudent."

"I should not care very much for Johnnie Strings," Dorothy began; but
Mary said hastily,—

"Oh, no, Dot, 'twould never do."

A long silence ensued, broken at length by Mary saying in a tone of
alarm, "Oh, Dot, whatever would we do, if your father went to speak to you
for somewhat, and should not find us in the house at this late hour?"

"No fear of such a thing," was the confident reply. "He has made sure
long since that I am abed and asleep."

It was half-past ten of the clock when the two girls left the house; and so
they reckoned it must be now several minutes after the next hour.

"Suppose it should be far into the night before the ship comes in sight,"
Mary suggested, for she was beginning to feel cramped and uncomfortable.
"Let's not wait for so long a time as that."

"No, we will not," Dorothy assented with a yawn. But the next moment
she was all alive, with her small fingers holding Mary's arm in a tight clutch
as she whispered excitedly: "Look, Mary—there it is! There was one light,
and 't is gone. Now there are the two; and there comes the third, as Jack
said."

The girls arose and stood erect in eager interest, looking out over the
water, where, several hundred yards from shore, the lights gleamed and then
disappeared. And now their eyes, accustomed to the gloom, discerned a

slim blackness, as of a man's form, appear on the highest point of rocks
above the cave; and then a soft glow of tremulous light illumined the
darkness.

While they watched this, they were startled to see a taller figure spring
from the shadows, and a second later the two seemed to melt into one
enlarged blur, as if they were struggling.

Quick as thought the boyish form beside Mary broke from the bushes
and sped with flying steps toward the peak.

"Dot—Dot—come back!" cried Mary, regardless now of who might hear
her. "Whatever are you thinking to do?"

A low but clear reply came to her from over Dorothy's shoulder.

"The lanterns—they must be put out, else Jack may be hurt!"

On, on, she flew, with no fear of the peril into which she might be
rushing,—with no heed of her unmaidenly garb. Her mind held but the one
thought,—that the lanterns must be extinguished, for danger threatened her
brother and his companions if they should seek to land unwarned.

So absorbed were the men in their fierce wrestling that neither of them
saw nor heard the slight figure that came straight up to them, and then,
dashing at the lanterns, sent them flying into the water beneath.

Then the larger of the two, catching sight of the intruder, relaxed his hold
on the other; and Johnnie Strings, with a derisive whoop, twisted his wiry
little body from the slackened grip and sped down the rocks and away into
the night.

"You young rascal, what does all this mean?" demanded Southorn, for he
it was; and seizing the boyish shoulder firmly, he shook the slender form.

Dorothy, although greatly overcome by agitation now that her brave
deed was accomplished, thought she recognized the voice that addressed
her so roughly, and was silent from embarrassment.

"Are you dumb?" the Englishman asked angrily, shaking her again.
"Speak up, you young rebel, or I may try what a salt-water bath will do for
the unlocking of your stubborn tongue."

"Stop shaking me, you great—brute," Dorothy gasped indignantly.
"Have you no—manners?"

At sound of the soft-toned voice, Southorn seemed to feel that he was
dealing with no yokel, as he had supposed; and now, peering closely, he saw
that the head of his prisoner was finely shaped, and the features refined and
delicate.

"If you object to rough treatment, my young friend," he said a little more
gently, "you should not put your nose into such doings as these." But he still
kept a firm hold of the arm and shoulder, as though to stifle any idea of
escape.

"I should say 't was you who deserved rough usage,—coming onto my
father's land at this hour, and putting your nose into business that can in no
wise concern you." Dorothy had by this time fully recovered her
composure, and being certain as to the completeness of her disguise, spoke
with saucy assurance.

"Your father's land!" exclaimed the young man, in evident surprise.
"Pray, who is your father?"

"A gentleman who has no great taste for stranger folk prowling about his
estate." She gave her arm and shoulder a slight twitch, as though to loosen
them from his hold. But this he would not have, although his voice had a
still milder sound as he asked, "Is your name Devereux?"

"And whether it is or not," she answered, "pray tell me what matters it to
you?"

"It matters this to me," he said quickly: "that if it is, then I'll let you off,
and will go on my way, although I don't quite like the looks of the doings
I've seen on this rock, and out there on the water."

"By the Holy Poker!" Dorothy exclaimed, bent upon keeping up the part
she had assumed. "But you talk as if you were the Lord High Cockalorum
himself! Who are you, to say what you do and do not like here, on my
father's premises?"

"Never mind who I am. Perhaps I can make more trouble for your father
and his household than you are able to understand. But answer what I have
asked, and you'll not be sorry."

Dorothy could not fail to note the earnestness with which he spoke, nor
the intent look she felt rather than saw in the dim light. But she met all this
with a mocking air and tone as she said, "Since you make it so worth my
while to be kind to my neighbors, how know you but I might see fit to tell
you an untruth, and say my name was Devereux, when it may be Robinson,
or anything else?"

"If this is your father's estate, then your name must be Devereux,"
Southorn asserted; "for the place is owned by one Joseph Devereux, as I
have been told. So there's an end to your telling me anything misleading.
And now answer me this,—know you the one who is called Mistress
Dorothy Devereux?"

Dot waited a moment before answering. A new scheme had sprung into
her quick-witted brain,—one that promised an effective means of getting rid
of his embarrassing presence, this being likely to interfere seriously with
the landing of the arms and powder, were that still in contemplation.

She was wondering, too, what had become of Mary Broughton, and what
she was doing all this time.

"Answer me," the young Britisher repeated sharply, "do you know her?"
And he gave a shake to the arm he still held.

"You seem over-fond of shaking folk, sir," she remonstrated. "I wish
you'd let go my arm." And she pulled it impatiently.

"I will let it go at once, if you'll only tell me what I wish to know."

"And what may that be?" she asked, with an innocent sang-froid that
plainly angered him.

"You are a saucy boy," he said impatiently. "You remember well enough
what I asked you. Do you know Mistress Dorothy Devereux?"

"Aye," was the quick reply; "I know her as well as you know your own
face that you see in the glass every day." She stood rubbing the arm he had
now released, and upon which his grip had been unpleasantly firm.

"Ah—then she is your sister." He had moved so as to stand directly in
front of the slight figure, whose head reached but half-way up his own
broad chest.

She looked at him for a second and then burst into laughter.

"I know you now," she said. "You must be the Britisher she told of this
morning,—the one who came here, and whom Mary Broughton frightened
so badly that he fell over and cut his head." And again the mocking laugh
came from her ready lips.

"I don't believe your sister told you any such untruth," said the irritated
young man. "I missed my footing, and fell; that was all. I meant no
rudeness, although the lady you name—Mary Broughton, did you call her?
—seemed not to believe me."

"Mary has but little taste for a redcoat," was the dry retort.

"And judging from your own tone, you share her taste," he said, now
quite good-naturedly, for he found himself taking a strong liking to this
bright, free-speaking lad.

"I? Oh, I don't know," was the careless answer. "Do you not think I am
somewhat too young to have much of an opinion upon such matters?"

He smiled, but without replying. Then Dot came closer to him and said
in a low voice, "At any rate, I am good-natured enough to say I can show
you something that you, being His Majesty's officer, had best know about."

"What is it?" the young man asked. He was now looking around for his
hat, which, together with the bandage about his head, had fallen off during
his struggle with the pedler.

Dorothy's sharp eyes were the first to catch sight of these; and she picked
them up and handed them to him, noting with an odd feeling that he placed
the bandage inside his coat and over his heart.

"It is something you may or may not care to see," she replied. "Only I'll
warrant you'll be sorry if another reports it first; for I shall show it to the
next Britisher who comes this way."

"Very well," he said; "let me see it."

Without further parley, and suspecting a nest of concealed firearms, or
something of the like, he followed her down the rocks, going with slow
caution, while she went more rapidly and soon stood below, waiting for
him. And then, side by side, they set off inland.

Dorothy, skirting as closely as was prudent the woods where she
reckoned Mary was still hiding, took care to remark to her companion, in a
voice loud enough to reach her friend's ears, that it would not take over ten
minutes to reach their destination, and that then he had best go his own way.

CHAPTER XIV

Mary Broughton was where Dorothy suspected her to be; and standing
well back among the deeper shadows, she had been straining her eyes to see
all that took place on the rocky platform above the cave.

She marvelled greatly at the lengthy converse Dorothy seemed to be
holding with the stranger, after Johnnie Strings disappeared over the side of
the rocks in the direction of Riverhead Beach; and she had started out of the

wood, half determined to go and meet the younger girl, when she saw her
leaving the peak.

A prudent afterthought led her to draw back again when she saw the two
forms swallowed up in the deeper darkness lying at the base of the rocks.
Then, hearing steps coming toward her hiding-place, she was on the point
of calling out, when Dorothy's words came to her ears, and she remained
silent, but still wondering what scheme her friend was pursuing, and who
was the stranger with whom she seemed to be upon such excellent terms.

Then came the impulse that she had better find her way to the Black
Hole, and tell the waiting party of what had happened; and acting upon this,
she set out at once.

She had not gone very far when there came to her the sound of tramping
feet; and hastening to get out of the more open part of the wood, she drew
aside amongst the denser growth.

She now heard a low-pitched voice singing a snatch of an old song,
trolling it off in a rollicking fashion that bespoke the youth of the singer,—

"We hunters who follow the chase, the chase,
Ride ever with care a race, a race.
We care not, we reck not—"

Here the song was silenced by another voice which Mary recognized as
that of Doak, an old fisherman, who growled: "Belay that 'ere pipin', Bait.
Hev ye no sense, thet ye risk callin' down the reg'lars on us with such a
roarin'?"

They were now quite near; and slipping out of the bushes, Mary called
out, "Doak, is that you?"

"Who be it?" he demanded quickly, while all the other men came to a
halt.

"It is I—Mary Broughton. Don't stop to question me, but listen to what I
have to tell you."

She told them in the briefest possible way of what had happened. And in
doing this, she deemed it wiser to tell them of Dorothy's disguise, being
fearful of what might befall the girl should the men chance to meet her,—
more especially as they would now be on the lookout for the stranger, who
was doubtless an ill wisher to their scheme.

Doak chuckled mightily over it all, particularly at Mary's description of
Dorothy kicking the lanterns off the rock; and several of the other men gave
hoarse utterance to their admiration.

"Ev'ry natur' be fitted for its own app'inted work," remarked old Doak,
dogmatically. "If Mistress Dorothy had not allers been darin', by the natur'
o' things, she'd never a ketched holt o' the right rope so true an' quick as she
hev this night,—God bless her!"

Here a younger voice broke in impatiently with, "But, Doak, we ought
n't to stand here chatterin' like this."

"True, true, Tommy Harris," the old man replied good-naturedly. "But,"
turning to Mary, "what shall ye do, Mistress Mary? Hed n't ye best let one o'
the boys tek ye to the house? Ye see we be goin' down to the shore to
Master John an' the rest of 'em, as was 'greed we should as soon as we saw
the 'Pearl' show her light."

Mary said she preferred to go with them. But the old man shook his
head, and his companions began to move onward.

"D'ye think 'twould be wise, mistress?" he asked gravely. "Ye see we
don't know jest what sort o' work we may find cut out for us,—'specially if
the man ye saw throttlin' Johnnie Strings were a British spy, as belike he
were, pretty sure." Then he added impatiently, "I wonder where in tarnation
Johnnie hev gone to, thet he did n't cut back to tell us?"

"And I am wondering where Dorothy has gone," said Mary, with much
anxiety.

"I rather guess ye need hev no fear for her, mistress," Doak made haste
to reply. "She be wide awake, I'll bet my head, where'er she be."

"But it seems so strange a thing that she should go off in such fashion,"
Mary said, by no means satisfied with the old man's confident words.

"She went 'cause she wanted to go; an' she wanted to go 'cause she saw
work cut out to do, I warrant ye," declared Doak, with whom the girl had
always been a great favorite, since the days he used to take her and Mary
Broughton on fishing excursions in his boat. "But as to ye, mistress—"

"It is this way, Doak," she said, interrupting him: "you see I cannot get
into the house until I find Dorothy; for she has the key of the only door by
which I could enter, except I disturbed every one."

"If ye did thet, Mistress Mary, the father would find out all 'bout the
prankin', eh?" And he chuckled knowingly.

"And so 't is best," she went on, paying no attention to him, "that I go
along with you until we can see Master John; and he will know what to do."

"Very well, Mistress Mary," Doak said; "come 'long o' me, an' 't will go
hard with any man as seeks to molest ye,—though, from what Johnnie
Strings told me o' what ye did to the spyin' Britisher this mornin'—"

Here he stopped short, both in speech and walking,—for they had been
hurrying to overtake the others, now well in advance—and slapping his
thigh, exclaimed: "I hev it, I hev it! What a blind old fool I be, not to hev
thought o' thet afore! 'T were sure to be the same devil, or some one he sent,
thet ye saw fightin' with Johnnie Strings."

"Do you think so?" asked Mary, surprised that the thought had not
occurred to her before. "Whatever should make him come back there at this
hour of the night?"

"Spyin', mistress, spyin', as 't is the only business he an' his soldiers be
sent down to do hereabouts. Who can say how many of 'em be lyin' 'round
this minute, to jump on us?"

Mary glanced about apprehensively, and moved a little closer to the
sturdy fisherman's side.

They were now out of the woods, and could discern vaguely in the open
field before them the dark forms grouped near the shore, awaiting some
signal or sign that might bespeak the expected boats.

Mary and Doak joined the others, and they all stood in silence, watching
the black water, now streaked with a narrow bar of sullen red from the
eastern sky, where, out of a wild-looking cloud-bank, the moon was just
lifting a full, clear disk.

"Can ye see aught?" muttered one stalwart fellow to his nearest
neighbor,—the two standing near Mary and old Doak.

"Not I," was the low reply. "Mayhap they won't come at all now, since
seein' the lanterns go out."

"Whate'er be ye thinkin' on?" chimed in Doak. "Cap'n Brattle hev
brought the stuff down, fast 'nough; an' he won't be for carryin' it over to
Salem, under the Gov'nor's nose. 'T is to be brought here; an' here, an'
nowhere else, hev they got to land it. They'll only be more on the lookout
now—thet's all. They know us to be here, an' all they hev to do be to get to
us. An' get to us they will, 'though the meadow be grass-grown with
redcoats, an' the King hisself 'mongst 'em."

"D—n the King and all his redcoats!" came hoarsely from another man;
and then the talk was stopped by a faint sound from the water.

Doak commanded the men to keep perfectly silent, for only the keenest
alertness could catch what the wind now brought to them. It was the faintest
imaginable noise of working oars; and it sent a shudder, like a great sigh,
through the waiting group.

Mary Broughton felt her pulses thrill as the sound became more distinct;
and she glanced nervously about, and back of her,—at the dark woods on
the one hand, the frowning rock-piles on the other, and at the sweep of clear
meadows in the rear.

"Draw aside, Mistress Mary, do ye now, please," Doak urged, laying his
hand upon her arm. "Get over there close by the rocks. For if so be there
comes any surprise from the Britishers, 'twill surely be from the back of us,
here; an' in such case ye'll be safe an' clear from 'em, or from flyin' bullets,
if ye get behind the rocks."

She felt the wisdom of this advice, and silently complied, while he went
forward to the men, now drawn down close to the water's edge.

The next moment he sent a likely-to-be-understood signal out over the
water. It was the curlew's cry, which he imitated perfectly; and while it rang
out softly, it was clear and penetrating.

There was a second of silence, save for the wind, and the rippling of the
waves upon the shingle; then came a like cry from out the darkness, and
seeming nearer than had the sound of the oars.

"Now, then, lads, face 'bout, an' watch afore ye!" Doak commanded, his
voice now strong with excitement; and pushing through them until he
reached the very edge of the water, he sent back another call,—loud, clear,
and fearless in its sound.

The other men, with faces turned inland, stood with listening ears and
keen eyes, each gripping his gun, ready to repel the onslaught of any
lurking enemy that might be awaiting a favorable moment to swoop down
upon them.

Following close upon Doak's second call there came the unmistakable
sound of rapidly working oars. Then a sizable lump of dark shadow
showed, speeding toward the beach, and soon defining its shape into that of
a large rowboat.

Crouched closely against the rocks, and listening with checked
breathing, Mary Broughton almost cried aloud as a step startled her. Then
looking intently at the form drawing near, she recognized it, and said
quickly, with a deep sigh of relief, "Oh, Dorothy!"

"Yes, Mary—is that you?" The speaker came closer and asked eagerly,
"Are those our own men down there on the shore, and was it the boat they
were signalling with the curlew's cry?"

"Yes, and the boat is nigh in. But whatever have you been up to, Dot,
and who was the man you went off with, and where is he now?"

To this fusillade of questions Dorothy only replied with a laugh. Then
she asked in turn, "Where is Johnnie Strings?"

"No one knows," Mary answered. "'T is old Doak down there with the
men." And she added with a little impatience, "But why don't you tell me,
Dot—what has become of that man?"

Dorothy laughed once more. "I have been locking him away, out of
mischief; and now he's as safe as if he had stopped where he belonged,
instead of coming to prowl about here at this hour of the night. It was the
Britisher, Mary,—the same one who gave us such a turn this morning. He
mistook me for my own brother, and I improved the chance to lead him
away by the nose."

"But how?" Mary asked in astonishment. "What do you mean by all this,
and what have you done with him?"

"I made him think that I could show him somewhat of importance to his
cause; and so I lured him up into father's new cattle-shed, in the ten-acre lot,
and I bolted him in there safely enough, unless he should manage to break
the bar that holds the door. I could not lock it, for Trent has the key; but I
should think the bar was strong enough to hold the door—at least until the
arms be safely landed and stowed away."

"Then he was all alone?" Mary inquired, still too full of anxiety to make
any present comment upon Dot's exploit.

"Yes, all alone."

"What did he say to you?"

"Say!" Dorothy exclaimed with a little laugh. "Oh, he said a good many
things. He spoke most glibly of Mistress Dorothy Devereux; and he told me
that if I'd say my name was the same as hers, he'd go away, and not inspect
more closely the goings on he had overseen, and which he admitted were
not to his liking."

"Dot!" And Mary's tone was distinctly reproachful.

"Well," almost defiantly, "he did say all that, and more too."

"But," asked Mary, "did he not find you out—that you were a girl
masquerading in boy's apparel?"

"Not he," with another laugh. "And I trust he never will, after the
hoydenish manner of speech I thought it best to use in keeping up my
character. He took me for a young brother of Mistress Dorothy Devereux, I
tell you."

"Yes," Mary said musingly, as if to herself, "and I pray no harm may
come of it."

"Harm!" Dorothy exclaimed, quick in her own justification. "What harm
can come of it? I take it as a most lucky thing that I was able to get him out
of the way. Had I not done so, then you might have had something to say
about harm."

"He would have been taken prisoner by our men, had he stayed about
here," Mary asserted confidently, "and would have been shot, had he made
any disturbance. And that would have been just what he deserved." Her
usually gentle voice sounded unnaturally hard.

"Oh, Mary," her friend cried, regardless of who might be within hearing,
"how can you speak so harshly—and he such a handsome young gallant?"

"What is it to us, whether he be handsome or ill-favored?" was Mary's
sharp retort. "What interest have you in him?"

"I should be sorry if he were hurt." And Dorothy's tone was almost
tender by comparison with that of her companion.

"Shame on you, Dot!" Mary said in a low voice, but quite fiercely. "How
can you talk so, and he a hateful Britisher?"

But before Dorothy could reply, the sound of a boat's keel grating on the
sand turned their thoughts to different matters.

"They are in!" exclaimed Dot, exultantly. "And safe!"

"Aye—safe so far," Mary murmured. She was still uncomfortable, and
suspicious of some danger lurking in the darkness about them.

CHAPTER XV

The men were gathered around the boat, shutting it away from the two
girls; and the moon's light, now grown silvery, was touching the group in a
way to make all their movements visible.

"Mary," said Dorothy, "do you go to the beach and ask Jack to come here
to me. I must tell him somewhat; and then let us go to the house." And
Mary, nothing loath, complied at once.

A few of the men were rapidly removing the arms and powder, which
were well wrapped in oilskins; and two sailors from the "Pearl" were
waiting, ready to pull out again the instant the cargo was landed.

Another boat, similarly laden, was approaching the beach; and near it, in
a dory by himself, was the missing pedler.

Upon escaping from Southorn, he had betaken himself to the causeway,
dragged one of the Devereux dories across from Riverhead Beach to the

open sea on the other side, and then set out to find the incoming boats and
report the recent occurrence.

This he had done successfully; and John Devereux, now standing among
the men and conversing, with Doak, knew nearly all there was to be told,
while Hugh Knollys was coming in with the second boatload.

So intent was the young man upon what was going on about him that he
did not see Mary until she had spoken to him; but at sound of her low voice
he turned quickly and came toward her.

There was sufficient light for her to see the eager gladness in his face as
he stood before her, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and the curling
locks blowing riotously about his brows.

"Mary," was all he said; but his voice was filled with something she had
never heard there before.

"Dorothy wishes to speak with you at once," she replied, the faint light
giving her courage to keep her eyes upraised to his, for his voice and
manner made her heart tremulous.

He drew her hand within his arm, and as they turned away from the
shore his other hand stole up and clasped the small soft fingers that rested
so lightly upon his sleeve; and he felt them tremble as his own closed more
tightly about them.

"Mary," he said once more, and she lifted her face to meet the eyes she
felt were bent upon it.

His face was shadowed by his hat-brim; but she could feel his heart
beating against the arm he pressed closely to his side, and she could hear
how hard and fast he was breathing.

Making no answer, she only looked at him, until without a word he bent
his head and kissed her.

"Why, John!" and her voice was well-nigh choked by mingled
embarrassment and joy. "Dorothy will see you."

