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Daughters of the Revolution and Their Times - 1769 - 1776 A Historical Romance
by Charles Carleton Coffin
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Lord Upperton roared with laughter, and Miss Newville could but join him in the merriment.

"It was a picturesque scene, I assure you, with peddlers, haymakers, shepherdesses, gypsies, chimney-sweeps, and nymphs," his lordship said.

"May I ask, my lord, what a masquerade is supposed to represent?" Miss Newville inquired.

"Well, really now, I never thought of it. I suppose it means something, but just what, upon my soul, I cannot tell you, except to have a jolly good time and appear to be what we are not."

"Are such masquerade balls usually attended by noble lords and ladies?"

"Oh, yes. They are almost the exclusive patrons. I attended one a little while ago at Carlisle House. It was intended the king and queen should be patrons. Tickets were sent to his most gracious majesty, and, of course, there was a great crush. The king and queen returned the tickets, but everybody else was there. I remember that the Duke of Cleveland appeared as Henry VIII.; the Duke of Gloucester as a fine old English gentleman; the Duchess of Buccleugh as the Witch of Endor; Lady Edgecombe as a nun; the Duchess of Bolton as the goddess Diana; Lady Stanhope as Melopomene; the Countess of Waldegrave as Jane Shore; Lord Galway's daughter, Mrs. Monckton, as an Indian princess, in a golden robe, embroidered with diamonds, opals, and pearls worth thirty thousand pounds. One of the gentlemen came as a Swiss ballad-singer with a hurdy-gurdy, leading a tame bear with a muzzle on his nose. He had been stopped by the gate-keeper, because he had only a ticket and a half—the half ticket for the bear; but it being a she-bear and ladies being admitted at half price, the hurdy-gurdy man won the day. Everybody laughed and said it was the best joke of the season."

Lord Upperton saw a troubled look upon Miss Newville's face, as if she had heard quite enough about masquerades.

"The recreations of court life, I would not have you think, Miss Newville, are masquerades and balls, and nothing else. We have suppers which are quite different affairs, where we do not try to be what we are not. After the theatres are out we go to the banquet halls, where wine and wit flow together. We gossip, sing songs, and flirt with the Macaroni ladies. The opera girls sing to us if they are not too tipsy, and we have gay larks till the wagons begin to rumble around Covent Garden Market, and the greengrocers are displaying their onions and cabbages for the early morning sale."

"Who are the Macaroni ladies?" Miss Newville asked.

Lord Upperton laughed.

"I don't wonder that you inquire. We call them Macaronies, ladies and gentlemen alike, who have traveled on the Continent, flirted at Versailles, in Paris, or in the Palace Barberini in Rome; who have eaten macaroni in Naples, and who have come home with all the follies, to say nothing of some of the vices of the nobility of other countries, in addition to what they had before they started on their travels. The gentlemen wear their hair in long curls; the ladies patch and paint their faces. If they haven't a pimple or a wart they make one. They wear gorgeous dresses. The gentlemen twiddle canes ornamented with dogs' heads or eagles' beaks, with gold tassels; carry attar of rose bottles in their gloved hands, and squirt rosewater on their handkerchiefs. They ogle the ladies through their quizzing glasses, wear high-heeled slippers, and diddle along on their toes like a French dancing-master teaching his pupils the minuet. The ladies simper and giggle and wink at the gentlemen from behind their fans, and leave you to imagine something they don't say."

Again Lord Upperton saw a troubled look upon Miss Newville's face.

"We have convivial parties," he continued. "If you like cards, you can try your hand at winning or losing. We play for fifty-pound rouleaux. There is always a great crowd, and not infrequently you may see ten thousand pounds on the table. Some play small; others plunge in regardless of consequences. My young friend, Lord Stravendale, before he was of age, one night lost eleven thousand pounds, but nothing daunted he played again, and as luck would have it got it all back at one hazard. He lamented he had not made the stakes larger, and said if he had been playing deep he might have made a million. It was really very clever in Stravendale."

Again his lordship laughed, but Miss Newville could not see anything in the narrative to cause her to smile.

"There is Charley Fox," Lord Upperton continued, "who goes in rather strong. He makes grand speeches in the Commons; but almost always gets fleeced at Almack's. The Jews, who are usually on hand in one of the outside rooms with their shekels, waiting to lend money, charge exorbitant interest. Charley calls it the Jerusalem Chamber. Sometimes he gets completely cleaned out, and has to borrow a guinea to pay the waiter who brings him his brandy. One night at the beginning he won eight thousand pounds, but before morning lost the last sixpence."

"Do ladies play?" Miss Newville asked.

"Certainly; they love gaming as well as the men. Her royal highness the Duchess of Cumberland not long ago set up card playing and gaming in her drawing-rooms. Her sister, Lady Elizabeth Lutterell, is one of the best gamesters in London. It is whispered, though, that she cheats on the sly. Lady Essex gives grand card parties, where there is high gaming. One lady, whom I know, lost three thousand guineas at loo. It is whispered that two ladies, not long since, had high words at one of Lady Essex's parties; that they rode out to St. Pancras and fought a duel with pistols, and that one was wounded; which shows that our noble women have real grit."

"Is what you are saying a fair picture of life among the nobility?" Ruth asked.

"I would not have you think, Miss Newville, that everybody of noble birth or high position is a gambler, but every one who plays, of course, wants a stake of some kind."

"Pardon me, my lord, but I do not see any fun in losing money in the way you speak of."

"Well, perhaps there isn't any fun in losing, but it is real jolly when you win. It is like drinking wine; it warms you up."

"Do you have any other recreations equally attractive and delightful?" Miss Newville inquired.

"We have gay times at the Derby during the races. Of course you have felt the excitement of a horse-race, Miss Newville?"

"No, for we do not have horse-racing here; but I believe they do in Virginia."

"No racing! I am astonished. Are not your people rather slow?"

"We have few diversions, my lord; we do not win money by racing."

"You can have no conception of what a grand sight it is. Everybody goes to the Derby—dukes, lords, bishops, rectors, ladies, and gentlemen. Before the race begins, we have our lunch parties. All are eating, talking, laughing, or laying bets. The horses come out from their stalls with the jockey boys in red, green, blue, and yellow, in their saddles. They draw lots to see which shall have the inside, then go down the track a little distance. The horses understand what they are to do just as well as we who stake our money. They sniff the air, step lightly, then break into a run, and everybody is on tiptoe. In a moment they are down to the first turn, and come in full view. There are four, perhaps, neck and neck. You have staked, say, on yellow. He loses half a length, and your heart goes down: but he gains a little, is up even once more—half a length ahead, and you yell and double your stakes. They are round the second turn, going like a whirlwind; yellow and blue are ahead of the others, neck and neck.

"'Two to one on yellow!' you shout.

"'I'll take it!' roars Lord Pilkington.

"'Two to one on blue!' he shouts back.

"'Put me down for it!' you answer.

"They are on the home run. There is a great hubbub, like the roaring of a tornado, as they sweep under the line, yellow ahead. You swing your hat, and yell as loud as you can. You are ten thousand in. Oh, it is just the jolliest excitement a man can have!"

"If you win, my lord, does not somebody else lose?"

"Of course, Miss Newville."

"Do they feel equally jolly?"

"Possibly not. Sometimes we are out of pocket, and do not feel quite so hilarious, but we swallow a stiff nipper of brandy and draw our checks like men. I won five thousand from Lord Pilkington, three thousand from Lady Merryfield, and quite a number of one hundred pounders from the ladies of my set, who bet on the blue, while I planked mine on the yellow. You see, Miss Newville, that ladies are sometimes influenced by fancy. Lady Somers, for instance, allowed fancy to get the better of judgment. She likes blue as a color, above yellow. She is quite horsey, and thinks she can drive a tandem. I had examined blue, felt of his muscles, and made up my mind that by and by he would have ringbone on his left fore leg. I believed that yellow had the best wind and bottom; but the ladies followed the lead of Lady Somers, and so I raked in their shekels. They all ponied up promptly, though, and paid their outs, like true-born English ladies."

"I do not think," said Miss Newville, "that I should like to lose or win money in that way."

"Why, Miss Newville, once get into it, and you would say it is the most delightful sport in the world. If you think, however, that you would not like to participate in such pleasures, we have the fox hunt, which is the most charming and innocent diversion imaginable. You don't bet any money in that, but have a rollicking good time riding over the country, ladies and gentlemen—leaping hedges and ditches, following the hounds, running Reynard to cover, and having a lunch at the close of the hunt."