"Aye," he said stoutly; "and I hope she may, and all else in the world see
me doing a like thing many times."

They had now come to a halt, and he said impetuously: "I cannot wait
another minute, sweetheart, to tell you that I love you; only you surely
knew it long ago. But what I do not know, and must know at once, is
whether my love is returned."

Her only answer was, "Dorothy is near,—just behind these rocks; come
and speak to her first."

"Not one step will I go until you tell me what I ask," he declared firmly.
"I have spoken to your father; and I have his consent and blessing, if you
will listen to me. So," pleadingly, "tell me, Mary—sweetheart; tell me, do
you love me well enough to be my wife?"

A softly breathed "Yes" stole to his ears as Mary bent her head down on
his arm. But he raised the glowing face in his hands, and looked a long
moment at what he saw revealed by the faint light of the stars.

Then, with a fervent "Thank God!" he bent once more, and laid his lips
on hers; and without another word they passed quickly over the few yards
to the rock-pile, where a boyish figure stood whistling.

John Devereux started back and exclaimed, "Where is Dorothy? I
thought she was here."

"I am here, Jack, awaiting your pleasure," a saucy voice replied; and
Mary felt her cheeks burn, for something in Dorothy's tone told her that her
own precious secret was known.

"Dorothy, what is the meaning of all this?" her brother asked, giving her
the full name, and trying to speak with severity. All that Johnnie Strings had
told him was of a boy tossing the lanterns over the rocks, as indeed the
pedler supposed to be the fact.

"See here, Jack," she said earnestly, "don't scold me now. You can do it
just as well to-morrow, and Mary and I wish to get to the house. But before
I go I must tell you there is a certain gentleman locked in the new shed, in
the ten-acre lot; and when the powder and arms are safe, you had best get
him out."

"Who put him there?" he asked in amazement.

"I did," was the answer.

"You, Dot—what for?"

"To keep him from finding out what you had rather he did not know.
Only you must promise not to let him be hurt, and that you will release him
as soon as you unfasten the door."

"Who is he—do you know?" And he did not speak so good-naturedly as
his sister would have liked.

"He is a redcoat,—one of the soldiers quartered over on the Neck," said
Mary Broughton, now speaking for the first time. "He came upon Dot and
me at the Sachem's Cave this morning, and he has been prowling about the
place to-night. 'T was he who surprised Johnnie Strings, and caused Dot to
put out the signal-lights."

Mary spoke with animation, almost anger, for she felt a bit indignant at
Dorothy's apparent lack of what she herself considered to be a proper view
of the affair.

"Aha," muttered her lover, his voice full of sharp suspicion. "Did this
man hold much converse with you this morning, Mary?"

"No, very little," she replied uneasily; and Dorothy added with a laugh,
—

"I fancy he had a bit more than he enjoyed."

"Johnnie Strings told me of your frightening a Britisher so that he nearly
tumbled into the sea," John said, speaking in an approving way. "And so

this is the same fellow, is he? But how comes it, Dot, that you found the
chance to lock him away?"

"'T is a long story," his sister replied, with a touch of petulance, "and
Mary and I must get back to the house. Only,"—and her voice softened
again—"won't you promise me, Jack, that you will not permit him to be
injured? I could never sleep again if I thought I was the cause of any ill
befalling him."

She was almost in tears; and knowing this, her brother hastened to say,
"There, there, Dot! You've too tender a heart, child. But your mind may rest
easy, for I myself will let the man out as soon as 't is prudent to do so. He
shall go his way for this once, but I'll not promise as to what may befall
should he see fit to repeat such a bit of business."

The moon was rising higher, and its light becoming clearer and more
silvery. The boats were unloaded, and the sailors were pulling them back to
the ship, when the girls saw Hugh Knollys coming toward them from the
beach; and at sight of him they turned to flee.

"I must go to the house with you two, Mary;" and John Devereux laid a
detaining hand upon her arm, bidding Dorothy wait a moment.

"No need for that," she said quickly, fearing that Hugh might accompany
them; "we are not afraid."

But John called out to Knollys,—speaking very carefully, for it still
seemed as though each rock or bush might be concealing a spying enemy—
asking him to go to the Black Hole in charge of the men, as he himself must
first hurry to the house, to rejoin them later.

Hugh turned back, and the three took their way through the woods,
Dorothy keeping ahead and the others walking closely together just behind
her.

"Mary," John said presently, and his voice was tremulous as a woman's,
"I can scarcely believe it."

"Hush!" she whispered warningly.

But pressing her hand, he said, "Dot knows all about it." And he laughed
softly, while Mary's cheeks burned, and she was silent.

Then he added: "You see, I have been under such a strain, so filled with
anxious thoughts, that I well-nigh lost my senses when I landed on the
beach, and knew you were near me, and heard your voice. Then, afterwards,
I was so shocked by Dot's prank when I came upon her by the rocks, that it
is just coming to me what the child has done. It was a brave deed; and but
for her doing it, who can say what might have happened—brave little girl!"

The slight figure was too far ahead of their lagging footsteps to be
reached by his words. Indeed they could not see her at all through the
gloom of the woods, although they could hear now and again her light
footfall, or the cracking of a twig as she stepped upon it.

"She thinks you are displeased with her prank," Mary said, "and I'm sure
she feels very unhappy about it."

"She shall not feel so very long," he replied heartily.

They found her waiting for them at the back door of the house, ready to
put the key into the lock. But before she could do this her brother put his
arms about her and kissed her fondly.

"Brave little girl!" he whispered. "'T is you who have saved the arms and
powder for the town."

To his amazement she burst into tears and clung to him, sobbing and
trembling like a child.

"Why, Dot, whatever is it?" he asked anxiously, lowering his voice so as
not to arouse the inmates of the house.

"She is suffering from a reaction, I think," Mary said softly; "but it will
soon pass away."

But Dorothy was of too dauntless a spirit for her brother to be content
with this explanation; and holding her close in his arms, he went on
assuring her that he was not displeased, but that she had done a brave act,
and that every one would say the same if the news of it should get abroad.

"You must hush your sobs," he said, "and go within, and to bed, where
you should have been hours ago. I will find Hugh Knollys, and we'll go
together and release your prisoner."

All this, whispered in her ear while her face was buried over his heart,
quieted her at last; and she drew herself away from him as she said with a
hysterical little laugh, "Think of the picture I am making for Mary,—a big
boy crying in your arms!"

"You should have been a boy, Dot," he whispered, while she was
opening the door; "you've a heart brave enough to do credit to any man."

"And, pray, may not women lay claim to having brave hearts?" queried
Mary Broughton, with dignified coquetry.

"Aye, most truly; I should say you and Dot had proved that already. And
now, good-night, sweetheart." And to Mary's consternation, he leaned over
and kissed her, hurrying away as she hastily followed Dorothy into the
house.

No word was spoken as the two girls felt their way cautiously through
the pitchy darkness to their rooms above stairs.

The two apartments communicated; and the front windows of each
overlooked the meadow lands and woods, together with a far-reaching
expanse of the sea.

Aunt Penine's, as well as Aunt Lettice's and little 'Bitha's, rooms were in
the wing of the house, on the opposite side; while those of Joseph Devereux
were far to the front, and looked out directly upon the grounds and wooded
land that ran down to the beach, where the water stretched away to the
horizon.

They went directly to Dorothy's chamber; and it was so bright with the
moonlight now pouring through the unshuttered windows that they needed
no candle.

As soon as the door was closed, Mary said, "Dorothy, I have somewhat
to tell you." And she put her arms lovingly about the boyish form, while the
solemn tenderness of her tone bespoke what she had to reveal.

"You've no need to tell," replied Dorothy, speaking in a way to so
disconcert Mary that she said uneasily,—

"Oh, Dot, I thought you'd be glad it was so."

At this, Dorothy threw her arms impulsively around the other girl's neck.

"I am glad, Mary," she exclaimed; "I am very, very glad. Only, I knew
long ago that you and Jack loved one another." Then, as she hugged her
closer, "But you won't love me less for what has befallen?"

Her voice sounded as though the tears were coming again.

Mary tightened her hold upon the slight form, and kissed the upturned
face upon which the moonbeams were resting.

"Love you less, Dot?" she declared; "it only makes me love you far more
than before; and I have always loved you very dearly, as you well know."

"And I want to be loved, Mary! I feel so lonely!" And now she was
crying once more.

"Why, Dot," Mary asked, almost in alarm, "whatever ails you, crying
twice in the one evening? I scarce know what to think of you."

"I wish I could see my father," Dorothy sobbed; "I wish I could see him
this minute. He always knows me and understands me, no matter what I do
or say."

"You are just worn out, poor child," said Mary, in a soothing, motherly
fashion; "and no wonder, with all you've gone through this night. And now,"

she added with decision, "I shall put you straight to bed, this very minute. I
want to go myself, but cannot until you become quiet."

With this she began tugging at the fastenings of the unfamiliar garments;
and Dorothy, despite her tears, commenced to laugh, but in a nervous,
unnatural way.

"Never mind," she said; "I will do all that, Mary, for I understand it
better than you. And," straightening herself, "I'll stop crying. I never knew I
could be such a fool."

Long after Mary was sleeping, Dorothy was still lying awake listening
for her brother's return. She knew she would hear him, for his room was just
across the hall, opposite her own.

As she nestled among the lavender-scented pillows, visions would keep
coming to her of the handsome face she had seen that morning, and again
that very night. The purple-hued eyes, edged so thickly with swart curling
lashes, seemed to be looking into her own, as when she held his wounded
head pillowed against her knee, while his voice yet thrilled in her ears as
had never any man's before.

And then came the realization that this man was her country's avowed
enemy,—a hated Britisher!

Her conscience smote her as she thought of the trick she had played him,
recalling how trustingly he had entered the dark shed, and how silent he had
been at first, when she slammed the door and shot the wooden bar across.
Then how fiercely he had seemed to fling his broad shoulders against the
door of his prison, making her fear that he would be able to come forth and
visit his wrath upon the audacious young rebel who had served him such a
trick.

But she could find some comfort in thinking of how she had stolen back,
and called him by name, at which the blows became stilled; and of how she
had then told him to have no fear for his safety, as in a short time he would
be released, to go where he pleased.

Mary, did she but know all these thoughts, would be angry, and call her
unfaithful to the cause. And Jack, and her father—what would her father
say to her?

She had never in her life feared him. But now a quaking dread beset her
as to what the morrow might bring from him of censure and displeasure.
And at this she began to cry again—softly, but bitterly.

Whether the girl knew it or not, her nerves had by this time become
strained to the uttermost; and sleep, the blessed healer that comes so readily
to the young and healthful, was beginning to woo her away from all her
troubles, when a slight noise startled her into new wakefulness.

Listening intently, she heard her brother enter his room; and she heard
him say something to their father, who was passing on toward his own
apartments.

Rising hastily, Dorothy thrust her little bare feet into some wool slippers
and drew a bed-gown over her night-dress; then she stole softly across the
passage to her brother's room.

The door was ajar; and after tapping gently, she put up her small hands
to shield her eyes from the glare of the candle he held, as he came to answer
her summons, looking wonderingly out to see who it might be.

"Dorothy!" he exclaimed, as he saw the little yellow-robed figure, and
the rumpled curls and drooping face. Then, stretching out his hand, he drew
her within the room and closed the door.

"Dot, why are you not asleep at this hour? You will surely make yourself
ill." He crossed over to a small table and set down the heavy silver
candlestick, the light flaring in his weary, but always handsome face, now
looking all the darker from contrast with his snowy linen—for he was in his
shirt-sleeves.

He came to her once more; and as she did not speak, he took her hands
from before her face and held them lovingly. "What is it, child—what is
troubling you?"

"Mary has told me, Jack, and I wanted to tell you that I am glad." And
two great tears stole from her long lashes and ran down the rounded cheeks,
whose bloom was paler than he had ever seen it.

"And is that the face you wear, Dot, when you are joyful?" he asked
gently, but with a smile. "What is it, child?" he urged, as she did not speak.
"I am so happy to-night, and I cannot bear to see you in tears; it hurts me."

"Ah, no, Jack," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "I don't
want to hurt you."

He held her fast, and laid his cheek against her own, as he said softly: "Is
it that you are jealous of me, or of—Mary? Is it that you think I cannot love
her and love you as well?"

"No, no! Oh, no! It is n't that, Jack. I know you love me, and will always,
as long as I live—just as I love you. I am happy to have Mary for my own
sister; but I—I—" And she broke down again.

"Now see here, little girl," he said, stroking the round white arm her
fallen-back sleeve left bare; "don't fret in your heart about to-night, or
whatever you may have done. It is never any use to worry over what is past
and gone. 'T is not a maidenly act, Dot, for a girl to array herself in men's
garments, and you must never do it again. But we must all admit that 't was
a lucky thing you did it this night; and the help you rendered us far more
than makes up for your own thoughtlessness. So you need fear no blame on
account of it."

"Does father know?" she asked nervously.

"Not as yet; but I will tell him the whole story of your bravery, so he'll
not misjudge you."

She raised her face and kissed him; then after a little hesitation she asked
shyly, "And the Britisher I locked in the shed,—did you release him, as you
said you would?"

Jack smiled down into the upturned face. "He was gone when Hugh and
I got there; and the bar was wrenched off, sockets and all."

"He is strong," Dorothy said, a light coming to her eyes that her brother
did not see; and she laughed softly.

"Well, had he the strength of Samson, he'd best take heed to himself how
he comes prowling about my father's premises at unseemly hours."

He spoke with angry emphasis; and Dorothy was glad the two had not
met.

CHAPTER XVI

The men of the house breakfasted at the usual hour next morning, and
with them were only Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha, Mary Broughton and Dorothy
being permitted to sleep until later, when 'Bitha, despatched by her
grandmother, went to arouse them.

She first awoke Dorothy by kissing her; then she asked with childish
solicitude, "Why do you lie abed so late, Cousin Dot,—are you ill?"

The big dark eyes gazed at the child in bewilderment, and then came a
flash of recollection.

"Ill—no. Where is Mary, and why are you here, 'Bitha?"

"Mary is still asleep, and grandame sent me to wake both of you." Then
she looked curiously at the carelessly heaped up masculine garb on a nearby
chair, and asked, "Are those Cousin Jack's clothes, Dot, and why did he
leave them here?"

Dorothy's color deepened. "Never mind, now, 'Bitha," she said hastily,
"but go and awaken Mary; then run back to Aunt Lettice, and say we will be

down directly. But stop—where is every one—have you breakfasted yet?"

The child laughed. "Long ago," she said. "Cousin Jack and Hugh
Knollys have gone off to town on horseback, and Uncle Joseph is away on
the farm somewhere."

Dorothy's movements were lacking in their usual youthful vitality as she
moved listlessly about the room. She stood in front of her mahogany
dressing-case, looking into the tipped-over mirror,—that only in this way
could reflect the face and head surmounting her in no wise average height
—and was brushing out the tangle of curly locks, when Mary Broughton
came into the room, her hair hanging about her like a veil of gold, reaching
almost to her knees.

"Good-morning, Dot," she said smilingly. "You were so quiet that I
thought you were yet sleeping." And she turned to go back to her own
apartment.

But Dorothy called out: "Don't go yet! Oh! Mary, do you know I am
dreading so to go downstairs and meet my father. I wonder if he will be
angry at what I did last night? He was never angry with me in all my life."
And she turned her troubled eyes away from the glass, for which indeed she
seemed to have little use, so slight was the note she was taking of the
reflection it showed.

"I hope not," Mary replied, but her voice had a touch of doubt, "for he
would surely be angry with me as well, for abetting you in what you did.
But you remember what Jack said last night; would not your father take the
same view of the matter?"

The color deepened in her cheeks as she spoke her lover's name; and this
seemed to bring a new recollection to Dorothy.

"Oh, Mary," she cried, "I'd clean forgot, for the moment, all that has
befallen." With this she rushed impetuously across the room and caught
Mary about the neck. The latter blushed redder than before, while she
laughingly disengaged Dorothy's arms. Then urging her to hurry and dress,
she hastened back to her own room.

The two girls had finished breakfast and were out on the porch in front
of the house, when the hearty tones of Joseph Devereux were heard within,
asking Tamson, the red-cheeked housemaid, after her young mistress.

"Here I am, father," answered a low, agitated voice; and Dorothy stood
before him, looking quite pale, and with eyes downcast.

"Come with me, my daughter," he commanded, and led the way into the
library.

He closed the door after them, and seated himself, while Dorothy
remained standing, her hands loosely clasped and her eyes still bent on the
floor, her attitude being much like that of a culprit before a judge.

"Come here, child," and his voice was a trifle unsteady. "Why do you
stand there and look so strangely?"

For answer, she sank upon her knees before him and laid her face in his
lap; and a grateful thrill went through her as she felt his fingers stroking her
curly head in his usual loving fashion.

"Ye madcap!" he exclaimed after a short silence. "Whatever possessed
ye?"

"Oh, father, don't be angry with me!"

At this, he leaned over, and drawing her into his arms, lifted her to his
knee.

"Angry with you, my little Dot!" he said. "My precious, brave little girl,
how could I be that, except it were for your risking so carelessly the life that
is so dear to my old heart?"

All the sternness of his face had given place to an expression of loving
pride.

"One cannot censure an eagle, my baby," he went on,—"that it be not
born a barnyard fowl or a weak pigeon. It would seem that a higher power
than of poor mortality must have put it into your head and heart to do what

you did last night. And I've no word of blame for your having togged
yourself out in Jack's clothes. Many a heroine has done a like thing before
you. If Joan of Arc had been more like most womenfolk, no doubt many
would have reckoned her more properly behaved, according to the laws laid
down by men for the behavior o' women. But who dare question the bravery
and unselfishness of her deeds? And you, my baby, were our Joan of Arc
last night!"

All this was balm to her troubled heart. But she could not speak, and
only hugged him more tightly around the neck as she wept on his shoulder.

"Here—hoity toity!" he said presently. "What manner o' bravery be this
—crying for naught?"

She raised her head, but before she could reply, they were both startled
by a noisy trampling of horses in front of the house, and strange voices
coming in through the open windows.

Hastily wiping away her tears, Dorothy sprang from her father's lap and
ran to look out.

"Oh, father," she cried, turning to him in dismay, "here be a lot of British
soldiers on horseback! Whatever can they have come for?"

He hurried out, Dorothy close by his side, to meet face to face at the
open door a tall young officer coming up the steps with much clanking of
sabre and jingling of spurs, while on the driveway were a dozen mounted
troopers, one of whom held the rein of a spirited gray horse.

The officer raised his hat, and his sea-blue eyes, keen as steel, looked
with smiling fearlessness straight into the lowering face of Joseph
Devereux. Then they changed like a flash, and with swift significance, as
they fell upon the slight figure shrinking close beside him.

"Sir," he asked, "are you Joseph Devereux?"

"As you say," was the calm reply. "And what might an officer of His
Majesty's army want with me?"

"Only an audience," the young man answered respectfully. "I wish to
assure you, in case of its being needful, of my good will, and of my desire
to see that your person and property are guarded from annoyance during our
stay in your neighborhood."

The old man frowned, and drew his tall figure to its full height.

"It would seem a strange chance," he replied haughtily, "that should put
such a notion into your mind, young sir. I've lived here as boy and man
these seventy years and more, and my fathers before me for well beyond
one hundred years; and I 've needed no protection o' my own rights save
such as God and my own townsfolk have accorded me as my just due."

"Such may have been the case before now, sir," the officer said, his eyes
still fixed upon Dorothy's blushing face; "but troublesome times, such as
these, have brought changes that should, methinks, make you take a
somewhat different view of matters."

"The times may be troublesome, as you say; but even should they grow
more so, I have my country's cause too truly at heart to desire favors from
its enemies."

"I am an enemy only should you determine to make me one; and this I
trust you will not." He still smiled pleasantly, as though bent upon
accomplishing whatever object he had in view.

"The color o' the coat you wear has determined that matter already," was
Joseph Devereux's grim answer.

But the young man was proof against even this pointed rebuff, for he
laughed, and said with reckless gayety, "Think you not, sir, 't is a bit unjust
to refuse good fellowship to a man because of the color of his garb?"

"A truce to this nonsense, young sir!" exclaimed the old man, his
impatience rapidly changing to anger. "Since you are about my premises in
the manner you are, 't is certain you can in no wise be ignorant o' reasons
existing which make it needless for me to say that I desire naught to do with
you, nor your fellows."

The officer bowed, and with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders,
resumed his hat.

"So be it, sir," he said, while the smile left his olive-hued face, "although
I deeply regret your decision. But before I go, I must have speech with a
young son of yours."

Dorothy moved still closer to her father, and turned a troubled look up
into his face.

"My son, sir," he answered stiffly, "is not at home."

"No? Then pray tell me where I am like to find him."

"He has gone to the town on affairs of his own."

"They are like to be affairs of great weight." The young man's voice had
a note of sarcasm.

"Whatever they be, they can assuredly be no concern of an officer o' the
King."

"That is for me to decide, sir," the soldier retorted with evidently rising
anger. "He has done that which gives me good cause to put him in irons,
should I choose to be vengeful."

"What mean ye?" the old man demanded with flashing eyes.

"I mean," replied the other, slowly, "he shall be taught that he cannot
play boyish pranks upon His Majesty's officers with impunity."

"It would seem you are better aware o' what you are prating of than am
I," said Joseph Devereux, now laying a reassuring hand over the small one
that had stolen tremblingly into his own. "As for my son playing 'boyish
pranks,' as you say, he would scarcely be likely to turn back to such things
in his twenty-eighth year."

"Do you mean me to understand that your son is so old as that?" was the
officer's surprised inquiry.