"Foxes are plentiful in this country, but we do not run them down with horses," Miss Newville replied.

"Do ladies ride horseback in the Colonies?"

"Oh, yes. Were you to attend meeting in the country on the Sabbath, you would see many ladies riding up to the horse-block, wives on pillions behind their husbands. Do the ladies who hunt foxes attend meeting on the Sabbath, my lord?"

"Ha, ha! I suspect what you call going to meeting, with us is going to church. Oh, we are very devout. On Sunday we all go to church, kneel on our hassocks, and confess we are miserable sinners, recite the creed, pray for the king, queen, Prince of Wales, the army and navy. We do our full duty as Christians, and are loyal to the church, as well as to his majesty. My rector, at Halford, is a very good man. To be sure the living isn't much, but he reads the prayers well, preaches a nice little sermon of ten minutes or so, for he knows I don't care to be bored by the hour. He enjoys a fox hunt, says grace at dinner, and makes a point of having a little game of cards with me Saturday evening. He doesn't know much about cards, so I usually let him win a few shillings, knowing the poor fellow will feel better Sunday morning while reading the service if he knows he has a half-crown in his pocket, instead of being out that much. I know how it is, Miss Newville. I can be more devout and comfortable on Sunday after winning instead of losing five or ten thousand at Almack's."

"Perhaps, my lord, you feel you are not quite such a miserable sinner as you might be after all."

"You have stated it correctly, Miss Newville," his lordship replied, not discerning the quiet sarcasm. "Of course I am not, for if I lose, I curse my luck, and am ready to punch somebody's head, and rip out some swear words, but if I win, I am ready to bless the other fellow for playing a king when he should have laid down an ace."

His lordship apologized for having tarried so long, and took his departure.

"She's a Puritan, through and through. As lovely and pure as an angel in heaven," he said to himself as he walked down the street.

* * * * *

While the months were going by, Roger Stanley, student of Harvard College, was learning about life in Rumford, as a surveyor of land, spending his evenings in the house of Joshua Walden, with Robert and Rachel to keep him company, especially Rachel. He found pleasure in telling her the story of Ulysses and Penelope. Most of the young men of Rumford who came to the Walden home could only talk about oxen, which pair of steers could pull the heaviest load, or whose horse could out-trot all others. When the surveying was done, Roger accepted the invitation of the committeemen to keep the winter school. Never before had there been a master who could keep the big boys in order without using the ferule, but somehow the great strapping fellows, who might have put the master on his back in a twinkling, could not find it in their hearts to do anything that would trouble him. Other masters were content if they went through the regular daily stint of reading, writing, spelling, and ciphering, but he told them about men who made the most of themselves, and who had done great things,—Caesar, Augustus, Charlemagne, Alfred the Great.

It was the schoolmaster who suggested that the people should meet once a week in the schoolhouse to discuss the great questions affecting the welfare of the Colonies, and who wrote out the questions to be considered:—

"What are the inalienable rights of the people?"

"Has Parliament any right to tax the people of America without their consent?"

"Is it right ever to resist the authority of the king?"

"Ought the Colonies to unite for self-defense?"

"Ought the Colonies, in any event, to separate from England?"

People from the back roads came to hear what Esquire Walden, Deacon Kent, Shoemaker Noyes, Blacksmith Temple, and Schoolmaster Stanley had to say upon these questions before the parliament of the people, in the schoolhouse, lighted by two tallow candles and the fire blazing on the hearth. King George and Frederick North might have learned some fundamental principles of government, had they been present.

Like sitting in heavenly places were the mornings and evenings to Roger Stanley in the Walden home, where he passed the first and the last two weeks of the term. The food upon the table was appetizing; deft hands had prepared the bannock—Rachel's hands. The plates, knives, and forks had been laid by her. It was she who glided like a fairy around the room. How could his eyes help following her? And when seated at the table, how radiant her face, beaming with health! In the early morning, long before breakfast-time, he heard her feet tripping down the stairs. While about her work, he could hear her humming a song which he had sung to her. Very pleasant the "good-morning" that came from her lips when he appeared. In the evening it was a pleasure to hold a skein of yarn for her to wind. He was sorry when the last thread dropped from his wrists, and wished she had another for him to hold.