"I care little of what your understanding may be," was the indifferent
reply; "but such is the fact."

"And have you no other son—a young boy?"

"I have not, as any one can tell you."

The young man bit his lips, and looked perplexed. Then, as his eyes
turned to Dorothy's flushed face, he smiled again, and said, as though
addressing her, "I beg pardon for any seeming incivility; but there would
appear to be some mystery here."

"No mystery, young man," answered Joseph Devereux, with unbending
severity, "save to wonder why you should come riding to our door in the
fashion you have, with a troop o' your fellows, when we have no liking for
the entertainment of any such company."

The officer still smiled, but now sarcastically. "It can scarcely be claimed
that you have entertained me, sir. But since I find my presence so
disagreeable to you, I will bid you good-morning."

He bowed haughtily to the old man, while his eyes still lingered upon
Dorothy's face. Then turning quickly, he strode down the steps, and
mounted his horse, the servants, who had gathered about, falling away from
before him.

Mary Broughton and Aunt Lettice, who had been standing in the hall
listening to the colloquy, now came out to the porch and stood with the
others watching the scarlet-clad troop clatter noisily down the driveway,
following the rapid pace set by their youthful leader.

John Devereux and Hugh Knollys, returning from the town, met them
just within the open gate, and drew to one side, watching them with
scowling brows as they dashed past; and the young officer turned in his
saddle to glance over his shoulder, as if something in the former's face had
caught his attention.

"What did those Britishers want here, father?" the son asked, as he and
Hugh came up the steps, leaving their horses with Leet and Pashar.

"He would seem to wish to assure us of his courtesy and good-will; and
when I declined these, he demanded to see my son, whom he accused of
playing a boyish prank upon a King's officer, and threatened him with irons,
should he catch the rogue."

All eyes were now turned upon Dorothy, who laid her blushing face
against her father's arm as she stood clasping it.

Jack muttered something under his breath; and Hugh, his face alight with
mischief, said, "May his search take up all the attention of himself and his
soldiers, which will be all the better for us." Then stretching out his hand to
Dorothy, he said with a sudden change of manner, "Will you shake hands,
Dorothy?"

"What for?" she asked, still clinging to her father's arm.

"As my way of thanking you that I am a free man this morning, and not,
perchance, in irons myself, and on the road to the Governor, at Salem."

She laid her small hand in his broad palm, and the look he gave her as
his fingers closed over it seemed to make her uncomfortable.

"It was very little I did," she declared quietly, drawing her hand away.

"So it may seem to you," he said gravely. "But had it not been done, the
things that might have followed would show you otherwise."

In the afternoon the four young people set out to ride over to Hugh's
place, where a widowed mother was anxiously expecting the arrival of her
boy—and only child.

Jack, for reasons now well understood, kept close to Mary's bridle-rein;
so it befell that Dorothy and Hugh were thrown upon one another's society
more intimately than for some time heretofore.

As they rode leisurely along the Salem turnpike toward their destination,
which lay away from the town, the young man exclaimed suddenly, "I don't
believe another girl living would dare do such a thing, Dorothy, as you did
last night!"

"Do cease prattling of last night," she said impatiently. "I am sick to
death hearing of it."

"Are you?" And Hugh's laughing eyes widened with sober surprise. "I
see no call for you to be so."

"I did not ask that you should," was the tart answer, a wilful toss of her
head accompanying the sharp words.

"Why, Dorothy, whatever ails you?" And he looked more surprised than
hurt at this new phase of his quondam playfellow's disposition.

She did not reply; and Hugh, seeing a glitter of tears in her eyes, said
nothing more.

And so they plodded along in utter silence; the two ahead of them
seeming to find no need for haste, and conversing earnestly, as though
greatly entertained by each other's company.

The thickly planted cornfields rose on either side of their way, and the
afternoon sun flickered the landscape with fleeting shadows from the clouds
sailing in the blue overhead, while now and again there came a glimpse of
the sea.

Everything about them was quiet, save the breathing of the horses and
the noise of their trappings.

At length, coming within sight of the Knollys homestead, the two in
front drew rein and waited for their companions to join them.

Dorothy gave the impatient mare her head, and rode up briskly, with
Hugh not far behind; and then all four went clattering through the gate and
up the grass-grown roadway, halting before the porch of the low frame

house that stood surrounded by thickly planted fields running back to meet
sloping wooded hills, with grassy meadows intervening, where flocks of
sheep and many cows were grazing peacefully.

A sweet-faced old lady—Hugh's mother—came out of the door and
greeted them cordially, but first casting a searching glance at her son. Then
bidding a servant take their horses to the stable, she invited them to come
within.

But Hugh said: "No, mother; Sam need not take the horses away. We can
stop but a short time, and then I must go back to remain in town for the
night. I only rode over—and these kind folk with me—to see how you were
faring without having me to look after matters, and to assure you of my well
being; for I know how you like to fret if I stop away long enough to give
you the chance."

"You are a saucy boy," his mother replied, but with a look that belied her
words; then turning to the two girls, she asked after their fathers, and
inquired particularly about each member of their households.

She listened eagerly to the news of the town, and its latest doings; the
color, fresh as a girl's, coming and going in her cheeks, and making a dainty
contrast with the snowy muslin of her mob-cap and the kerchief wound
about her throat and crossed over her ample bust.

"And have any of these red-coated gallants stolen their way to the hearts
of you two girls?" she asked banteringly,—her eyes upon Mary Broughton's
beautiful face.

Jack's eyes were there as well; and Hugh alone saw the sudden mounting
of the blood to Dorothy's cheeks and the troubled drooping of her eyelids.

John Devereux rose from his chair, and taking Mary's hand, led her to
the old lady.

"I am that one, good Mistress Knollys," he said proudly, "who has stolen
his way to this sweet girl's true heart; and you are the first, outside the
family, to know of it."

"Dearie me!" exclaimed Mistress Knollys, in a happy fluttered way, as
she drew Mary's blushing face down and gave her a hearty kiss. "I always
suspected it would be so; and I am sure every one will wish you joy, as I do
with all my heart." Then turning to her son, "Hugh, dear, get some wine and
cake, and let us pledge our dear friends. With all these Britishers bringing
trouble upon us, who can say how much chance there'll be left for joyful
doings?"

She bustled about with a beaming face, doing herself most of the setting
forth she had requested of her son. But Hugh's face looked far graver than
was its wont; his eyes strayed over to Dorothy, who was now laughing and
chatting like the rest, and he seemed to be puzzling over a matter for which
he could not find a ready solution.

It was later than they thought when they set out upon their return,
Mistress Knollys urging them to come again soon, and saying, as she kissed
Dorothy last of all: "It ever makes me feel young again, my dear child, to
have you in the house. And now that your brother and Mary have one
another, and your father has one more daughter, they can spare you to your
old friend with better grace."

CHAPTER XVII

The air was yet chill with the fresh north-wind, that had blown all day, to
go down only with the sun, while the misty horizon of the afternoon was
now a well-defined fog-bank rolling in from over the sea, and sending a
damp breath in advance of its own coming.

"We shall have a nasty night," said Hugh, looking at the smoke-like wall.
He and Dorothy were again riding side by side, with the other two just
ahead, but out of ear-shot, and they were making a short detour across the
fields, their course taking them past the Jameson place.

It was a pretentious-looking house, painted white, with green blinds; and
a broad piazza was set back amid the fluted columns that ran up to support
the upper floor, whose dormer windows jutted out among the branches of
the oak and elm trees. On the piazza, were several scarlet-coated gentry.

"Enjoying himself, no doubt, with rogues of his own ilk," was John
Devereux's comment, as he looked over his shoulder at Hugh,—the two
now being quite close to one another.

"There might be a thousand rather than a hundred of the redcoats at the
Neck, by the way they seem to be ever turning up about the place," Hugh
muttered in reply, without taking the trouble to look toward the house.

"And here come some more," announced Mary, in a tone of disgust, as
half-a-dozen scarlet coats appeared suddenly in the field before them.

They were riding at a reckless pace which soon brought them abreast of
the four, who were now taking their way quite soberly. And as they swept
past, the officer in the rear doffed his hat, while he bent his eyes upon
Dorothy's flushed face with an intensity that made Hugh Knollys say half
aloud, "The impudent young dog—what does he mean?"

Mary Broughton sat rigidly in her saddle, turning her head away at sight
of the face disclosed by the uplifted hat. But Dorothy smiled shyly into the
bright, daring eyes.

A little farther along they came upon three fishermen trudging the same
way as they were bound, one of them being young Bait, whose attempt at
singing had brought upon him Doak's wrath the night before.

"Jameson be givin' a dinner to some o' the redcoats," he said, as the
riders overtook him and his companions, one of whom added angrily,—

"An' he best have a care that he don't get his roof burnt over him an' his d
——d King's friends."

"Have a care yourself, man," said John Devereux, warningly. "'T is not
wise to do aught yet that will give them a handle to use for our own hurt."

"Aye," muttered the third, "that may do for now. But if Jameson don't go
with his own sort when they leave the place, it may not be so easy for him
as it has been in the past."

"How long, think ye, Master John, afore the redcoats quit the Neck?"
inquired Bait.

"That were a hard matter for any one to say," was the young man's reply.
Then, as he urged his horse forward, he turned to add over his shoulder,
"But take my advice, and avoid any brawling with the soldiers, for the
present, should you run foul of them."

"That will have to be as it may," one of the men answered doggedly,
"accordin' as to how they mind their own affairs and let us alone."

"We shall come to have fighting in our streets yet, Jack; you may be sure
of it," said Hugh Knollys. "Our men can never brook with any patience the
swaggering of these impudent fellows."

The other glanced at him warningly, with a significant motion of the
head toward Dorothy; but the girl did not appear to notice their talk, and
was looking dreamingly away into the distance.

Mary Broughton, who was slightly in advance, turned her head; and
Hugh saw how her blue eyes were kindling as she exclaimed, "I, for one,
should not care if we did come to blows! I'd like to see our men show the
Britishers that they cannot have matters altogether their own way down
here."

"Would you like to take a gun yourself, Mary, and help teach them this
lesson?" was Hugh's laughing question.

"Yes," she declared resolutely. "And I am sure I could handle it, too."

"You'll never need to do that, sweetheart, so long as I live to carry out
your mind," said Jack, who had been wondering why Hugh looked at
Dorothy so oddly, and why she was so strangely silent.

When the early evening meal was over that night, the two young men
took their way into the town, where a meeting was to be held.

Old Leet rowed them down, they preferring this as being least likely to
attract notice; and avoiding the old wharf, they landed on the beach, near
the warehouses, thence taking their way cautiously through the fish-flakes
that filled the fields, until they reached the streets up in the town. These
were deserted, but filled with lurking shadows, being dimly lit by a stray
lamp fastened here and there to the buildings.

They walked slowly toward the town hall, while they talked in low tones
of Jameson, making no doubt but that his attentions and hospitality to the
Britishers would be known and commented upon at the meeting.

When close to the hall a wild clamor broke out from somewhere ahead
of them; and they hurried forward to learn what it might mean.

It was a street fight between the redcoats and the townspeople; and
although no powder was being used, strong arms and hard fists were doing
almost as painful work.

The British frigate "Lively" had dropped anchor in the harbor at sunset,
and as soon as darkness came, a press-gang had been sent on shore to
capture such sturdy fishermen as might be abroad, and impress them into
the service of His Majesty's navy.

Several men had already been taken, and they were resisting most lustily,
while such of their friends as chanced to be in the streets were coming to
their rescue.

But these were few in number, as most of the citizens who were not at
their homes were now gathered in the town hall, awaiting the opening of the
meeting, which was to be of more than usual importance, as measures were
to be taken with respect to the new tyranny indicated by the presence of
soldiers quartered upon the Neck.

While the two young men paused on a street corner overlooking the
combatants, hesitating as to what might be the best thing for them to do, the

light from a house over the way shone down upon one figure, as though
singling it out from the others.

It was that of a swarthy, strongly built young fellow, taller than most of
those about him, and with a bright, resolute face. Hatless, and in his shirt-
sleeves, he was raining heavy blows upon such of the enemy as sought to
lay hands on him.

"'T is Jem Mugford!" exclaimed Hugh. "See, Jack, what a gallant fight
he is making for himself!"

Mugford was well known in the town, and was already, despite his
youth, the captain of a merchant vessel. He had been but recently married;
and Jack and Hugh recalled the sunny morning when they saw him, looking
so handsome and happy, alongside the pretty girl he had just taken for his
wife.

They both, moved by the same impulse, now made a dash toward him;
but the surging crowd—of friends and foes alike—came between in a way
to frustrate their intention. Then, while they were still struggling to reach
him, there went up a loud, angry shout bristling with vigorous oaths:
"They've got Jem! They've got him an' carried him off! Squael 'em, squael
'em!"[1]

[1] "Rock them!" i.e. "Throw rocks at them!"

The cries and tumult were deafening; and the dark mass rolled slowly
down the street, leaving the young men almost alone.

"'T is an outrage!" exclaimed Hugh Knollys, panting from his unavailing
exertions. "We need all of us to carry guns to guard against such dastardly
work. What will his poor wife do, and her father, now that they'll not have
Jem to look to for support and defence?"

"I take it she will not lack for good defenders," answered Jack, his voice
trembling with anger, "not so long as you and I live in the town, to say
naught of his other friends. With the enemy in our harbor, and amongst us
in the very town, the quicker we arm the better, say I. Let us go first to see
Mistress Mugford, and then we'll go to the hall."

But Hugh held back, for he had a wholesome dread of women's tears and
hysterics.

"There will be plenty to tell her the bad news, poor soul," he said; "and
women, too, who will know best how to console and comfort her."

Jack saw the force of this, and did not press the matter; so they took their
way to the town hall, which was already crowded, although its tightly
shuttered windows gave no sign of the life within. The door was strongly
barred, and only opened to the new-comers after they had satisfied the
sentinel on guard of their right to be admitted.

Gray heads and brown were there, the old and the young, representing
the best blood of the town. And there was a generous sprinkling of weather-
beaten and stout-hearted sailors and fishermen, who listened silently, with
grave faces and eager eyes, to all that was said.

The talk was for the most part a review of matters considered at former
meetings, to the effect that Parliament, being a body wherein no member
represented the colonies, had yet undertaken the making of laws affecting
not only the property, but the liberty and lives of His Majesty's American
subjects—it was argued that such right did not exist, nor any authority to
annul or in any manner alter the charter of the Province, nor to interfere
with its councillors, justices, sheriffs, or jurors.

The matter of the British soldiers being quartered upon the Neck was
also taken up, and with it the outrage committed that very evening by the
press-gang; and in view of these attacks upon the peace of the town it was
deemed wise to push forward at once the measures already agitated looking
to protection and safety.

The fort was to be repaired, and put in condition for proper defence. The
militia consisted at this time of a regiment of seven companies of active,
well-disciplined men, but under the command of officers commissioned by
Governor Gage or his predecessors. It was deemed expedient that these
should no longer act, but that they should be replaced by others chosen by
vote of the town. And every citizen should possess himself of a firearm and
bayonet, both in good order, and should be equipped with thirty rounds of
cartridges and ball, as well as a pouch and knapsack.

It was also resolved that effectual measures be taken for the silencing, or
expulsion from the community, of those "ministerial tools and Jacobites,"
who persisted in opposing the action of the various committees, or else held
themselves aloof from taking part in the measures needful to protect the
rights of the Province and people.

These men who thus spoke and conferred with each other were an
impressive embodiment of the spirit which actuated the entire community.
Their looks and words were glowing with prayerful earnestness, their
manner full of dignity and solemnity.

The memory of these,—of their lofty ideality of aspiration, of the purity
of their principles and motives, their love of country and integrity of
purpose,—all this is a sacred treasure for the old town, and one still potent
with patriotic influence.

Theirs was not the courage that shows forth in bravado, and which
delights, from mere exuberance of spirit, in defying peril for its own sake.
Rather was it the true, deeper courage of devotion,—the courage that
sacrificed self for others, and which for principle and what was deemed
simple duty was ready to endure all things. It was the devotion that would
accept all results, would meet death, if needs be, or wear life away in slow
suffering.

Such courage was the solid material, not the flash and glitter that pleases
and bewilders, and then is as unremembered as is the pebble a child tosses
into the sea, and having watched the ripple it makes, never thinks of again.

All this has become the priceless jewel of our national history for all
time, the salt that gives savor to our country's life. The keynote of it was
this,—these men truly loved their country, and were its loyal, steadfast
friends. And are we not told from the highest of all high sources that
"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his
friends"?

CHAPTER XVIII

It was nearly midnight when the two young men took their way back
through the fields to their boat and its faithful guardian.

They were soon afloat, and none but Leet would have ventured to row so
steadily and rapidly down Great Bay in the fog that now shut in about them
like a wall of white wool, muffling all objects from sight.

The stillness was intense, save for the lapping of the water on the near-
by shore,—this seeming to quicken the old darkey's acute knowledge of the
course he was rowing.

The young men sat in either end of the boat, with Leet between them;
and not a word was spoken until the keel grated on the sand of Riverhead
Beach.

The old negro required no light to secure the craft in its accustomed
place; and as the others stood waiting for him to do this, a faint sound of
galloping horses came to their cars, apparently from down Devereux Lane,
which led from the Salem road directly to the beach, and so on to the Neck.

They listened intently, while the sound came unmistakably nearer.

"Hist, Jack!" said Hugh, in a low voice; "that must be the redcoats
coming from Jameson's dinner."

"'T is sure to be, judging from the reckless fashion of their riding. Leet,
come with us,—'t is as well to step behind the boathouse until they pass, for
we want no challenging at this hour of the night." And as John Devereux
said this, he and his companions passed quickly behind the small building.

A dull yellow gleam showed smearingly through the fog as the horsemen
clattered by, with here and there a lantern fastened to their saddles; and their
loud laughter and boisterous talk seemed to bespeak a free indulgence in
good wines and liquors.

As they struck the beach they fell into a more sober pace, and the last
two, riding side by side, were talking in tones that came distinctly to the
ears of those concealed behind the boathouse.

"'T is like that Southorn hopes to obtain more certain information by
accepting the old fellow's hospitality," said one of them; "for it cannot be
that the wine is the only attraction, to judge from the way he passed it by to-
night."

"Aye," was the reply. "He seemed not to care whether it were good
Christian fare we were having once more, or the dogs' food of the camp."

"Maybe he is sickened, like the rest of us, with this heathen land and its
folk, and rues the day he ever left the only country fit for a man to live in, to
be sent to this strip o' land, with never a petticoat or bright eye to make the
stupid time a little more bearable."

The other man laughed. "Perchance if we could but get speech with
Jameson's fair friend of whom he prated so much, we might be singing
another tune. What was it he called her—such a heathenish name it was
never my lot to hear before?"

"He called her 'Mistress Penine;' but she is no blushing maid, for he said
—"

Here the words, which had been growing less distinct, died away
altogether, and the glow of the lanterns was shut off by the fog, as the

clattering of hoofs became lost in the roar of the surf beating in from the
seaward side.

John Devereux had refrained from acquainting Hugh with his father's
discovery of Aunt Penine's treachery; but now, as they walked toward the
house, he told him the facts.

"Think you, Jack, that she has been holding any further communication
with Jameson?" Hugh asked.

"That would seem most unlikely, for she has been confined to her room
since last Monday night, and both my father and Dot have been watchful of
the servants, although I do not believe there is a traitor amongst them. As to
Pashar, he is too young to rightfully sense what he was doing, even if he
had the wit. Fear of Aunt Penine on the one hand, and a liking for Jameson's
loose silver on the other, were his only incentives; but dread of my father's
displeasure has now put an end to all that."

He had persuaded Hugh to return with him for the night, instead of going
to the house of a married cousin living in the town, as he proposed doing,
for the reason that it would put him so much farther on the way to his own
place, whither he intended to ride the next morning, notwithstanding it
would be the Sabbath.

They found the household long since retired, save only its head; and
when they were seated in the dining-room the young men gave him a
detailed account of the evening's doings.

When this had been done, Joseph Devereux imparted to them his
determination to lodge with the committee the name of his sister-in-law, to
be listed with those of the other unfaithful townspeople. He had also
resolved that on the following Monday she should be carried in his coach to
her brother's house, in Lynn, for a future residence.

This had come from the fact that soon after the two young men had
departed for the town, a messenger from Jameson brought her a
communication.

The fellow had refused to leave without a reply, until forced thereto by
the servants whom Joseph Devereux summoned for that purpose; and he
went away threatening vengeance upon the entire household when he
should have reported to his master the indignity to which he had been
subjected.

"Do you know, father," asked Jack, "what it was to which he expected an
answer from Aunt Penine—I mean, anything as to the contents of the
letter?"

"Nay, my boy. She refused to see me at first; and when I insisted upon it,
she became defiant, and would not converse with me o' the matter, saying
that it was her own concern, and naught to do with my business. And so I
told her that, such being the case, she should hold herself in readiness to be
driven to her brother's house on Monday, when she and her concerns would
give no further trouble to me or my household."

"Jameson will not be safe a moment," said Hugh Knollys, "after the
redcoats are withdrawn. Indeed," he added, "'t would be no great wonder if
some of the fisherfolk should even now burn the roof over his head."

"'T is to be hoped they'll do no such thing," said the elder man, shaking
his head; "for 'twould surely be used as a pretence for injuring the innocent,
—perchance the townsfolk at large."

He now turned to his son and said in a tone of deep anxiety: "By the
way, Jack, we must see to it that all be over-careful how such matters be
talked on before Dot. I know not what has come to the child. She has been
moody and unlike herself all the evening, starting at every sound, as if
fearful o' danger. And when she came to tell me good-night awhile ago, she
broke down in great weeping. I had much ado to soothe her; and to all my
questioning she had but the one answer, that she did not know what ailed
her, only that she felt as though her heart would break."

Jack looked very serious, and Hugh Knollys moved uneasily in his chair.
Then the former said: "Perhaps it is only that she is in a way unstrung from
the excitement of last night. I thought this afternoon that she acted not quite

like herself,—that she seemed to have something on her mind. Did you not
note it, Hugh?"

Hugh started, and looked still more uncomfortable. His thoughts had
been dwelling upon Dorothy's unusual behavior during the afternoon. He
was thinking of her reticence and impatience,—of the acerbity of her
manner toward himself; and he recalled the quick flushing of her face as the
young officer lifted his hat.

All this had made a distinct impression upon him; but the affair was her
own,—one which he felt reluctant to mention even to her father or brother.
And so, in answer to Jack's direct question, he uttered one of the few
falsehoods of his life.

"Nay, Jack; I noted nothing unusual in her manner. I think as you, that
she has been a bit overwrought by last night's happenings. Ah," he
exclaimed, with animation, and glad to speak the truth once more, "but it
was a brave thing she did! And yet she likes to make naught of it."

"Dorothy is brave by nature," her father said, his eye's kindling with
pride. "And she is too young to comprehend the full weight o' what she did,
prompted as it was by impulse, and by love for her brother." Then turning to
Jack, he asked with a change of manner, "Did you see or hear aught o' the
British frigate on your way home?"

"Nothing, father,—only, as I told you, that she dropped anchor in Little
Harbor, just as the darkness fell."

"She'd not be likely to go from her anchorage in this fog." The old man
spoke musingly, while he slowly filled his pipe for a final smoke before
retiring for the night.

"But I take it they will move from there as soon as may be, on account of
fearing the trouble they have a right to expect because of the men they've
stolen," Hugh said indignantly.

"Yes," added Jack, "even if only to get into Great Bay, and closer to their
fellows on the Neck."

"'T is a thousand pities they should have taken Mugford," the old
gentleman remarked, as he carefully lit his pipe.

"Yes," his son assented; "it is in every way a pity, for if they wish to
invite trouble they could not have made a better opening for ill feeling
among the people of the town."

"Indeed they could not," Hugh exclaimed hotly. "Every one is sure to
take Mugford's abduction to heart, and find a way to make the redcoats
answer for it."

"We shall find a way, please God, to make them all answer for their
overbearing and insolence to us as a country as well as individuals," Joseph
Devereux said gravely. "And that reminds me, I had surely thought
Broughton and the rest o' the committee would have returned from Boston
this night."

"He was very doubtful, as I think, of getting back before to-morrow, or
perhaps until Monday." And a dreamy look softened Jack's face, as if he
might be thinking of what was to be told when Nicholson Broughton
returned.

"Jack, what a lucky beggar you are!" exclaimed Hugh, with a touch of
envy in his tone, as the two young men tarried a moment in the former's
room before saying good-night.

Jack opened his eyes still wider, exactly after the fashion of Dorothy
when she was surprised.

"You see," Hugh added nervously, "you love Mary Broughton, and she
loves you, and you have the approval and blessing of both fathers. Now I
—" Here he stammered, and then became silent.

"What is it, Hugh—do you wish me to understand that you love Mary
yourself?"

John Devereux spoke seriously, almost jealously, for an old suspicion
was beginning to awaken once more within him.

But Hugh laughed in a way to forever remove any such feeling from his
friend's mind.

"I—I love Mary!" he exclaimed. "I never dreamed of such a thing, Jack,
although I admit that she is very beautiful, and possesses everything to call
forth any man's best and deepest love. But, my dear Jack, if you were not
blinded, you might see that the world holds other girls than Mary." And he
looked wistfully at his friend, as if wishing him to know something he
hesitated to put into words.

"Do you mean that you are in love with some one, Hugh?" asked Jack,
laying his hand on the other's broad shoulder.

Hugh's blue eyes lowered as bashfully as those of a girl, and Jack, now
smiling at him, said, "Who is it—Polly Chine, over at the Fountain Inn?"

"Polly Chine!" Hugh answered disgustedly. "A great strapping red-
cheeked clatter-tongue, who can do naught but laugh?"

"Well, if 't is not Polly, then I am all at sea, for I never knew you to do
more than speak to another girl, unless—" And he paused, as something in
Hugh's pleading eyes caught his attention and awoke his senses with a rush.

"Oh, Hugh—it surely is not—" But Knollys interrupted him.

"Yes, Jack," he said with slow earnestness, "it is—Dorothy."

Silence followed this avowal, and Jack's hand fell from his friend's
shoulder. Then with an incredulous laugh he said: "Dorothy—why she is
little more than a baby, with no thought beyond her horse and other pets. 'T
was not long since I came upon her playing at dolls with little 'Bitha."

"She will be seventeen her next birthday," Hugh retorted with some
impatience; "and that is but a year less than Mary Broughton's age."

"Yes," Jack admitted. "But it is several months yet to Dot's birthday; and
those months, nor yet another year, can scarce give to my little sister the
womanly depth for sentiment and suffering that Mary now possesses."

"Think ye so, Jack?" said Hugh, as though inclined to argue the matter.
"You know 't is odd, sometimes, how little we guess aright the nature of
those akin to us, however dear we may love them."

The young man sighed as he thought of the look he caught in Dorothy's
eyes when the olive-faced horseman uncovered his handsome head, and
also recalled the flushing of her cheeks at his mother's banter.

Jack's hand was now once more upon Hugh's shoulder, and he said in his
warm, impulsive way: "See here, old fellow, I'd sooner have you for a
brother than any other man I know; and my father is well-nigh certain to
approve. Only I feel sure he would say what I now ask of you, and that is,
not to speak of such matters to little Dot—not yet awhile; for it would only
risk making her think of what otherwise might never come into that wilful
head of hers. And while there seem to be such grave matters gathering for
our attention, it were best not to give her heart aught to trouble over."

"Then you admit she might be woman enough to take to heart whatever
ill would come to me?" Hugh asked eagerly.

Jack's answer was guarded, although not lacking in kindly feeling.

"The child has a warm heart, Hugh, and has known you long enough to
feel deep sorrow should any evil come to you—which God forbid. But take
my advice, and do not stir deeper thought in her, to make her sorrow like a
woman, but let her keep her child's heart awhile longer."

After the young men had bidden each other more than a usually cordial
good-night, Hugh Knollys remained seated for a long time in his own room,
his hands deep in his pockets, and his legs stretched to their uttermost
length. He was lost in thoughts that were neither entirely pleasurable nor yet
altogether lacking in that quality.

He had loved Dorothy since she was a child, and he admired her
character far more than that of any girl he had ever known. The reckless
daring of her nature—the trait Aunt Penine had censured so severely, and
which the others of the family regarded somewhat askance—met with a
quick sympathy from his own impulsive temperament; and this last outburst

of her intrepid spirit had acted like a torch to set aflame all his dreams and
desires. And now the suspicion that some sort of an understanding existed
between the girl and this young Britisher gave him a fierce desire to speak
out, and claim for his own that which he feared the other man might seek to
take from him.

And so he chafed at his friend's injunction, hoping as he did, that, could
he but obtain the first hearing, the redcoat's chances might be weakened, if
not destroyed altogether.

As he sat here alone, there came to him like a flash the memory of one
late afternoon in a long-ago autumn, when, upon his return from a fishing-
trip, he found Dorothy—then a dimpled mite of seven or eight—visiting his
mother, as she often did in those days.

The child had been left to amuse herself alone; and this she did by taking
down a powder-horn hanging upon the wall, filled with some cherished
bullets which Hugh was hoarding as priceless treasures.

He seemed to see again the great dark room, lit only by the leaping
flames from the logs piled in the open fireplace, and the little scarlet-clad
child looking up with big startled eyes at his indignant face as he stood in
the doorway, while the precious bullets poured in a rattling shower over the
wooden' floor. He saw once more her look turn to fiery anger, as he strode
over and boxed her ears; and he could hear the girlish treble crying, "Wait,
Hugh Knollys, until I am as big as you, and I'll hurt you sorely for that!"

Aye, and she had already hurt him sorely, for all his breadth of shoulder
and length of limb; she had hurt him in a way to make all his life a bitter
sorrow should she now reject his love!

CHAPTER XIX

October had come, with an unusual glory of late wild-flowers and
reddened leaves.

The soldiers were still quartered upon the Neck, and owing to the many
collisions between them and the townspeople, the Governor had seen fit to
augment the force. Several times the citizens had almost determined to
march to the Neck and exterminate the entire body of Britishers; but wiser
counsels prevailed, and no attack was made.

Governor Gage had issued a proclamation forbidding the assembling of
the legislature which had been called to meet at Salem upon the fifth of the
month. But notwithstanding this interdiction it had convened upon the
appointed day, and resolved itself into a Provincial Congress.

Azar Orne, Jeremiah Lee, and Elbridge Gerry were the delegates
representing Marblehead, and they took a prominent part in the
proceedings. A number of important matters were discussed and acted upon,
and a committee was appointed for "Observation and Prevention," and with
instructions to "co-operate with other towns in the Province for preventing
any of the inhabitants, so disposed, from supplying the English troops with
labor, lumber, bricks, spars, or any other material whatsoever, except such
as humanity requires."

The loyalists in the town were still zealous in the King's cause, and
would not be silenced. And they entreated their neighbors and friends to
recede, before it became too late, from the position they had taken. But the
only reply of the patriots was, "Death rather than submission!" And they
went on making provision for the organization of an army of their own.

Companies of "Minute Men" were enlisted, and these were disciplined
and equipped. A compensation of two shillings per day was to be allowed
each private; and to sergeants, drummers, fifers, and clerks, three shillings

each. First and second lieutenants were to receive four shillings sixpence,
and captains, five shillings. Pay was to be allowed for but three days in each
week, although a service of four hours a day was required.

The town house was now filled—as were also most of the warehouses
and other buildings—with the stored goods of Boston merchants, who were
suffering from the operation of the Port Bill, which had closed that harbor
to their business. And owing to this, as also by reason of the greater
advantage afforded for securing privacy, the townsmen now held their
meetings at the old tavern on Front Street, which faced the water, thus
giving a good opportunity for observing the movements of the enemy upon
the Neck.

John Glover, one of the town's foremost men, and a stanch patriot, lived
near here; and he was now at the head of the regiment in which were John
Devereux and Hugh Knollys,—the former being second lieutenant in the
company of which Nicholson Broughton was captain, and in whose ranks
Hugh was serving as a private.

Soon after his return from Boston, Broughton had closed his own house,
deeming it too much exposed to the enemy for the safety of his daughter,
who was compelled during his many absences to remain there alone with
the servants; and Mary had gone with them to the house of a married aunt—
Mistress Horton—living in a more retired portion of the town, away from
the water.

He had consented, in response to the urging of his prospective son-in-
law, that the wedding should take place before the winter was over. And
thus it was that Mary, being busy with preparations for the event, left
Dorothy much to herself,—more, perhaps, than was well for her at this
particular time.

Aunt Penine had departed upon the day her brother-in-law fixed; but
under Aunt Lettice's mild guidance, coupled with Tyntie's efficient rule, the
household went on fully as well as before,—better, indeed, in many
respects, for there was no opposing will to make discord.

The tory Jameson still remained under an unburned roof, despite the
mutterings against him; and he continued to entertain the redcoats with
lavish hospitality.

Several times, during trips to and from the Knollys house, Dorothy,
escorted by Hugh or her brother—sometimes by both—or by old Leet, had
encountered the young officer. But nothing more than a bow and smile had
passed between them since the morning he had turned so haughtily from her
father's presence.

It was about the middle of the month, and the shutters of all the windows
were opened wide to let in the flood of autumn sunshine as the family sat at
breakfast; and the silver service in front of Aunt Lettice glinted like little
winking eyes where it caught the golden flood.

Her delicate white hands had poured out the sweetened hot milk and
water which she and 'Bitha drank in lieu of tea, while her brother-in-law,
busy with looking over a copy of the "Salem Gazette" brought by his son
the night before, was letting his coffee cool.

Jack himself, after a hastily despatched breakfast, had already gone into
the town, where he had matters of importance to look after, not the least of
them being to dine at the Hortons' with Mary and her father; and he would
not return until late in the evening.

Dorothy had little to say, seeming to be busy with her own thoughts; but
she could not help smiling as little 'Bitha murmured softly, "Oh, grandame,
I am all full of glory by now, for I caught a lot of sunshine on my spoon and
swallowed it."

"And you'll be full of a mess, child, if you stir your porridge about in
such reckless fashion," said Aunt Lettice, smiling as her eyes met Dorothy's.

"Dot," her father now asked suddenly, lifting his eyes from the paper,
"when did you last see old Ruth Lecrow?"

Dorothy started, and her big eyes turned to him with a troubled look as
she answered, "It is all of a month since I saw her."

The girl's conscience smote her, as never before had she neglected for so
long a time to go and see the faithful carer of her own motherless infancy,
or else send needful provision for her impoverished old age.

"A month!" her father repeated. "How is that, my child?" Then with a
searching, anxious look into her downcast face, he said more gently: "You
had best take Leet, and go to Ruth this very morning. The air and sun be
fine enough to bring back the roses to your cheeks. I am thinking that you
stop within doors too much o' late."

Before Dorothy could reply, Aunt Lettice reminded him that Leet was to
meet Jack in the town that morning.

"Then I will walk, father," the girl said, "and take Pashar."

With this she arose from the table and was about to leave the room, when
'Bitha put in a petition that she might accompany her.

"No, 'Bitha," interposed her grandmother, "you made such a froach[1] of
your sampler yesterday that you have it all to do over again this morning, as
you promised me." She spoke with gentle firmness, and the child hung her
head in silence.

[1] Spoiled work.

"Never mind, 'Bitha," Dorothy said soothingly, as she touched the small
blonde head,—"mayhap we can have Leet take us to see Mistress Knollys
this afternoon."

"I'd sooner go on the water, Dot," the child suggested timidly. Then
turning to the head of the house, she asked: "Cannot we go out in one of the
boats, Uncle Joseph? We've not been on the water for a long time." And the
blue eyes were lifted pleadingly to the old gentleman, who had just set
down his emptied cup.

"Nay, my child," he answered, "that you must not; and for the same
reason that none have been for so long a time. None o' ye must go nigh the
boats until the redcoats be gone from the Neck."

"When will they go?" asked 'Bitha, pouting a little. "They have spoiled
our good times for long past. We cannot go anywhere as we used."

"Nor can others older than you, my child," he said with an unmirthful
smile, as he arose from the table. "The soldiers are a pest in the town, little
one. But till the King sees fit to call them off, or we find a way to make
them go, you must be content to stop nigh the house, and away from the
boats." Then he added teasingly, as he put his hand upon her head, "The
redcoats may carry you off, if you put yourself in their way."

'Bitha shook off his hand as she gave her small head a belligerent toss.
"If they tried to do that, Uncle Joseph, I'd push them over the rocks, as
Mary Broughton did that redcoat we met in the cave. And oh, Dot,"—
turning to her—"that 'minds me that the other day when I was with Leet and
Trent, down in the ten-acre lot, that same redcoat was there, sitting in the
door of the shed, with his horse standing nigh. And when he saw us coming,
he hurried away. And Trent said 't was lucky no sheep were within the shed
for him to steal."

"He is a gentleman, 'Bitha, and would no more steal my father's sheep
than would you or I!"

Dorothy's voice was full of indignation, and the child's eyes opened wide
at its unusual sharpness. But this, as well as her heightened color, her father
and Aunt Lettice ascribed to embarrassment at being reminded of her
exploit of the past summer.

All the outside world lay flooded in the warm golden sunshine that
blunted the cold edge of the wind rushing from the north, where sullen
cloud-banks were piling up in a way to threaten a change of weather before
night. The sea lay a floor of molten silver and burnished steel, and the
crows called incessantly from the woods.

Dorothy chose to take a short cut across the fields to old Ruth's abode;
and while skirting the ten-acre lot, she cast a furtive glance toward the large
shed, as if expecting to see a scarlet coat in the doorway.

But only the homespun-clad form of Trent was there, letting out a large
flock of sheep, who came gambolling about him, and then dispersed over
the dry brown grass, where a bright green patch showed here and there.

"'T was queer, Mist'ess Dor'thy, dat we nebber foun' de two cows dat
strayed so long 'go, don't ye t'ink?" inquired Pashar, who followed close
behind her with a big basket on his arm.

Dorothy, intent upon her own affairs, did not reply, and the boy went on:
"Trent say now dat he b'leebe de redcoats stole 'em, fo' sure."

"How could that be," she asked sharply, "when the cows were missing
before any soldiers came down here?"

"I dunno, Mist'ess—on'y dat's what Trent say, an' what we all b'leebe."

Here Dorothy was startled by a wild, shrill yell from the boy, and turned
quickly to see the cause of it. The sheep had discovered a broken place in
the fence, and were trooping through it en masse; and if once out of the
field, there was nothing to bar their way to Riverhead Beach.

Trent had already started in pursuit, but it was easy to see that many of
the flock would be on the other side of the fence before he could stop them.

"Give me the basket," Dorothy said to the negro boy, "and go to help
Trent. Then come to Ruth's after me."

She had scarcely spoken when he, giving her the basket, uttered another
wild yell and was off, speeding after the wayward sheep. He was soon
alongside Trent, who had stopped to put some bars across the opening, at
which the few detained animals were now poking with eager noses. But
these scattered quickly when Pashar, with renewed shouts, charged through
them and vaulted the fence, to dash away on the other side with a speed that
quickly carried him out of sight.

Pursuing her way alone, Dorothy soon reached the Salem road, which
she crossed, climbing the stone walls on either side, and was again in a
narrow strip of pasture land ending in a wood, where the stillness was
broken only by the squirrels chattering overhead as though in fear of the
intruder.

The sun sent its rays here and there across the paths that led in different
directions, all of them carpeted with needles from the tall pine-trees
standing amid the oaks and chestnuts; and the one Dorothy pursued brought
her soon to the summit of a small hill, where it took a sharp turn, and then
ran directly to a small, hut-like dwelling, about the door of which grew a
honeysuckle vine.

In front of the house was what in the summer had been a flower-garden;
everything about it was neat, and the tiny panes of glass in the unshuttered
windows were spotlessly bright.

Dorothy did not wait to knock, but opened the door, and was within the
living-room of the house, there being no hall. It was wide, and low-
ceilinged, with clumsy beams set upright against the walls, bedimmed with
age and smoke. Directly opposite the entrance was the open hearth, back of
which a sluggish fire was burning; and kneeling in front of the logs was a
girl of fourteen, working with a clumsy pair of bellows to blow it into a
brisker flame.

She was so engrossed in her task as not to hear the door open, but started
quickly as Dorothy said, "Good-day, Abbie; how is your granny this
morning?"

"Oh, Mistress Dorothy, how you scared me!" the girl cried, springing to
her feet, and showing, as she turned her head, a preternaturally old and
worried face.

"Where is Ruth?" inquired the smiling intruder, who now put down the
heavy basket, and began to remove her cloak, whose hood had somewhat
disarranged the curls over which it was drawn.

"Granny be in bed yet, for her rheumatiz be in her legs to-day, she says.
An' she was worritin' over ye, for fear ye might be ill. She was sayin' last
evenin' that I was to go over and inquire."

Perfectly at home in the little house, Dorothy went straight to her old
nurse's bedroom, to find her propped up in bed, knitting, and with an open
Bible lying beside her on the snow-white counterpane.

"Oh, my lamb!" she exclaimed joyfully, catching sight of the sunny face,
that was soon bending over her, while the dim old eyes devoured its every
feature. "But I am glad to see ye, for I feared ye were ill, for sure. An' what
a lot o' sweet fresh ye bring about! It must be a fine day outside. Ah," with a
deep sigh, "if I could only get about as I used to, my lamb!" The old
woman's voice faltered, and the moisture was showing in her eyes.

"You will be well again, Ruth, when the winter gets fairly set," Dorothy
said cheerfully. "'T is the seasons changing that always make you feel
poorly."

"Mayhap, mayhap," sighed the old woman. "But it seems only yesterday
I was runnin' about, a girl like ye, with no thought of ache or pain; an' but
another yesterday when I had ye, a little babe, in my arms. An' here I be
now, a crippled, useless old body, with only a poor granddaughter, who has
to do for me what I ought to be doin' for her. An' here ye be, a fine grown
young woman, ready to be married."

Dorothy's laugh rang through the small room. "Not I, Ruth. I shall
always live with my father. And I am sure Abbie is glad to do all she can for
you." This last was with a kindly glance at the girl, who had that moment
slipped into the room to see if she might be wanted for anything.

She turned to Dorothy with a gratified look on her wan face, and said
with an attempt at heartiness: "Yes, Mistress Dorothy, that I am. Only she
be forever frettin', like I was the worst o' granddaughters to her."

The old woman smiled at this, as she permitted the girl to raise her
shoulders a little, and shake up the pillows before leaving the room.

As soon as she was gone, Dorothy said, "I brought you a basket of things
I hoped you wanted; and I'll not stop so long away from you another time."

"Aye, my lamb, but ye have stayed away a sore long time. But now that
ye're a young lady, ye've pleasanter folk to talk to than your old nurse."

"Now, Ruth," Dorothy threatened playfully, "if you talk to me in that
fashion, I'll go straight home again."

The old eyes were turned upon her wistfully, while the knotted fingers
nervously handled the knitting-needles. Then Ruth said, "Moll Pitcher was
here yesterday to see me."

"Was she? What did she say?" asked Dorothy, all in the same breath; for
she took the keenest interest in Moll and her talk.

"I made her talk to me o' ye, my lamb. An' I was sorry for it afterwards;
for what she said kept me wakeful most o' the night. She did not want to tell
me, either; but I made her."

"But what did she say?" Dorothy repeated eagerly. "Tell me just what
she said, Ruth."

The old woman hesitated, as though unwilling to reply. Then her restless
fingers became quiet, and she said slowly and earnestly: "She told me that
your fate was about ye now, fast an' firm, an' that no one could change it.
An' she said your future days were tied about with a scarlet color."

"Oh, Ruth," Dorothy said at once, "she must mean that war is coming to
us." She was entirely free from any self-consciousness, and her eyes looked
with earnest surprise into the solemn old face lying back upon the pillows.
But her color deepened as Ruth added still more impressively: "Nay, my
lamb, she told me o' war times to come, beside. But she meant that a
redcoat would steal your heart away; an' she said that naught could change
it,—that his heart was set to ye as the flowers to the sunshine,—that ye held
him to wind about your little finger, as I wind my wool. An' she said that
sorrow, deep sorrow, would come to ye with it."

Tears were now dropping down the withered cheeks, and Dorothy
thought her own were coming from sympathy with the grief of her old
nurse. For a moment—only a moment—she felt frightened and almost
helpless, even turning to glance quickly over her shoulder at the door of the
outer room, as if to see if the redcoat were already in pursuit of her.

Then her own dauntless spirit asserted itself once more, and she laughed
with joyous disbelief.

"Nonsense, Ruth,—nothing but nonsense! And don't you be fretting, and
making yourself unhappy over something that can never happen."

"Moll always speaks truth, they say," the old woman insisted, wiping her
wet cheeks with the half-knit stocking. "But we'll see what time will bring
to ye, my lamb. Moll is a good woman. She gave me some herbs for my
ailment, an' was most kind to me. She stopped all night, an' went on this
morning, for her father be dead, an' she have gone to Lynn to 'bide."

"Well, I hope she'll stop there forever, before she comes to make you fret
again over such silly tales. You must use the herbs, Ruth, and get well, so
that you can dance at Jack's wedding. You know he and Mary Broughton
will be married near Christmas-tide."

Ruth looked fondly at the girl. "I'd much sooner dance at your own, my
lamb, if ye married the right man."

Dorothy laughed. "Can you tell me where to find him, Ruth,—did Moll
tell you where he was?"

"Aye, that she did," was the quick reply. "An' she told me much I'd best
keep to myself. Only the part I told ye worrited me, an' so I had to open my
heart to ye. But I'll tell ye this,—keep all the redcoats away from ye, my
lamb; shun 'em as ye would snakes, an' trust only to the true hearts nigh
home. There be Master Hugh Knollys—he be most fit for ye."

Dorothy laughed again. "Hugh Knollys," she repeated. "Why, Ruth, he is
almost like my own brother. You must never speak of such a thing to any

one; for if it came to his ears I'd surely die of shame. I marry Hugh Knollys!
Why, Ruth, you must be crazy."

"Ye might do far worse, my lamb." The old woman did not smile, and
her lips narrowed primly, as though she did not relish having the girl make a
jest of the matter lying so close to her own heart.

"Well, worse or better, I am in no hurry to be married off, Ruth; and so
don't you have any such thought of me." And Dorothy shook her curly head
threateningly.

CHAPTER XX

Pashar had not yet appeared, but Dorothy set forth upon her return with
no thought of danger or delay.

It was now high noon, and the sun making itself felt disagreeably, she
pushed back the hood of her red cloak as she entered the wood, the cool
wind coming refreshingly about her bared head while she walked slowly
along with downcast eyes, musing over this last prophecy of Moll Pitcher.

"Aha, Little Red Ridinghood, have you been, or are you going, to see
your grandmother?"

Dorothy's heart throbbed tumultuously for an instant. Then she felt cold
and half sick, as she looked up and saw coming from under the trees the
gleam of a scarlet coat, topped by a shapely head and olive face, whose
dark-blue eyes were bent laughingly upon her.

She stopped, startled and hesitating, not knowing what to do, while
Cornet Southorn came toward her along the path, his hat swinging from one
hand, the other holding a spray of purple asters.

This he now raised to his forehead, saluting her in military fashion, as he
said with a touch of good-humored mockery, "Your servant, fair mistress,—
and will you accept my poor escort, to guard you from the wolf who is
waiting to eat Little Red Ridinghood?"

A smile now began to dawn about the corners of the girl's mouth; but she
made an effort to keep it back, while she replied with an attempt at severity,
"There are no wolves about here, sir, to guard against, save only such as
wear coats of the color you have on."

"If my coat makes me anything so fearsome in your eyes, I will discard
it forever." He had dropped his tone of playfulness, and now came a step
closer, looking down into her face in a way to make her feel uneasy, and yet
not entirely displeased.

"I have no liking," she said, in the same bantering manner he had
assumed at first, "for those who so readily change the color of the coat they
are in honor bound to wear."

"It was not an easy thing to contemplate until I met you," he replied
bluntly, and looking at her as if hoping for some approval of his confession.

This he failed to obtain, for Dorothy only smiled incredulously as she
asked, "Is it kind, think you, to credit me with so pernicious an influence
over His Majesty's officers?"

"I credit you only with all that is sweetest and best in a woman," he said
with quick impulsiveness. And coming still nearer to her, he dropped the
flowers and seized one of her hands, while the basket fell to the ground
between them.

"'T is small matter what you may or may not credit me with," she
answered, with a petulant toss of her head. "Leave go my hand this minute,
sir! See, you have made me drop my basket; let me pick it up, and go my
way."

A sudden, curious glance now flashed from his eyes, and looking sharply
into her face, he said, "I thought that perhaps you would like me to go with

you, so that you might shut me up again in your father's sheep-house."

Dorothy ceased her efforts to withdraw her hands—for he now held both
of them—from his clasp, and stared up at him in affright.

"Who told you I did?" she gasped. "Who said so?"

The young man threw back his head and laughed exultingly.

"Aha,—and so it was really you, you sweet little rebel! I was almost
certain of it, the morning I spoke to your father of the matter, and saw the
look that came into your eyes."

"You are hateful!" she cried, her fear now giving place to anger. "Let me
go, I say,—let go my hands at once!" Her eyes were filled with hot tears,
and her cheeks were burning.

"Never, while you ask me in such fashion." And he tightened his clasp
still more. "Listen to me!" he exclaimed passionately. "I have been eating
my heart out for dreary weeks because I could see no chance to have speech
with you. I felt that I could kill the men I've seen riding with you about the
country. And now that I have this opportunity, I mean to make the most of
it, for who can say when another will come to me?"

His words were drying her tears, as might a scorching wind; and she
stood mute, with drooping head.

"Don't be angry with me for what I have said," he entreated, "nor
because I found it was you who played that trick upon me. That prank of
yours is the happiest thing I have to remember. You might lock me up there
every day, and I would only bless you for being close enough to me to do
it."

He stopped and looked at her beseechingly. But she would not raise her
eyes, and stood pushing at the spray of asters with the tip of her little
buckled shoe, while she asked, "Think you I only find pleasure in going
about the country to lock folk up?"

She spoke with perfect seriousness; and yet there was that in her look
and manner to make his heart give a great bound.

"I think of nothing, care for nothing," he replied, almost impatiently,
"save that you are the sweetest little girl I ever met."

Something in his voice made Dorothy glance up at his face, and she saw
his eyes bent upon her lips with a look that startled her into a fear of what
he might have in his mind to do. So, drawing herself up, she said with all
the dignity she could muster, "Such speech may perchance be an English
custom, sir; but 't is not such as gentlemen in our country think proper to
address to a girl they may chance upon, as you have me."

"Sweet Mistress Dorothy," and he seemed to dwell lovingly upon her
name, "I crave your pardon. I meant no lightness nor disrespect. And if I
have lost my head, and with it my manners, you have but to look into your
mirror, and you'll surely see why."

Dorothy knew not how to reply to this bold speech, and the look that
came with it. They made her angry, and yet she knew that the flush upon
her cheeks did not come from anger alone, but that a certain undefinable
pleasure had much to do with it. Then came the consciousness that she had
no right to be where she was, and the fear of danger coming from it. And
this was sufficient to make her say with some impatience: "'T is idle to
stand here prating in such fashion. Please release my hands, and let me go. I
should be well on my way home by now."

He bent his head suddenly, and without a word kissed her hands. And the
burning touch of his lips made her pulses thrill and her heart beat with what
she knew to be delight,—exultation.

Then, like a rushing flood, reason assailed her conscience, that she
should permit a hated redcoat—one whom she ought to detest—to kiss her
hands, and not feel enraged at his boldness. And so, filled with indignation,
she pulled one hand away, and raising it quickly, gave his face a ringing
slap.

He started back and placed a hand to his cheek, now showing a more
flaming color than her own, and for a moment his eyes were alight with an
angry glitter. But he said nothing, and bowing low before her, stood away
from the path.

Dorothy picked up her basket, and without glancing toward him passed
along on her way. But her eyes were brimming with tears, which were soon
trickling down her burning cheeks.

What had she done, and what could she do, in this new, strange matter,
of which she might not speak to her father? How was she to act toward him
from whom she had never yet withheld her confidence?

And still how could she speak to any one—even him—of what was
giving birth to thoughts and feelings such as she had never dreamed of
before?

With all this—and in spite of it—came the question as to what the
redcoat would think of her now,—a maiden who went about at night
masquerading in masculine garb, and who slapped His Majesty's officers in
the face?

There came to her a woful sense of shame,—yes, of degradation, such as
her young life had never imagined could exist, and seeming to overwhelm
her with its possible results.

She was startled by a sudden footfall close behind her, and without
looking back, she quickened her pace into a run. But now a strong arm was
thrown about her waist, holding her fast; and she caught a fiery gleam of the
scarlet coat against which her head was pressed by the hand that, although it
trembled a little, prisoned her cheek with gentle firmness.

Then a mouth was bent close to her ear, so close that its quick breath
fanned the tiny curling locks about her temples, and a voice whispered:
"Sweetheart, forgive me—for God's love, forgive me! I cannot let you go in
this way; for see, you are weeping. Surely this pretence of anger is unjust,
—unjust to you and to me!"

Before she could speak, the voice went on, "Little rebel, sweet little
rebel, will you not surrender to—a vanquished victor?" And with this, a kiss
was pressed upon her lips.

At first Dorothy had been too startled to speak,—too frightened and
dumb from the tumult his caressing voice had aroused within her. But the
touch of his lips awakened her like a blow.

"How dare you?" she cried, struggling from his arms. "Oh, how I wish I
had never seen you!"

"You can scarce expect me to feel likewise," he said calmly, smiling into
her stormy little face, "for I—"

"Never speak to me again!" she interrupted, still more hotly. And then, as
the tears of anger choked her voice, she turned from him and fled away
down the path.

For a time she heard him in pursuit; and this made her run all the swifter,
until at last, reaching the Salem road, she glanced back as she mounted the
low stone wall, and saw that he had stopped where the timber ended, and
stood watching her. Then without turning to look again, she went quickly
across the sunlit meadow-land.

Her breath came sobbingly; and mingled with her terror was a feeling
she could not define, but which told her that life would never be the same
for her again. She still felt the clasp of his arms about her, the burning of his
lips upon her hands,—their pressure upon her mouth. His voice still came
caressingly to her ears, and the wind seemed to be his breath over her hair.

It was not long before she saw Pashar coming to meet her; and drawing
the hood about her face, she bade him go for the basket she had left in the
wood. Then, without waiting for him to return with it, she hastened directly
to her father's house.

She reached her own room without having encountered any of the
household, and throwing off her cloak went to the glass. There, resting her
elbows on the low, broad shelf, and dropping her soft round chin into her

small palms, she seemed to be studying what the mirror showed to her,—
studying it with as much interest as though she now saw the reflection of
her features for the first time.

"You are a wicked, treacherous girl," she said aloud, addressing the
charming face staring back at her with great solemn eyes, "a perfect little
traitor." Then—but now to herself—"Moll said his heart turned toward me
as the flowers to the sun. And if this be true, why is it not also truth that
sorrow is to come with it?" She shivered, and pressed her hands over her
eyes.

"Cousin Dot!" called a small voice outside the locked door.

"Yes, 'Bitha." Dorothy started guiltily, and made haste to dash some
water over her glowing face and tell-tale eyes.

"Aunt Lettice says the meal is ready," came the announcement from
without; "and Hugh Knollys is below with Uncle Joseph."

Dorothy felt thankful for this, as a guest at dinner would serve the better
to divert attention from herself; and making a hasty toilette, she descended
to the dining-room.

She found them all at the table, with Hugh at her father's right hand, and
directly opposite her own place. The young man arose as she entered the
room, and responded with his usual heartiness to the greeting she tendered
him. But with it all he gave her so odd a look as to make her wonder if he
saw aught amiss in her appearance.

The two men resumed their talk of public matters and the town's doings,
and were soon so absorbed that Dorothy was able to remain as silent as she
could have wished.

It had been resolved not to import, either directly or indirectly, any
goods from Great Britain or Ireland after the first of the coming December.
And in case the tyrannical decrees of the mother country should not be
repealed by the 10th of the following September, it was agreed that no

commodities whatever should be exported to Great Britain, Ireland, or the
British West Indies.

This would bring about an embarrassing state of affairs for both the men
who were now discussing the matter, as they, like many others in the town,
had derived a considerable income from such exporting.

"But we'll stand shoulder to shoulder, Hugh," said Joseph Devereux,
firmly, "if so be we forfeit every penny, until the oppressors give us fair
dealings or we drive every redcoat from our soil. I will kill every cow and
sheep—aye, and every horse as well, and cut down every stick o' timber on
my land, for the keeping of us and our friends fed and warmed, but that I
will maintain the stand I've pledged myself to keep."

"Let us hope, sir, that the redcoats will not first seize your cattle," said
Hugh, his eyes fixed gravely upon the abstracted young face opposite him.
"I met Trent as I was riding along the pastures, and he told me the sheep
had escaped through a broken place in the fence of the ten-acre lot, and he
had a chase after them to Riverhead Beach. He said he met a party of
soldiers there, and they deliberately took one of the sheep from under his
very nose, and carried it off with them to the Neck. And when he
remonstrated with them, they only laughed at him, and told him to send the
bill to the King for the dinner they would have."

The old man's eyes flashed with anger as he listened to this.

"It is an outrage!" he exclaimed when Hugh had finished,—"to steal
stock under our very eyes. I must see Trent about the matter, and the cattle
must be kept nigh the house."

"Why not take them by boatloads over to the islands till the redcoats be
gone, as has been done before, for pasturage?" The suggestion came from
Aunt Lettice, and was made rather timidly.

"You were never cut out for a farmer's wife, Lettice, my dear," her
brother-in-law replied, a good-humored smile now breaking over his face,
"else you'd remember there is no pasturage there at this time o' year. And I
doubt if they'd be so safe on the islands as here, for Trent and the men

would have to go each day with fodder for them, and the soldiers' spying
eyes would be sure to note the coming and going o' the boats. No," he
added with decision, "I shall have the flocks kept penned, nigh the house;
and I shall make complaint o' this matter to the Governor. As for the rest,"
and he smiled grimly, "I take it our guns can protect ourselves and our
property."

CHAPTER XXI

Hugh Knollys was so much a member of the household that Aunt Lettice
thought nothing of going her own way when dinner was over and leaving
him in the living-room with Dorothy; and the two now sat on one of the
low, broad window-seats, watching Joseph Devereux as he went out of
doors in search of Trent, with 'Bitha dancing along beside him.

"How fast 'Bitha is growing!" Hugh remarked. "She will soon be taller
than you, Dot. Although, to be sure," he added with a laugh, "that is not
saying very much."

Dorothy did not reply. Indeed it would seem that she had not heard him;
and now he laid his hand softly upon one of her own to arouse her attention
as he called her by name.

At this she started, and turned her face to him.

"What, Hugh—what is it?" she asked confusedly.

His smiling face became sober at once, and a curious intentness crept
into his blue eyes while he and Dorothy looked at each other without
speaking. Then he asked deliberately, "Of what were you dreaming just
now, Dot?"

A burning blush deepened the color in her cheeks, and her eyes fell
before those that seemed to be searching her very thoughts.

"Shall I make a guess?" he said, a strange thrill now creeping into his
voice and causing her to lift her eyes again. "Were you dreaming of that
young redcoat you were walking with this morning?"

She sprang to her feet and faced him, her eyes blazing, and her slight
form trembling with anger.

"I was not walking with any such," she replied hotly. "How dare you say
so?"

"Because it so appeared as I came along the Salem road," was his calm
answer. "I saw him on one side of the road leaning against the stone wall,
and watching you, as you went from the wall on the opposite side, and
across your father's lot. His eyes were fixed upon you as though he were
never going to look away; indeed he never saw nor heard me until my horse
was directly in front of him."

Dorothy was now looking down at the floor, and made no reply.

After waiting a moment for her to speak, Hugh took both her hands and
held them close, while he said with an earnestness that seemed almost
solemn in its intensity: "Don't deceive me, Dot. Don't tell me aught that is
not true, when you can trust me to defend you and your happiness with my
life, if needs be."

His words comforted her in a way she could not explain. And yet they
startled her; for she was still too much of a child, and Hugh Knollys had
been too long a part of her every-day life, for her to suspect how it really
was with him.

"I was not intending to tell you any untruth, Hugh. But—I was not
walking with him."

The anger had now gone from her eyes, and she left her hands to lie
quietly in his clasp. But she had not forgotten the warm pressure of those
other hands in whose keeping they had been that same morning.

"Had you not seen him, Dot?" Hugh asked, looking keenly into her face.

At this her whole nature was up in rebellion, for she could not brook his
pursuing the matter farther, after what she had already told him.

"Let go my hands!" she exclaimed angrily. "Let me go! You have no
right to question me as to my doings."

He dropped her hands at once, and rising to his feet, turned his back to
her, and looked out of the window. A mighty flood of jealousy was surging
through his brain; and that which he had so long repressed was struggling
hard to uproot itself from the secret depths,—where he was striving to hide
it from her knowledge—and burst forth in fierce words from his lips.

Had this hated Britisher dared to steal into the sacred place of the child's
heart, which he himself, from a sense of honor, was bound to make no effort
to penetrate? The mere suspicion of such a thing was maddening.

Dorothy glanced at him. How big and angry he looked, standing there
with tightly folded arms, his lips compressed, and his brows contracted into
a deep scowl! How unlike he was to the sunny-faced Hugh Knollys who
had been her companion since childhood!

"Don't be angry with me, Hugh," she pleaded softly, venturing timidly to
touch his shoulder.

He whirled about so suddenly as to startle her, and she fell back a pace,
her wondering eyes staring at the set white face before her.

"I am not angry, Dot," he said, letting his arms drop from their clasping;
"I am only—hurt." And he slowly resumed his place upon the window-seat.

"I don't wish to hurt you, Hugh," Dorothy declared, as she sat down by
him again.

He seemed to make an effort to smile, as he asked, "Don't you?"

"No, I do not." And now her voice began to gather a little asperity. "But
you do not seem to consider that you said aught to hurt me, as well."

He took her hand and stroked it gently.

"You know well, Dot," he said, "that I'd not hurt you by word or deed.
And it is only when I think you are doing what is like to hurt yourself, that I
make bold to speak as I did just now."

Dorothy was silent, but her brain was busy. The thought had come to her
that she must bind him by some means,—make it certain that he should not
speak of this matter to her brother. And a wild impulse—one she did not
stop to question—urged her to see that the young soldier was not brought to
any accounting for whatever he had done.

She wondered how much Hugh might know, and how much was only
suspicion,—surmise. And with the intent to satisfy herself as to this, she
said, "Just because you saw a redcoat watching me, as you thought, and at a
distance, you forthwith accuse me of walking with him."

She spoke with a fine show of impatience and reproof, but still
permitting him to hold and caress her hand.

"Aye, Dot, but there be redcoats and redcoats. And this one happened to
be that yellow-faced gallant we are forever meeting, the one you—"

She interrupted him. "I know what you mean. But I tell you truly, Hugh,
I had not been walking with him, nor did I know he was by the stone wall
looking after me, as you say."

"And you had not seen him?" Hugh asked, now beginning to appear
more like himself, and bending his smiling face down to look at her.

But the smile vanished, as he met her faltering eyes.

"Don't tell me, Dot, if you'd sooner not; only know that you can trust me,
if you will, and I'll never fail you,—never!"

These words, and the way they were spoken, settled all her doubts, and
clasping her other hand over his, that still held her own, she burst forth
impetuously: "Oh, I will tell you, Hugh. Only you'll promise me that you'll
never tell of it, not even to Jack."

The young man hesitated, but only for a second, as the sweet prospect of
a secret between them—one to be shared by no other, not even her idolized
brother—swept away all other thoughts.

"I promise that I'll tell no one, Dot,—not even Jack."

He spoke slowly and guardedly, the better to hide the mad beating of his
heart, and the effort he was making to restrain himself from taking her in
his arms and telling her what she was to him.

Dorothy uttered a little sigh, as if greatly relieved. Then she said with an
air of perfect frankness: "Well, Hugh, I did see him—up in the wood, as I
was coming from old Ruth's. He spoke to me, and I ran away from him."

"What did he say?" Hugh demanded quickly.

"Oh, I cannot remember,—he startled me so. I was dreadfully frightened,
although I am sure he meant no harm."

"No harm," Hugh repeated wrathfully. "It was sufficient harm for him to
dare speak to you at all."

"No, but it was not," the girl declared emphatically. "He and I are
acquainted, you know—after a fashion. It was not the first time he has
spoken to me, nor I to him, for that matter."

Hugh's blue eyes flashed with anger.

"I have a great mind to make it the last!" he exclaimed with hot
indignation, and half starting from his seat.

But Dorothy pushed him back. "Now mark this, Hugh Knollys," she said
warningly,—"if you say aught to him, and so make me the subject of
unseemly brawling, I'll never speak to you again,—no, not the longest day
we both live!" And she brought her small clenched fist down with enforcing
emphasis upon Hugh's broad palm.

"What a little spitfire you are, Dot!" And he smiled at her once more.

"Spitfire, is it? You seem to have a plentiful supply of compliments for
me this day." She spoke almost gayly, pleased as she was to have diverted
him so easily.

He was now staring at her with a new expression in his eyes, and
appeared to be turning over some matter in his mind; and Dorothy remained
silent, wondering what it might be.

"Dorothy," he said presently, and very gravely, "I wonder will you
promise me something?"

"I must know first what it is." She was smiling, and yet wishing he
would not look at her in such a strange way; she had never known before
that his frank, good-natured face could wear so sober an aspect.

"I wish you would promise me that you'll keep out of this fellow's way,
—that you'll never permit him to hold any converse with you, and, above
all, when no one else is by."

"I'll promise no such thing," she answered promptly, and with a look of
defiance.

"And why not?" he asked in the same grave way, and with no show of
being irritated by her quick refusal. Indeed he now spoke even more gently
than before.

"Because," she replied, "it is a silly thing to ask. He is a gentleman; and I
do not feel bound to fly from before him like a guilty thing, or as though I
were not able to take care of myself. Besides, we are not like to meet again
—he and I."

Her voice sank at the last words, as though she were speaking them to
herself—and it had a touch of wistfulness or of regret.

This set Hugh to scowling once more. But he said nothing, and sat
toying in an abstracted fashion with her small, soft fingers.

The desire to plead his own cause was again strong upon him, and he
was wondering if he might not in some way sound the depths of her feeling
toward him, without violating the pledge which, although unspoken by his
lips, he knew her brother—his own dearest friend—assumed to have been
given.

He was aroused from these speculations by a question from Dorothy.

"You will never speak to him of me in any manner, will you, Hugh?" she
asked coaxingly.

"Speak to whom?" he inquired in turn. Then, noting the embarrassment
in her eyes, he muttered something—and not altogether a blessing—upon
Cornet Southorn.

"But you 'll—promise me you 'll," she insisted.

"And if I promise?" he asked slowly. He was looking into her face,
thinking how sweet her lips were, and wishing he could throw honor to the
winds and kiss them—just once, while they were so close to his own.

"There is nothing," she declared with a sudden impulse, "that I will not
do for you in return!"

"Nothing!" A reckless light was now growing in his eyes. "Are you sure,
Dot, there is nothing?"

"No, nothing I can do," she affirmed. But she could not help remarking
his eagerness and illy repressed excitement, and felt that she must keep
herself on guard against a possible demonstration,—something whose
nature she could not foresee.

The young man was still looking fixedly at her. But now he let go her
hands and sprang to his feet.

"I'll make no bargain with you, Dot," he said excitedly. "I hate this man,
and have from the very first, and I hope I'll have the good fortune before
many days to meet him face to face, in fair fight. But I promise, as you ask

it, that I'll seek no quarrel with him. And even had you not asked, I'd surely
never have mentioned your name to him."

"Thank you." Dorothy spoke very quietly; and before he could know of
her intention she snatched his hand and kissed it.

She did it so suddenly and quickly that he knew not what to say or do.
He felt the hot blood rush to his face, and found himself trembling from the
storm aroused within him by her caress.

Before he could speak, she was on her feet alongside him, smiling up
into his burning face, and saying, "You are a good friend to me, Hugh, and
I'll not forget it." Then, as she laid her hand on his arm, "Come, I will play
something for you; I feel just in the humor for it."

He followed her into the drawing-room, where a huge wood-fire leaped
and crackled on the hearth. She bade him be seated in a big chair in front of
the dancing flames, and then went over and perched herself upon the bench
—roomy enough to hold three Dorothys—before the spinet.

A moment later and there stole from beneath the skilful touch of her
fingers one of those quaint melodies of which we in this generation know
nothing, save as they have come down to us through the ear alone, never
having been put upon paper.

Hugh Knollys sat and watched her, noting the pretty curves of her cheeks
and throat,—the firm white neck, so small and round, with the wayward
hair breaking into rebellious little curls at the nape,—the slender wrists, and
small, snowy hands.

None of these escaped him, as he sat a little back of her, his hungry eyes
absorbing each charming detail. He thought what a blessed thing it would
be, could she and he always be together, and alone, like this, with peace
smiling once more over the land, and they happy in the society of each
other.

The music seemed to fit exactly into his present mood, and he sat
motionless for a time, listening to it. Then, scarcely conscious of what he

was doing, he arose to his feet; and as the final cadence died softly away, he
was in a chair beside the bench, with his arm clasping Dorothy's waist.

She turned a startled face, to find his own bending close to her, and with
a look in it such as she had never before known it to hold.

"Dorothy," and his voice was almost a whisper, "you care more for me
than for the Britisher?"

An alarmed suspicion of the truth came to her. She saw a new meaning
in all he had said, in what she had beheld in his face and manner; and
realizing this, she sat white and motionless, her fingers still resting upon the
keys.

He now bent his head, and she was frightened to feel tears dropping on
her wrist.

She was possessed by a wild desire to fly,—to get away from him. But
she found herself unable to stir, and sat rigid, feeling as if turned to marble,
while his arm was still lying loosely about her waist.

Then his hand stole up, and his fingers clasped her hand.

"Oh, my God,"—his voice was hoarse and choked—"I cannot endure it!"

At this, there came to the girl a flash of remembrance from that same
morning. She seemed to feel the arm of the young soldier around her, and to
see the scarlet-clad breast against which her head was pressed so tenderly. A
feeling as of treacherous dealing with his faith and with her own rushed
upon her, and she struggled to get away.

"Are you gone daft, Hugh Knollys," she cried angrily, "or whatever ails
you?"

He arose shamefacedly, and stood mute. But as she moved off, he
stretched out a hand to detain her.

"Wait,—wait but a moment, Dot," he begged. "Don't leave me in such
fashion. Don't be angry with me."

"Are you mad?" she demanded again, and with no less impatience,
although pausing beside him.

"Aye, I think I must be," he admitted, now speaking more naturally, and
trying to smile down into the small face, still glowing with indignation, so
far beneath his own.

"So it would seem," she said coldly, and in no wise softened. "I ne'er
expected such a thing from you."

"Never mind, Dot,—forget it," he pleaded, now full of penitence. "I've a
great trouble on my mind just now, and your music seemed to bring it all to
me with a new rushing."

Dorothy's face changed in a second, and became filled with sympathy.

"Oh, Hugh, I am so sorry," she said with quick solicitude, taking him by
the hand. "Don't you want to tell me about it? Mayhap I can help you." Her
anxiety about this unknown trouble had lulled to sleeping her suspicions as
to the reason for his outbreak.

He smiled,—but sadly, grimly. "I'll tell you some day," he said, "and we
will see if you can help me. But we'll be better friends than ever after this,
won't we, Dot?" His eyes had been searching her face in nervous wonder, as
if to assure himself that he had not told her aught of his secret,—the secret
his honor forbade him to reveal.

"Yes, Hugh, I am sure we shall be." Dorothy said it with a warmth that
set his mind at rest.

"And you'll let no redcoats, nor any coats—whate'er be their color—
come betwixt us?" he added, with a touch of his old playfulness.

"No, never!" And there was a sincerity and firmness in her answer that
warmed his very heart.

"Thank you, Dot," he said, lifting her fingers to his lips. "And thank
God!" he muttered as he released her hand, saying it in a way to make

Dorothy feel uncomfortable in the thought that perhaps she had pledged
herself to something more than she had intended.

Just here Aunt Lettice came into the room. "Leet has returned from the
town," she announced, full of excitement, "and says that Mugford's wife has
at last prevailed upon the English officers to release him."

"Can this be true?" inquired the young man, instantly alert, and quite his
natural self again.

"So Leet says; and that Mugford is now in the town, with every one
rejoicing over him." And she poked the fire with great energy, sending a
thousand sparkles of flame dancing up the wide chimney.

"How happy his poor wife must be!" was Dorothy's comment, as she
stooped to pick up 'Bitha's kitten, which had followed Aunt Lettice, and was
now darting at the steel buckles on the girl's shoes, where the bright fire was
reflected in flickerings most inviting to kittenish eyes and gambols.

"I think I'll ride over to town and see Mugford," said Hugh. "I want to
congratulate him upon his escape."

He glanced at Dorothy, as if half expecting her to speak, as he had just
declined Aunt Lettice's urgent invitation that he return for supper, saying
that his mother was looking for him before evening.

But all Dorothy said was, "Here come father and 'Bitha." And she
walked over toward the window.

Hugh followed her, and said in a low voice, not meant for Aunt Lettice's
ears, "You'll not forget our compact, Dot, and your promise?"

"No," she answered, smiling at him; "nor will you yours?"

"Never!" He pressed the hand she extended to him, and then hurried
away.

Joseph Devereux met him on the porch, and they stood talking for a few
minutes, while 'Bitha came within, her cheeks ruddy from the nipping air.

"Leet is back," she said, as she entered the drawing-room; "but Uncle
Joseph says it is too cold for us to take so late a ride over to see Mistress
Knollys."

"So it is, 'Bitha," Dorothy assented. "But we'll go to the kitchen, and ask
Tyntie to let us make some molasses pull."

She was, for the moment, a child again, with all perplexing thoughts of
redcoats and Hugh Knollys banished from her mind.

CHAPTER XXII

All the outdoor world seemed encased in burnished silver, as the new
moon of early December came up from the black bed of the ocean's far-out
rim, and mounting high and higher in the pale flush yet lingering from the
gorgeous sunset, brought out sparklings from the snow drifted over the
fields and fences of the old town.

The roads were transformed into pavements of glittering mosaics and
pellucid crystals; and all about the Devereux house the meadow lands
stretched away like a shining sea whose waves had suddenly congealed,
catching and holding jewels in their white depths.

Dorothy was looking out at the beauty of it all, her face close to the pane
her warm breath dimmed now and then, compelling her to raise a small
hand to make it clear again for her vision.

It was her brother's wedding night. And the girl was very fair and sweet
to look upon, in her soft pink gown, with its dainty laces and ribbons, as she
stood there awaiting the others; for they were all to drive into town, to the
house of Mistress Horton, where the marriage was to be celebrated.

Nicholson Broughton was away from his home, enforced to tarry near
Cambridge, where several of his townsmen were holding weighty conclaves

which it was important for him to attend. But he had urged John Devereux
to make no delay in the ceremony, feeling that his daughter, once wedded,
and an established member of the family at the Devereux farm, would be
happier, as well as safer, now that riots in the town were becoming more
frequent and fierce.

Hugh Knollys also was absent, having undertaken an important mission
in the neighborhood of Boston.

Only the young man himself knew how eagerly he had desired to be
given this responsibility, as a reason for being away. For as the time drew
near for his friend's wedding, he feared to trust his self-control should he
find himself again in Dorothy's presence.

And then, besides, the hated redcoats were still on the Neck, and several
of the officers, among them Cornet Southorn, having accepted more
comfortable quarters at Jameson's house, Hugh thought it the wiser course
to remove himself from the vicinity for a time.

It seemed as though these two young men were continually meeting one
another on the roads and byways of the town and its neighborhood. And the
sight of the stalwart form dashing along upon a spirited horse,—of the
handsome face and reckless eyes, raised in Hugh a fierce desire to lay them
in the dust through the medium of an enforced quarrel.

Dorothy had been by Hugh's side at several of these encounters; and it
had made him heartsick to see the fluttered way in which her eyes would
turn from the young Britisher after meeting his ardent gaze, and how for a
time she would be uneasy and abstracted, resisting all attempts to gain her
attention.

But he bravely held his own counsel, and since that memorable day in
October had never mentioned the Englishman's name, nor made any
allusion to him or his doings.

As for Dorothy, she had gone about all these days with a face grave
almost to sadness; and it was well for her own peace that the others of the
family ascribed her altered mien to jealousy, thinking that her exacting heart

found it a hard matter to share her adored brother with another whom he
reckoned more precious than her own spoiled self.

Her musings were now disturbed by Jack coming into the room.

He looked the brave soldier in his new regimentals,—a round jacket and
breeches of blue cloth, with trimmings of leather buttons; and his dark
handsome face was aglow with happiness.

His curling locks were gathered at the back of the neck, and tied with a
black watered-silk ribbon; and in his hand was a broad-brimmed hat, caught
up on one side, as was the fashion, and adorned with a cockade of blue
ribbons belonging to his sweetheart.

"Ah, Dot, and so you are here! Leet is at the door, child, and Aunt
Lettice and 'Bitha are with father, in the drawing-room, all ready to start.
Come, get your cloak, and let us be off."

He was close beside her as she turned from the window; and thinking he
saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes, he laid a detaining hand on her arm.

"You must be happy to-night, Dot," he said, "for my sake. I should like
all the world to be so, and you, my little sister, more than all the rest."

She let him kiss her on the cheek, but stood silent, with lowered eyes.

"What is it, child,—don't you rejoice with me, when I am happier than
ever before in my life?"

He gently took her chin in his hand and raised her downcast face. In an
instant her arms were clasped about his neck and her head buried against his
breast.

Just then they heard Aunt Lettice, in the hall, calling as if she supposed
Dorothy to be above stairs.

"Come, Dot," urged her brother,—"they are waiting for us, and we must
be off." And kissing her, he quietly unclasped her clinging arms.

At this she drew herself away from him, and fixing her eyes searchingly
upon his face, said, "You are so happy, Jack, are n't you, because you and
Mary love each other?"

"Why, surely," he replied, wondering at the words, and at her way of
speaking them. But he smiled as he looked into her troubled face.

"Do you not think, Jack," she asked, still with that strange look in her
eyes, "that when love comes in, it changes all of one's world?"

He now laughed outright. But she paid no attention to his gayety, going
on in a way to have troubled him had he been less selfishly happy at the
moment, "If you know this so well, Jack, you will never cease to love me, if
ever love comes to change my own world, the same as it has yours? No
matter what you may feel is wrong about it, you will not blame me?"

"Why, Dot, little girl, whatever are you dreaming about,—what should
make you talk in this way?" And he looked at her with real anxiety.

But she only laughed, and passing her hand across her eyes, answered
nervously, "I don't know, Jack,—I was but thinking on future possibilities."

"Rather upon the most remote impossibilities," he said laughingly. "But
come, child, think no more of anything but this,—that 't is high time for you
to put on your cloak and come to see your brother take unto himself a wife,
who is to be your own dear sister."

"I am glad it is Mary Broughton," Dorothy said quietly, as she took her
cloak from a chair.

"So am I," he laughed, as he wrapped the warm garment about her,
shutting away all her pink sweetness with its heavy folds. Then, while he
helped her to draw the hood over her curly head, "What if it were Polly
Chine, now?"

"Then," she answered with an odd smile, "you would have to fight Hugh
Knollys."

They were passing through the door, and he said with a keen glance at
her, "I've good cause to know better than that, Dot."

But she gave no heed to this, and they joined the others outside.

The old family sleigh moved sedately along the hard, snow-packed road,
the moon making a shadowy, grotesque mass of it along the high drifts,
while Leet, enveloped in furs, sat soberly erect, full of the importance now
attaching to him.

When they were well on their way, a body of mounted Britishers swept
by, evidently bound for the town; and Joseph Devereux remarked to his son,
as the two sat opposite one another, while Dorothy, riding backwards with
her brother, seemed lost in the contemplation of the snowy fields they were
passing, "I trust, Jack, those fellows will stir up no trouble this night."

"They are most likely to do so," was the low-spoken reply; "for you
know the mere sight of their red coats acts upon our men much as the like
color affects an angry bull."

"I wish they might be ordered from the Neck," observed Aunt Lettice,
who sat alongside her brother-in-law, and had caught enough to guess at the
rest of the talk.

"They must wish so themselves, by this time," Jack said with a laugh. "It
must now be rarely cold quarters for them over there."

"Why did you not ask them to your wedding, Cousin Jack?"

The question came from small 'Bitha, who was sitting between Dorothy
and her brother. "I wonder if the one Mary pushed over the rocks last
summer would not like to see her married?"

"'Bitha!" Dorothy exclaimed sharply, seeming to awaken to what was
being said. "Why will you always put it so? Mary did not push him over; he
fell himself."

"Aye,—but, Cousin Dot, he fell over while he was stepping back from
her," the child answered. "She looked so angry that I think he was sorely
frightened."

Dorothy did not reply; but her brother said gayly, "Well, 'Bitha, I hope
Mary will never look at me in a way to frighten me so much as that."

"She never would," 'Bitha asserted with confidence, "for you are not a
Britisher."

"What a stanch little rebel it is," Joseph Devereux said laughingly; and
Jack went on in a teasing way to 'Bitha, "I expect we shall all go to see
'Bitha married to a redcoat as soon as she is big enough."

"You will see no such thing, Cousin Jack," the child replied angrily. "I'd
run away, so that no one could ever find me, before I'd do such a thing.
Would not you, Cousin Dorothy?"

Dorothy did not answer, and 'Bitha repeated the question.

"Would I do what, 'Bitha?" Dorothy now asked, but indifferently, and as
though with the object of quieting the child.

"Why, marry a redcoat?"

"Nonsense, 'Bitha,—don't let Jack tease you." And Dorothy turned away
again to look off over the snow fields through which they were passing. But
she wondered if the others noticed how oddly her voice sounded, and what
a tremble there was in it.

The Horton house loomed up full of importance from amid its darker
fellows, and warm lights twinkled out here and there where a parted curtain
let them through to shine forth like welcoming smiles into the cold night.

Within there was much bustle and good-natured badinage, as the
neighbors, bidden to the feast, assisted the people of the house,—playing
the part of entertainer or caterer, hairdresser or maid, as the needs of the
other guests demanded.

It was a simple, homely wedding, as was the custom of the day; and the
festivities were enjoyed with all the more zest by reason of the relief they
offered from the anxiety felt by all, on account of the disturbed condition of
public affairs.

There were games—such as "Twirl the Trencher" and "Hunt the
Slipper"—for those who liked them; and the elders endeavored to enter at
least into the spirit of all that was going on, and not dampen the younger
folks' pleasure by the exhibition of gloomy faces and constrained actions.

Later in the evening there was dancing. And it was a goodly sight to look
at the handsome groom and his lovely bride go through the stately minuet,
with his father and Aunt Lettice opposite them,—the slow, dignified step
making the feat a no-wise difficult one for the old gentleman, who had in
his day been accounted one of the most graceful of dancers.

Dorothy acted for a time as though she were made of quicksilver. She
was leader in all the games and frolics, and seemed the very impersonation
of happy, laughter-loving girlhood. Then, and without any apparent reason,
another and different mood took possession of her, and she suddenly
became very quiet, taking but little part in what was going on.

Her father's fond eyes were quick to notice this; but when he hastened to
draw her to one side and ask for the cause, she made light of his anxiety,
and gave him a smiling assurance of her perfect well-being.

As a matter of fact, something had occurred to disturb the girl very
seriously.

During one of the games she had been alone for a few minutes in a room
facing upon the side yard,—a small orchard; and chancing to glance toward
the window, she saw, as if pressed against the glass, the face of Cornet
Southorn.

While she stood, silent and rigid, staring at it, the face disappeared; and
some of the other guests now entering the room, she slipped away to
recover her composure.

What, she asked herself, did he seek, and why was he here? She
dismissed at once the thought of his meaning any harm, for surely he would
not bring about any disturbance upon this, her brother's wedding night. And
even should he seek to intrude himself upon them, there could be no just
cause to warrant such an act, for although the King might expect to enforce
the Acts of his Parliament, he had not as yet sought to control the marrying
or giving in marriage of his American subjects.

But even so, she was startled, almost alarmed; and the matter filled her
thoughts for the remainder of the evening.

It had been arranged that Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha were to remain with the
Hortons for a time, while Joseph Devereux was to accept the invitation of
his friend, Colonel Lee, to pass a few days at the latter's house, not far
away.

This would make the bride and groom the only ones who would return
with Leet to the farm, as Dorothy was going to the home of a girl friend,
feeling that it would be a relief to be among new faces and in a strange
house.

"Dorothy, are you going to let me be a good sister to you,—one of the
sort you will come to with all your joys and troubles?"

The two girls were standing close to each other in one of the upper
rooms, where Mary was donning a dark gray slip pelisse and hood, with
warm fur linings peeping about the edges, while Mistress Horton was
bustling about out of earshot, getting some last stray articles bundled for
their conveyance to the sleigh waiting below.

The earnest blue eyes were bent searchingly upon Dorothy's face, as if
the speaker had more than a passing notion of the impulses stirring the heart
lying beneath the laces of the dainty pink gown.

But Dorothy laughed, albeit a little constrainedly, and replied, "I thought
you knew all about that long ago, Mary."

"Do you know, Dot,"—and Mary's white brows contracted into a puzzled
frown—"somehow you are changed. What is it, dear?"

"Your imaginings, I should say," was the careless reply. "My hair is not
turning gray, is it?" And she touched her dark curls.

"Well, never mind now," said Mary, diplomatically, and not caring to
press the matter, "but you will tell me when we are together again, won't
you, Dot?"

Dorothy only smiled, and said nothing.

Jack had spoken to Mary more than once of some change that had come
over his sister. But his words were not needed, as she herself, not having
seen much of the girl these last few months, would have observed it had he
not spoken.

Dorothy was as impulsive and affectionate as of old, but to Mary's keen
eyes there now seemed a new-born womanliness about her. She was
sensible of the absence of that childish frankness and ingenuousness which
had been so much a part of the girl's nature. She was now more like a
woman, and one whose mind held a secret she herself tried to evade, as well
as have others blind to its existence.

It was as if a new self had been born, dominating the old self, and
sending her thoughts far from where her body might be.

"She must be in love with some one, and 't is sure to be Hugh Knollys,"
said Mary to herself, with a glow of happiness, as the two went downstairs,
Mistress Horton and a servant following them, both laden with packages to
be stowed away in the Devereux equipage, whereon Leet sat rigidly upright,
the darkness hiding his black face and its unusual grin.

"Take good care of her, Strings," Joseph Devereux cautioned, as he took
his place within the vehicle, and pointing to the open doorway, where a pink
gown and dark curly head showed foremost amongst the guests crowded
there to see the bride and groom on their way. The pedler—an humble
onlooker at the wedding—had urged his protection for Dorothy's safer

piloting through the town to her friend's house; and this her father and
brother had been glad to accept.

"That I will, sir,—never fear," was the hearty response; and as Jack
Devereux sprang into the sleigh, Leet turned the horses' heads to the street
and drove off, followed by a shower of old shoes and peals of merry
laughter from the doorway.

CHAPTER XXIII

The town was as silent as a city of the dead when the four started on
their way, Master Storms—a fussy, irritable old gentleman—in advance,
with his pretty daughter Patience hanging on his arm, and followed closely
by the small erect figure of Dorothy, wrapped in her dark cloak; while
Johnnie Strings, on guard against any unseen danger, walked directly
behind her.

There were hurrying masses of cloud overhead that made gorges and
ravines, hemming in the glittering stars, now grown brighter since the moon
had set; and the sound of the sea came faintly hoarse, as the little party bent
their steps in its direction. For near it lay the Storms domicile,—up near
what was known as "Idler's Hill."

Suddenly a wild uproar broke out upon the night, coming from ahead of
them; and Master Storms bringing his daughter to a halt, Dorothy and the
pedler came up with them.

They all stood listening. There were the shouts and cries of a not-to-be-
mistaken street fight; and the turmoil was becoming more distinct, as
though the combatants were approaching.

Patience urged her father to hurry on towards their house; but he
hesitated.

"What think you is amiss, Johnnie Strings?" he inquired nervously,
fidgeting from one foot to the other, while his terrified daughter tugged at
his arm.

"Usual trouble, I guess," drawled the pedler. "Redcoats paradin' the
streets, and gettin' sassy." Then turning to Dorothy, he said, "Had n't ye best
let me take ye back, Mistress Dorothy?"

Before she could answer him a small body of soldiers issued from a side
street near by. A wavering, yelling crowd of angered men swept forward to
meet them; and the two girls and their escorts found themselves in the midst
of a struggling, shouting mass, with here and there a horseman looming up,
whose headgear, faintly outlined in the uncertain light, proved him to be a
British dragoon.

Master Storms seized his daughter by the arm, and taking advantage of
an opening he saw in the crowd, darted through and sped with the girl down
a narrow alley. But the pedler, trying to follow with Dorothy, was baffled by
a number of the combatants closing in around them.

He shouted lustily for them to make a passage for himself and his
charge; but although he was known to many of them, rage, and the lust of
battle, seemed to dull their ears to his voice.

In the midst of it all he was felled to the ground; and with no thought of
tarrying to find out if he were hurt, Dorothy, seeing a small opening in the
mass of men, dashed through it, with the intention of making her way back
to the Hortons'.

She had gone only a short distance when her path was barred by several
horsemen, who seemed to be the leaders of the troop. They had fought their
way to a clearer space, and were looking back as though for their followers
to join them.

"Devils—fools," panted one. "They deserve to be wiped out."

"Aye," said another. "If we might use our weapons as we liked, I, for
one, would take pleasure in having a hand at that game."

Dorothy attempted to glide by them, hoping that the dark color of the
cloak she wore would save her from detection. But the voice of the first
speaker called out gayly, "Aha, who goes there? Stop, pretty one, and give
the countersign."

"Or, if indeed you be a pretty one, we'll take a kiss instead, and call it a
fair deal," laughed another, as flippantly as if the night were not being rent
with the uproar of the fighting mob just behind them.

Dorothy came to a standstill, and for the instant was uncertain which
way to turn. Then she resolved to pursue the road she had taken, and said
spiritedly, "Stand aside, and let me pass out of hearing of such insults, or it
may be the worse for you."

She lifted her head as she spoke; and as the rays of a near-by lamp fell
upon her face, one of the riders spurred toward her.

"Mistress Dorothy!" The voice made her heart leap; and then she felt
sick and faint.

"Dear mistress,"—and now Cornet Southorn had dismounted close
beside her—"let me conduct you safely out of this place, where you surely
never should have come."

The other horsemen had drawn to one side and away from them, and
were now silent.

Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, Dorothy permitted him to lift
her to his saddle. He sprang up behind her, and holding her firmly with one
arm about her waist, spurred his horse away from the scene, shouting to the
others not to wait for him.

The uproar soon died away behind them, but still they sped on in silence.
Then Dorothy heard the young man laugh, and in a way to frighten her, and
rally her dreaming senses to instant alertness.

"So now, my sweet little rebel, you are my captive, instead of being my
jailer, as that night in the summer." And she felt his breath touch her cheek.

"You shall not speak to me in such fashion. And—oh, you have passed the
street leading to Mistress Morton's, which is where I must go."

Dorothy began with her usual imperiousness, but ended in affright as she
saw the street fade into the darkness behind them.

"Is that where I stole like a thief to catch one glimpse of you, pretty
one?" he asked, paying no heed to her indignation. "And I felt like
committing murder, when I saw all the gallants who wanted your smiles for
themselves."

"Take me back this minute!" she demanded angrily; but her heart was
now thrilling with something that was not altogether rage nor fright.

"That will I not," he answered quickly, and with dogged firmness.

"You are no gentleman," she cried, beginning at last to feel real alarm,
"if you do not take me to Mistress Morton's this minute."

The young man leaned forward until his lips were close to the girl's ear;
and his deep voice, now trembling as with suppressed feeling, sent each
word to her with perfect distinctness.

"I hope, sweet Mistress Dorothy, I am a gentleman," he said. "As such I
was born, and have been accounted. But"—and his voice sank to a
tremulous softness—"take you anywhere, I will not, until we have seen
good Master Weeks, for whose house we are now bound. And when we
leave it, it will be as man and wife."

"You—dare not," she gasped. "You dare not do such a thing."

He laughed softly. "Dare I not? Ah, but you mistake. I dare do anything
to win you for my own. I know your sweet rebel heart better than you think,
and I know that except it be done in some such manner, you may never be
mine."

She tried to speak, but fright and dismay sealed her lips. Suddenly he
bent his face still closer and whispered: "Ah, little sweetheart, how I long to

kiss you! But my rose has its thorns; and I fear their stinging my face, as
they did that day in the wood, ages ago,—so long it seems since I had the
happy chance to hold speech with you."

Still Dorothy could not utter a word, seeming to be in a dream, while the
powerful gray flew along the deserted streets that somehow looked new and
strange to her eyes. And now she felt the broad breast pillowing her head,
and she could feel distinctly the beating of his heart, as if his pulse and her
own were one and the same.

And so they rode along in silence until they reached the house of Master
Weeks, where the young man pulled up his horse, and without dismounting,
pounded fiercely with his sword-hilt upon the door.

An upper window was soon raised, and a man's querulous voice
demanded to know what was wanted.

"Make haste, and come down to see," was the impatient answer. "It is
Cornet Southorn who wishes to speak with you."

The window was closed hastily, and a light soon flickered in the lower
part of the house; and then came the noise of the door being unbarred.

The young man sprang to the ground and held out his arms.

"Come, sweetheart," he said, "let me lift you down, and I will fasten the
horse to a ring in the step here. He has been fastened there before, but,"
with a soft laugh, "scarce for a like purpose."

Dorothy clung to the pommel. "I'll not,—I'll not!" she declared. "You
shall not dare do so wicked a thing, and Master Weeks will never dare listen
to you."

"We'll see to that," he laughed, and lifted her from the saddle. Then, as
she reached the ground, he kissed her, as he had that day in the wood.

"Be good to me, and true to yourself, my sweet little rebel," he
whispered, "and fight no longer with truth and your own heart. Own that

you love me, and know that I love you,—aye, better than my life."

"I care naught for your love," cried Dorothy, struggling to free herself
from his arms. "And I tell you that I hate you!"

"Aye," and he laughed again, "so your lips say. But I know what your
heart says, for your eyes told me that, long ago. And I shall listen to your
heart and eyes, and pay no heed to your sweet little rebellious mouth."

They were now standing on the upper step of the small porch, and in the
open doorway was the minister, Master Weeks, a candle in his hand, and
held above his head as he peered out into the darkness with wonder filling
his blinking eyes.

"Good Master Weeks, here is a little wedding party. And despite the
unseemly hour, you must out with your book, and your clerk, as witness, for
binding the bargain past all breaking."

With this, the young officer, carrying Dorothy in before him, entered the
house and closed the door, against which he placed his broad back, his
gleaming teeth and laughing eyes alight like a roguish boy's as he smiled
down upon the bewildered little divine.

"You will do no such thing, Master Weeks," Dorothy protested, her eyes
flashing with anger. "I am here against my will, and forbid you to listen to
his madness."

"Aye," the young man said, looking into her glowing face, "mad I am,
and with a disease that naught will cure but to know that you are my wife."

"Why, Cornet Southorn," exclaimed Master Weeks, "whatever can you
be thinking on? Surely this lady is Mistress Dorothy, the daughter of Master
Joseph Devereux." And he looked closely into her face.

"Yes, so I am," she cried, moving nearer to him. "You know my father,
and you'll surely not hearken to this young Britisher?"

"Aye, but he will, and that speedily," the young man asserted. The smile
was now gone from his face, and his hand stole toward his pistol.

"Master Weeks," he said sternly, "it will go hard with you if within ten
minutes you do not make this lady my wife." And he looked at his watch.

The frightened little man said nothing more, but hurriedly summoned his
housekeeper and her son, who was also his clerk. A few minutes later, and
Dorothy, held so firmly—albeit gently—by Kyrle Southorn that she could
not move from his side, heard the words that made her his wife.

When it was over, she was strangely silent, scarcely seeming to
comprehend what had taken place.

The newly made husband put his name upon the register. Then, as he
drew Dorothy forward to take his place, he bent down until his face came
beneath her own, and gave her a curious, beseeching look,—one that
seemed to act upon her bewildered senses like a deadening drug.

Yes, he was right. She loved him better than all else in the world. Her
mind had fought the truth these many months; but now her heart rose up, a
giant in strength and might, and she could never question it again.

For a moment her great dark eyes looked down into his pleading ones.
Then in a subdued, obedient way, entirely unlike the wilful Dorothy of all
her former life, she took the pen he proffered and wrote her name
underneath his bold signature.

A deep sigh now burst from his lips,—one of happy relief; then, as if
utterly unmindful of the minister's presence, he pressed a kiss upon the little
hand that still held the pen.

She submitted to this in silence, standing before him with downcast face,
and eyes that seemed fearing to meet his gaze, while he carefully drew the
cloak about her once more.

"I trust, Mistress Dorothy, you will in no wise hold me accountable for
this young man's rashness, when the matter shall come to your father's ears,

but that you will kindly raise your voice in my behalf to testify how that I
was forced for my life's sake to agree."

Master Weeks was already on the black list, owing to his well-known
sympathy for the King's cause, and for having remonstrated openly with the
patriots of his congregation.

"You have but to keep a close mouth, Master Weeks," said Southorn, as
the little man lighted them into the hall; "and the closer, the safer it will be
for your own welfare, until such time as one of us shall call upon you to
speak."

A few minutes later they were again speeding along, with everything
about them as silent as the stars now glittering in an unclouded sky.

The touch of the keen air upon Dorothy's face seemed to arouse her; and
as her senses became awakened, she was filled with a wild yearning for the
safe shelter of her father's arms.

What would that father say,—how was she ever to tell him of this
dreadful thing?

And yet was it sure to be so dreadful to her?

Yes, it must be. This man was the sworn enemy of her country, and of
the cause for which her brother and her friends were imperilling their very
lives. If she went with him—this Englishman who was now her husband—
it meant that her family would brand her as a traitor, and that she would be
an outcast from them. It might bring about the death of her father, the light
of whose eyes and life she knew herself to be.

She seemed to see once more the beloved face, and hear his voice,
warning the pedler to take care of her.

And poor Johnnie Strings—might he not at this moment be dead,
stricken down by the followers of this very man who was now holding her
so close to his breast, and murmuring fond words between the kisses he
pressed upon her lips.

She was beset by a sudden loathing of him and of herself, and pushing
away his bended face, she tried to sit more erect.

"Stop!" she cried fiercely. "Don't touch me. I did not mean to give way
so. I detest you!"

"Ah, my little rebel,"—and he spoke in no pleased tone,—"have I to
fight the battle all over?"

"You have taken an unfair, a dishonorable advantage of me," she said. "I
am not used to such manners as you have shown. But I tell you this,—
although you have forced me to become your wife, you cannot force my
love."

"So it would seem," was his grim answer.

"Where do you purpose taking me?" she demanded, all her wits now
well in hand.

"That shall be just as you say, sweet mistress," he replied, so good-
naturedly as to surprise her.

"Then take me at once to my father's house," she ordered, with her
natural imperiousness.

"So be it," he said. "And that will be on my own way, as it leads to
Jameson's."

They rode in silence along the snowy road, whose whiteness and the
stars made the only light, until they were within her father's grounds, and
partially up the driveway.

Here she bade him let her down; and he dismounted silently and lifted
her from the horse, detaining her as she stood alongside him, as in her heart
she had hoped he would. And yet had he not done this, she would have gone
her way without a word.

"Is there any doubt but that you will get within the house all safe?" he
asked anxiously.

"None." She lifted her face, and he wished there were a better light with
which to see her.

"And now," he said, "what is your will that I do?"

Dorothy answered quickly and with angry decision.

"Go away and leave me," she exclaimed, "and never speak to me again!"

She could not see the look of pain come to his face. But he still lingered
beside her, and asked again, "And you are certain to get within the house,
and that you fear naught?"

"I fear nothing!" she said impatiently.

"Aye,—I should have cause to know better than ask such a question," he
declared, in a voice that sounded as if now he might be smiling. Then he
asked, "And you mean it,—that I leave you, and keep away?"

"Yes, yes; let me go." And she sought to escape from his grasp.

But he held her firmly, and still closer.

"Do you realize, sweet mistress, that you are my wife,—my own little
wife?"

She did not reply; and bending his head nearer, he exclaimed
passionately: "My own wife you are, and no man can change that,—never,
never! And now, having gained you, I am content to await your pleasure.
My lips shall be sealed until you choose to open them; and until you send
for me, sweet mistress of my heart, I shall not come nigh you. Only, I pray
you, in God's name, not to let the time be far away."

"Let me go," was all she could say, dismayed as she was by the weight
of sorrow that had come to her, and threatened those whom she loved.

He released her without another word, and she fled swiftly to the house.

Having awakened Tyntie by tossing some bits of ice against her window,
she soon gained entrance, and quieted the wonder of the faithful servant by
telling her that there had been a street fight, and a gentleman had brought
her home on his horse.

Despite the terrible struggle going on in her childish heart, Dorothy kept
up bravely until alone in her own room, whose very familiarity seemed
almost a shock to her, for all that had been crowded into these few hours
made it as though weeks had passed since she arrayed herself for her
brother's wedding,—little dreaming that it was for her own as well.

And such a wedding! How was it that the young Britisher had dared to
do such a thing? How was it that she had come to sign the register so
meekly? How could she ever dare tell of it? And if she did so, might not her
revelation bring harm to him?

Such were the questions that chased one another through her mind, only
to return again and again with renewed importunity.

She had told him to go, and yet—she loved him truly. And could she be
loyal to her father's cause with such a love battling in her heart?

With thoughts like these the few remaining hours of the night wore
away, bringing to her but snatches of fitful sleep.

Johnnie Strings appeared at the Devereux farm early the following
morning. The red of his face was almost pale, and he was haggard and wild-
eyed, with one of his arms in a sling.

He came to report to John Devereux the happenings of the night before,
and to consult with him as to the best way of imparting to his father the
news of Dorothy's disappearance.

The newly wedded pair had already been told by Tyntie of the girl's
presence in the house; and Jack now hastened to assure the almost
distracted pedler of her safety, adding that they had thought it best to leave
her sleeping undisturbed until she should be ready to come down and join
them.

When Johnnie Strings heard this, he collapsed into a chair.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed, as soon as he could find his voice, "I never
was so dead beat out! My broken arm is pretty bad, to be sure, but my
feelin's was a danged sight worse when I come to my senses last night.
There they had me in fisher Doak's, an' naught could they tell o' Mistress
Dorothy, for none had seen her. I went down to Storms's at daybreak, and
then over to Horton's, an' she'd been seen at neither place. Comin' by Master
Lee's, I first thought to make inquiry there, thinkin', ye know, she might o'
flewed to her father. Then, thinks I, 'Hold on, Strings. If she did, then she's
safe as safe; an' if she did n't, why, ye may be the death o' the old
gentleman.'

"So thinkin', I rode back to Horton's ag'in an' begged 'em—an' Mistress
Lettice, who was about plum out o' her head with fright—to keep quiet, an'
not risk scarin' your father to death, while I rode out here to see ye an' have
a sort o' meetin' over it, to decide what's to be done next an' best. So now,
thank the Lord, I find the bird is safe here in the nest where she b'longs, an'
I'll hurry back an' tell Mistress Lettice, as I promised to do."

With this he pulled himself up from the chair and started for the door.
But the young man stopped him.

"You had better stop here awhile, Strings," he said, "and have something
to eat and drink; I can send Leet in to see Aunt Lettice." And Mary adding
her persuasions, the worn-out pedler was induced to accept the invitation.

Tyntie soon had a tempting meal spread for him; and having been
without food since leaving the Horton house the night before, he was in a
condition to do it full justice.

John Devereux sat by while the pedler ate, and drew from him the details
of the disturbance.

It had been brought about by a party of the Britishers being requested to
depart from a tavern kept by one Garvin, where they were eating and
drinking until a late hour. A wrangle ensued, during which one of the

dragoons knocked Garvin down, and then the latter's son had retaliated in
kind.

At this, some of the other guests—townsmen—had joined in, and a
regular fight began, spreading soon from the inn to the street, where,
aroused by the noise, others had taken part, although scarcely knowing why,
except for the reason that here were some of the hated enemy, and they
must be made to retreat.

No one had been killed outright, although several were quite badly hurt.

"The queerest part of it is, sir," said the pedler, having finished his story,
"that I've a firm belief 't was none other than David Prentiss who broke my
arm for me. Somethin' must o' turned him blind, I should say, for him to see
a red coat on me."

"That is the trouble with these street fights, and especially at night,—the
men seem to lose all sense of sight and reason. Something has got to be
done to make the Governor remove the troops from the Neck." While
speaking, John Devereux rose from his chair, and paced up and down the
room in angry excitement.

"Aye, very true, sir," Johnnie assented, as he drained the last drop of
spirits from his glass. "But however will such a thing be brought about?"

"I don't know," was the impatient reply. "But it must and shall be brought
about, if we have to rise up and drive them out by main force, and at the
risk of turning our very streets into a battle-ground. And this is the only
thing that has kept us from doing it long ago. But their insulting tyranny
only grows worse, and they seek deliberately to stir up the people to rash
actions; and these, when reported, serve but to hurt the real cause of our
revolting, when tidings of them comes to the King's hearing."

"Aye, no doubt," the pedler agreed, as he arose from the table. "Now, if
His Majesty could be got to sit down, comfort'ble, like another man might,
an' listen to all we could tell him, he might agree to let us have what we
want, an' what is only fair we should have, an' no fightin' need be done o'er
the matter. The trouble is in this everlastin' lot o' lyin', gabblin' poll-parrots

that he puts atwixt himself an' us, to tell him what the people do an' don't
say an' do. An' to the poll-parrots he listens, and, listenin', b'lieves. So, for
one, I should say the quicker we fight it out—whether it be in our streets or
up to Boston—"

Mary now came into the room looking very grave; and her husband,
paying no further attention to the pedler, asked anxiously, "What is amiss,
sweet wife?"

She tried to speak quietly, but the tremor in her voice told of alarm.

"Dorothy is awake," she said, "and I think you had best see her at once.
She seems ill."

They left the room together and were soon standing at the girl's bed,—
one on either side, looking down at the restlessly moving head.

The big eyes stared at Jack for an instant with evident recognition. Then
a vacant look came into them, and she laughed in a way to fill him with
apprehension.

A moment more, and she began to mutter—something about Hugh
Knollys falling into the water, and how dark and cool it was, and that she
wanted to go into it, for she was hot,—so hot.

"She is out of her head," Mary whispered; "and this is the way she went
on, to me, before I called you."

Her husband looked again at the unquiet little figure, and reached down
to take the small hand wandering about the coverlid; but she snatched it
from his clasp.

"Go away,—go far away!" she cried. "I told you to go, and I meant it.
Oh, yes,—I did mean it. I am only crying because I hate you,—never think
it is for anything else. I hate you because your coat is red,—red, like the
ruby ring you forced on my finger whether I would or no. And even the ring
did not want to stay, for it knew me better than you did. It was so big that
you had to hold it on; and now I've put it away safe,—safe, where no one

will ever see, ever know. But it is red, and red means cruelty; and that is
what this war is to be."

The babbling died away in a moan; but before Jack or his wife could
speak, Dorothy began again, now in a stronger voice than before.

"Moll said it must bring sorrow,—sorrow. And yet she said I wound him
like a silken thread around my finger. Ah, that winds tight, although the ring
was loose. And the thread Moll spoke of means love, but the ring means—
But no, I must not tell, never, never, for it would kill my father. Father, I
want you,—where are you?"

This came in a loud cry, and she sank back sobbing, on the pillows,—for
she had struggled partially to her elbow, where Jack held her so that she
could rise no farther.

"Mary, what is to be done?" asked the young man helplessly, anxiety and
fear having for the moment deprived him of his usual promptness and
decision.

"Don't you think we had best send for your father and Aunt Lettice?"
Mary said in her calm way, although the tears were running down her
cheeks. "And the doctor must be called at once."

"Leet has already gone into the town to tell them that Dot is here. But I
will have Trent put the horses into the sleigh, and he and I will hasten in at
once and fetch them all back, and the doctor as well, unless he can come out
ahead of us. You will stop right here beside her, won't you, sweetheart?" he
added anxiously, as he turned to leave the room.

"Why, of course I will." And Mary looked at her husband a little
reproachfully.

"And you do not mind being left alone?" he asked, looking back over his
shoulder, while his hand gripped the open door in a way that told of the
tension upon him.

She shook her head, smiling at him through her tears.

Jack had no sooner gone than the faithful Tyntie came to see if she were
needed. But Mary sent her away with the assurance that she herself could
do all that was to be done at present.

The ravings of the sick girl troubled her; and she deemed it prudent that
no other ear should hear words she felt might have a hidden meaning.

Dorothy still rambled on about the ruby ring and scarlet coat. Once the
name of Master Weeks fell from her lips, coupled with wild lamentations
that she had ever signed the register, and so risked the breaking of her
father's heart.

After a little time—Dorothy having become quiet—Mary stood looking
out of the window, her eyes resting on the glittering fields that spread away
to the gray line of the ocean, where the cold waves were curling in with
glassy backs, and foam-ridged edges as white as the snow they seemed to
seek upon the land.

She had been watching the gulls circling about with shrill screams or
hanging poised over the water, when a low call caused her to start.

She turned at once, to see Dorothy sitting up and looking intently at her,
while she seemed to fumble under the pillow for something.

"What is it, dear?" Mary asked, hastening to the side of the bed.

Dorothy drew from beneath the pillow a heavy ring of yellow gold, with
a great ruby imbedded in it, like a drop of glowing wine.

"There it is," she whispered, putting the ring into Mary's hand. "It is his
ring,—only he gave it to me. Hide it,—hide it, Mary. Never let any one see
—any one know. I want to tell you all about it, but I am so tired now, so
tired, and—" The girl fell back with closed eyes, and in a moment she
appeared to be asleep.

After standing a few minutes with her eyes fixed upon the unconscious
face, Mary opened her hand and looked at the ring.

It was a man's ring, and one she recalled at once as having seen before.

It had been upon the shapely brown hand lifted to remove the hat from a
young man's head, that summer day, at the Sachem's Cave.

There came to her a sudden rush of misgiving, as she asked herself the
meaning of it all. What had this hated Britisher's ring to do with Dorothy's
illness and with her ravings? What was all this about Master Weeks, and
signing the register?

She determined to tell her husband of what she had heard and seen, and
let his judgment decide what was to be done.

And yet when he returned, and with him his father and Aunt Lettice and
'Bitha, all of them sad-faced and alarmed over Dorothy's sudden sickness,
something seemed to hold back the words Mary had intended to speak. And
so she said nothing to her husband, but hid the ring away, resolved that for
the present, at least, she would hold her own counsel.

After all—so she tried to reason—it might be nothing more than that the
young Britisher had given Dorothy the ring.

And yet that the girl should accept such a gift from him surprised and
grieved her, knowing as she did that had there been any lovemaking
between the two, it would surely bring greater trouble than she dared now
to consider.

Mary was one who always shrank from doing aught to cause discord;
and so, albeit with a mind filled with anxiety, she decided to keep silence.

Dorothy's ailment proved to be an attack of brain fever, and it was many
weeks before she recovered. And when she was pronounced well again, she
went about the old house, such a pale-faced, listless shadow of her former
self that her brother watched her with troubled eyes, while her father was
well-nigh beside himself with anxiety.

But as often as they spoke to her of their misgivings she answered that
she was entirely well, and would soon be quite as before.

She appeared to have forgotten about the ring, and Mary waited for her
to mention it, wondering after a time that she did not.

At last, late in January, the hated soldiers were ordered away from the
Neck; and great was the rejoicing amongst the townspeople, whose open
demonstrations evinced their delight at being freed from the petty tyranny
of their unwelcome visitors.

It was John Devereux who brought the news, as the other members of
the family sat late one afternoon about the big fireplace in the drawing-
room.

Aunt Lettice and Mary were busy with some matter of sewing, and
'Bitha, with an unusually grave face, was seated between them on a low
stool. A half-finished sampler was on her knee, and the firelight quivered
along the bright needle resting where she had left off when it became too
dark for her to work.

Dorothy was at the spinet, drawing low music from the keys, and
playing as if her thoughts were far away.

Her father had just come from out of doors, and now sat in his big
armchair, with his hands near the blaze, for the cold had increased with the
setting of the sun.

It had gone down half an hour before, leaving a great crimson gash in the
western sky, above which ran a bank of smoky gray clouds, where the
evening star was beginning to blink.

It had been a day of thawing. The sun had started the icy rime to running
from the trees and shrubs, and melted the snow upon the roofs, while the
white covering of the land was burned away here and there, until it seemed
to be out at knees and elbows, where showed the brown and dirty green of
the soil.

But an intense cold had come with the darkness, turning the melted snow
to crystal, and hanging glittering pendants from everything.

"I wish Cousin Dot was all well, the way she used to be," sighed small
'Bitha, sitting with her rosy face so rumpled by the pressure of the little
supporting palms as to remind one of the cherubs seen upon ancient
tombstones.

She spoke in a voice too low for any one to hear save those nearest her;
and Mary gave a warning "Hush," as she glanced at the abstracted face of
her father-in-law, who was gazing intently at the flames leaping from the
logs.

"She 'll not hear what I say," the child went on, now with a touch of
impatience. "She often does n't hear me when I speak to her. Many times I
ask her something over and over again, when she is looking straight at me;
and then she will act as if she'd been asleep, and ask me what I've been
saying."

"Your cousin was very ill, you must remember, 'Bitha," her grandame
explained; "and it takes her a long time to recover, and be like herself
again."

But the child shook her blonde head with an air of profound wisdom.

"I think it is only that bad medicine of Dr. Paine's," she said. "When I am
ill, I shall ask Tyntie to fetch me a medicine man, such as the Indians have.
I should like to see him dance and beat his drum."

"I should think we have had enough of the sound of beating drums,
'Bitha," replied Mary, speaking so sharply as to arouse her father-in-law into
looking toward her.

Here John Devereux, just returned from the town, came in and
announced the withdrawal of the British soldiers from the town and Neck.

"When will they go?" his wife asked eagerly.

"A shipload of them has already sailed,—it left the harbor before sunset;
and some of the dragoons are about starting. It did my heart good to see the
red-backs taking the road to Salem. We are well quit of them; and when

they are gone we can easily manage all the ships they send into the harbor
to annoy us or spy upon us."

He laughed with a mingling of indignation and contempt; but his manner
changed quickly as he glanced toward his sister.

"Dot!" he cried, "what is it, child?" And he sprang to her.

She had turned about when he came into the room, and was now lying
back against the spinet, her head on the music-rack,—lying there
speechless, motionless; for the girl—and for the first time in her life—had
fainted.

CHAPTER XXIV

An hour later, when left in her own room with Mary, Dorothy poured out
her secret sorrow.

The others had yielded to her urging and gone to the tea-table below,
albeit with scant appetites, and with minds much troubled over the strange
weakness that had come over Dot. But Mary remained; and so it came
about that the two were now alone, Dorothy lying upon a lounge, and Mary
beside her, clasping one of her hands.

The room was filled with weird shadows from the wood fire, which
made the only light; for Jack, at his sister's request, had carried away the
candles.

"Are you cold?" Mary asked, feeling Dorothy shiver. And she drew the
silken cover more closely about the girl's shoulders and neck.

"No—no," was the quick reply. "It's not that I'm cold. I'm only so
miserable that I don't know what to do with myself. Oh, Mary—if only I
might die!" And she burst into passionate sobbing.

Mary was greatly startled; but feeling that the time was now come to
unravel the secret she was certain had been the cause of Dorothy's illness,
she waited quietly until the first burst of grief had spent itself, while she
soothed and caressed her sister-in-law as though she were a little girl.

Presently the sobs became less fierce, then ceased altogether, ending
with a long, quivering sigh, as from a child worn out by the storm of its
own passion.

Mary felt that now was the opportunity for which she had been waiting.

"Dorothy," she whispered—"dear little Dot!"

"Yes." The word came so faintly as scarcely to be audible.

"When are you going to open your heart to me? Don't you love nor trust
me any longer?"

"Oh, Mary, you know I do, and always have." The girl said this with
something of her old impulsiveness, and pressed Mary's hands almost
convulsively.

"Then will you not tell me, dear?" said Mary coaxingly, bending to kiss
the troubled face.

There was silence, broken only by the crackling of the burning wood and
the sputtering of the sap from the logs.

Dorothy drew a long breath, as though she had done away with
wavering, and was now resolved to speak.

"Yes, I will," she answered. "But remember, Mary," and she seemed
filled with fear again, "you can tell no one,—no living person,—not even
Jack. At least not yet. You will promise me this?"

"Has it aught to do with that ring?" asked Mary, before committing
herself.

"What ring?" Dorothy's eyes opened wide, and she spoke sharply.

"Don't you remember the ring you gave me when you were so ill, and
told me to keep for you,—a man's ring, with a ruby set in it?"

"No." She said it vaguely, wonderingly, as if dreaming. Then she cried in
terror, "Oh, Mary, you did not show it to Jack, nor tell him or my father of
the matter?"

"No, my dear," Mary answered with an assuring smile. "I waited until
you were well enough to tell me more, or else tell them yourself."

"Good Mary,—good, true sister." And Dorothy pressed her lips to the
hand she clasped.

"But the matter has given me such a heartache, Dot, for I feared I might
be doing wrong. Surely no one can love you more than your own father and
brother. Why not tell them, as well as me, of—whatever it is?"

"I will, Mary," Dorothy said resolutely. "I intended to, all the time. But
not yet, not yet. I want to tell you, first of all, and see if you can think what
is best to be done. And," with a little shudder, "I thought I had lost the ring;
and the first day I was able to slip out of doors, I hunted for it where I got
off the horse that night. Oh, that dreadful night!" She almost cried out the
words as the sharpness of awakened sorrow came to her.

"Come, Dot," Mary urged, "tell me. I'll promise to keep silent until you
bid me speak." She knew they were losing precious time, for her husband
would not be long gone, having promised to return in order that she might
go down for her own supper.

Dorothy hesitated no longer, but, in the fewest possible words,
unburdened her heart, while Mary listened in speechless amazement.

Her indignation and horror grew apace until the story was all told. Then
she cried: "It was a cowardly, unmanly trick,—a traitor's deed! He is no
gentleman, with all his fine pretence of manners."

"Ah—but he is." And Dorothy sighed softly, and in a way to have
opened Mary's eyes, had she been less absorbed by the anger now

controlling her.

"By birth, mayhap," she admitted, although reluctantly; then adding
fiercely, "he surely is not one in his acts."

Then her voice grew gentle again, and the tears seemed to be near, as she
laid her head alongside the curly one upon the pillow.

"Oh, my poor, poor little Dot," she said; "to think of the dreadful thing
you have been carrying in your mind all this time! Small wonder that you
were pale and sad,—it was enough to kill you."

The words brought Dorothy's grief to her once more. Then Mary broke
down as well, and the two wept together, their heads touching each other on
the pillow.

"And now whatever is to be done?" Mary said, as soon as her calmness
returned,—a calmness filled with indignation and resentment. "Since this
man is surely your husband, you must needs obey him, I suppose, if he
insists upon it. And now that he is going away, it would seem natural for
him to come here, despite his promise to wait until he was asked. And I
should say he would be quite sure to demand that you go away with him.
And," almost in terror, "for your father to hear of it for the first time in such
a fashion, and from him!"

"Oh, Mary, don't talk in that way!" cried Dorothy, in affright, and
clinging still closer to her.

"But never you fear, Dot," Mary said more encouragingly, "so long as
Jack is here to look after you. That man will never dare seek to drag you
from your father's house while Jack is about. And besides, the townspeople
would never permit him to leave the place alive, should he attempt such a
thing."

"I won't go—I'll never go!" Dorothy exclaimed passionately. "But—"
Her voice took a different note, and she stopped.

"But—what?" asked Mary instantly, for she heard her husband's
footsteps on the uncarpeted staircase.

"I don't want any harm to befall him," was the tremulous answer.

"Oh, Dot," Mary began in dismay, "can it be possible that, after all, you
—"

But Dorothy interrupted her.

"Hush!" she whispered, "here comes Jack." Then beseechingly, "Oh,
Mary, say once more that you'll not tell him yet."

But her husband was already in the room, and all Mary could do was to
press Dorothy's hand.

A little later in the evening all the members of the family were again in
the drawing-room. Dorothy, in order to relieve their anxiety, and especially
on her father's account, had joined them; and the girl now made greater
efforts than ever before to appear like herself.

This was now easier for her, from having shared her burdensome secret
with Mary, who seemed to have taken upon her shoulders a good part of the
troublesome load.

She carried herself with a much quieter mien than usual, but in a way not
to excite comment, save when her husband said to her as they were closing
the shutters to keep out the night and make the room still more cosey,
"What is it, sweetheart,—are you troubled over Dot?"

"Yes," she replied, thankful that she could answer so truthfully.

"The child is going to be as she should, I am sure," he said, glancing
over his shoulder to where his sister was sitting, close beside her father, her
head resting against his shoulder. She was smiling at something Aunt
Lettice had been telling of 'Bitha, whom she had just been putting to bed.

Before Mary could say anything more, a sudden clatter of hoofs outside
announced the arrival of horsemen, and a minute later the sounding of the

heavy brass knocker echoed through the hall.

Dorothy and Mary looked at each other in alarm, the same intuition
making them fear what this might portend.

"Whatever can it be at this hour!" exclaimed Joseph Devereux, as his son
went to answer the noisy summons. "I hope nothing is wrong in the town."

There came the sound of men's voices, low at first, but soon growing
louder, and then almost menacing, as the outer door was sharply closed.

"And I say, sirrah,"—it was the voice of John Devereux—"that you
cannot see her."

Dorothy sprang from her father's side and sped to the door, which she
flung wide open, and stood, with widening eyes and pale cheeks, upon the
threshold. A moment more, and Mary was alongside her; and then, his face
filled with amazement and anger, Joseph Devereux followed them.

Standing with his back against the closed door, was a stalwart young
dragoon, his red uniform making a ruddy gleam in the dimly lit hall as he
angrily confronted the son of the house.

But no sooner did he catch sight of the small figure in the open doorway
than the anger left his face, and he stood before her with uncovered head,
paying no more heed to the others than if they had been part of the furniture
in the hall.

"Sweet Mistress Dorothy," he said,—and his eyes searched her face with
a passionate inquiry—"we are ordered away, as you may have heard. I am
leaving the town to-night, and could not go until I had seen you once more."

The eyes looking up into his were filled with many emotions, but
Dorothy made no reply.

He waited a moment for her to speak. Then an eager, appealing look
came to his face, and he asked, "Have you naught to say to me—no word
for me before I go?"

Joseph Devereux now found his voice.

"Aught to say to ye, sirrah!" he demanded furiously. "What should a
daughter o' mine have to say to one of His Majesty's officers, who has been
to this house but once before, and then, as now, only by means of his own
audacity?"

At the sound of this angry voice Dorothy shuddered, and tearing her eyes
from those blue ones that had not once left her face, she turned quickly and
clung to her father.

The young man laughed, but not pleasantly, and there was a nervous
twitching of the fingers resting upon the hilt of his sword.

"You are surely aware, sir," he said, "that I have the honor of a slight
acquaintance with your daughter. And I fail to see why I should be insulted,
simply because I was mistaken in holding it to be but natural courtesy that I
should bid her farewell."

Here his voice broke in a way that was strange to all save Dorothy and
Mary, as he added: "We leave this place to-morrow, sir, and your daughter
and myself are never like to meet again; and I had good reason to wish the
privilege of begging her forgiveness for aught I may have done to cause her
annoyance. And if she refused me forgiveness, then she might be pleased to
wish me a right speedy meeting with a bullet from one of her own people's
guns."

Joseph Devereux looked sorely puzzled at these strange words, which
seemed to bear some hidden meaning. Then, as he felt the quivering of the
slight form clinging to him so closely, and heard the tremulous "Oh, father,
speak him kindly," his face relaxed and he spoke less brusquely than at first.

"Your conduct seems rather cavalier, young sir, but we surely have no
wish to seem insulting; and as for any annoyance you may have caused my
daughter, I am ignorant o' such. It is but natural, considering the times, that
we do not relish receiving into our houses gentry who wear such color as is
your coat; and yet we are not cut-throats, either in deed or thought. We pray

and hope for the good of our country and cause; and for such, and such
only, do we think o' the use o' bullets."

During all this time the dragoon's eyes never strayed from the curly head
pressed against the old man's arm. And now, while her father was speaking,
Dorothy's face was turned, and the big dark eyes, full of perplexity and fear,
met his own and held them.

Mary had made a sign to her husband, and he followed her into the
drawing-room, where Aunt Lettice was still sitting before the fire, the
trembling fingers betraying her excitement as they flashed the slender
needles back and forth through the stocking she was knitting.

"What does it all mean, dear?" she inquired, as Mary came and looked
down into the fire, while she twisted her hands together in a nervous
fashion most unusual with her.

"It means," John Devereux answered angrily, but not loud enough to
reach the ears of those in the hall, "that there is never any telling to what
length the presuming impudence of these redcoats will go." He ground his
teeth savagely as he wondered why he had not taken the intruder by the
collar and ejected him before the others came upon the scene; and he was
now angry at himself for not having done this.

"Whatever can he wish to say good-by to Dot for?" he muttered hastily
to his wife. "And whatever can he mean about annoying her? Annoy her,
indeed! Had he done such a thing, I should have heard of it ere this, and he
would not have gone unpunished all these days, to crawl in now with a
pretence of apology."

"It seems to me there was little show of crawling in the way he came,"
said Mary, with the ghost of a smile, and speaking only because her
husband seemed to be expecting her to say something. Her brain was in a
tumult as she wondered what would be the end of all this, and what would
—what could poor Dorothy do for her own peace of mind and that of her
father?

She feared that, should a sudden knowledge of the truth come to him, it
might be his death-blow; and she made no doubt that if her hot-headed
husband knew it, the young dragoon would scarcely be permitted to leave
the house unscathed, if indeed he were not killed outright. And then she
thought of a duel,—of its chances, and of her husband not being the one to
survive.

At this a low cry escaped from her lips before she could prevent it; and
her husband stepped closer to her side.

"It is nothing—nothing," she said brokenly, in response to his anxious
questioning. "I was but thinking."

"Thinking of what, sweetheart?"

"If any harm should befall you," she answered.

"Why, what harm, think you, should come to me?" And he took her
hands, holding them close, while he tried to look into her averted eyes.

"I—don't know," she said evasively. "These are such dreadful times that
have come to us, that no one can tell what is like to happen. Oh," with a
sudden impetuous burst, more suited to Dorothy than to her own calm self,
"I wish there had never been such a nation as the English!"

When Joseph Devereux had done speaking, the young man turned his
eyes from the pale face in which he seemed to have been searching for
some hint or suggestion as to what he should now say.

That his quest was fruitless,—that he found nothing, no fleeting glance
or expression, to indicate the girl's present feeling toward him, was apparent
from the look of keen disappointment, well-nigh despair, that now settled
upon his own face, making it almost ghastly in the uncertain light.

But despite all this, his self-control did not leave him; and after one more
glance into the dark eyes—fixed and set, as though there was no life
animating them—he drew himself erect, and made an odd gesture with his

right hand, flinging it out as if forever thrusting aside all further thought of
her. Then, without looking at her again, he addressed her father.

"It was not to discuss such matters that I ventured to force my way into
this house, sir," he said with a dignified courtesy hardly to be looked for in
one of his years. "It was only that I could not—or felt that I should not—go
away without holding speech with Mistress Dorothy. It would seem that she
has naught to say to me, and so I have only to beg her pardon, and take my
leave. And, sir, I entreat the same pardon from you and the other members
of your household for any inconvenience I may have caused you and them."

He bowed to the old gentleman, and turned slowly away. But before he
had taken many steps toward the outer door, Dorothy's voice arrested him,
and he turned quickly about.

"Stay—wait a moment." And leaving her father's side, she went toward
the young man.

"Believe me," she said, speaking very low and very gently, as she paused
while yet a few steps away from him, "I wish you well, not harm."

"Do you still hold to what you told me?" he asked quickly, paying no
heed to her words.

His voice did not reach her father's ears; and the young man's eyes
searched her face as though his fate depended upon what he might read
there.

"Yes!" The answer was as low-pitched as his question, but firm and
fearless. And he saw the fingers of both little hands clench themselves in
the folds of her gown, while the lace kerchief crossed over her bosom
seemed to pulsate with the angry throbbing of her heart.

"And you will never forgive me?" He spoke now in a louder tone, but
with the same pleading look in his pale face.

Dorothy's eyes met his own fairly and steadily, but she said nothing.