It was the old, old story; the growth of mutual respect, honor, and love, becoming daily more tender and true; the love that needed no pledge, because it was so deep and abiding.



XII.

A NEW ENGLAND GIRL.

Lord Upperton was prolonging his stay in America. He visited New York and Philadelphia, and was once more in Boston. He called upon Thomas Hutchinson, governor; upon Thomas Flucker, secretary; and upon the officials of the Custom House. He accepted many invitations to dinner from gentlemen and ladies, and took excursions into the country on horseback. Lady Frankland hospitably entertained him in her country house, where he enjoyed himself shooting squirrels and partridges. Returning to Boston, he frequently called to pay his respects to Mr. and Mrs. Newville, never failing to ask for Miss Newville, prolonging his calls till past the ringing of the nine o'clock bell. He was very courteous, and had many entertaining stories to tell of life in England, of his ancestral home at Halford. The old castle was gray with age; the ivy, ever green upon its towers, hanging in graceful festoons from the battlements. Herds of deer roamed the surrounding park; pheasants crooned and cackled beneath the stalwart oaks; hares burrowed in the forest; nightingales made the midnight melodious with their dulcet singing. Old tapestries adorned the walls of the spacious apartments. In the banqueting halls were the portraits of ancestors—lords, dukes, and earls reaching down to the first Earl Upperton created by William of Normandy, for valor on the field of Hastings. On the maternal side were portraits of beautiful ladies who had been maids of honor and train-bearers at the coronations of Margaret and Elizabeth. The brain of Ruth could not keep track of all the branches of the ancestral tree; she could only conclude it was stalwart and strong.

Lord Upperton was heartily welcomed by Mrs. Newville, who esteemed it one of heaven's blessings to be thus honored. On an evening, after a visit from his lordship, Mrs. Newville, with radiant face, drew Ruth to her bosom. "My dear," she said, "I have joyful information for you. Lord Upperton has done us the distinguished honor to say to your father and me that he has become so much interested in our daughter that he presumes to ask the privilege of paying his addresses to her. It is not, Ruth, altogether a surprise to me, for I have seen his growing fondness for you."

"Fondness for me, mother?"

"Yes, dear; he has not been able to keep his eyes off you of late. I have noticed that if you had occasion to leave the room, he fidgeted till you returned. We have given our consent, and he will call to-morrow evening to make a formal proposal to you."

"But I do not desire he should make a proposal to me, mother!"

"Don't want him to make an offer of marriage, child! Why, Ruth, what are you thinking of? Not wish to receive the attentions of a noble lord! I am astonished. Do you forget that he can trace his lineage down to the time of William the Conqueror, and I don't know how much farther? You surprise me!"

"I doubt not Lord Upperton may have a noble ancestry, but I don't see how that concerns me. I am not going to marry his ancestors, am I?"

"Why, daughter, he has a crest,—an escutcheon of azure, sable, and sanguine, a lion rampant, a unicorn passant, and an eagle volent."

"What would a crest do for me?"

The question puzzled Mrs. Newville. "I really do not know, daughter, just what it would do, but it would be painted on your coach; it would be embroidered on the banners hanging in Lord Upperton's baronial hall. Just think of it! The lion, the emblem of strength, the unicorn of energy, the eagle of swiftness and far-sightedness,—it would represent all those qualities!"

"But what if one has not the qualities?"

"I am not so sure, daughter, but that you have those very characteristics in a remarkable degree. I know you have strength of will and energy. What you undertake you carry through; and you are far-sighted, you see what others of your age do not see. I do not say it to flatter you, daughter, but I am sure Lord Upperton's coat-of-arms is emblematic of the character of the lady whom he wishes to see mistress of Halford Castle," said Mrs. Newville, with radiant face.

It seemed to her that the fond hope of years was about to be realized; that the time was at hand when the Newville family was to be ennobled; when she, herself, could bid farewell to America, and be admitted to the charmed society of dukes, barons, princes, kings, and queens.

"Lord Upperton will call to-morrow evening, dear, and I will have Madame Riggoletti come in the afternoon to do your hair. You had better wear your corn-colored satin brocade, which is so becoming to you."

"No, mother, I do not wish to wear it. I prefer to dress plainly. I want Lord Upperton to see me just as I am, a simple girl, who has had few advantages to fit her for the life in which he moves. I cannot appear to be what I am not."

Ruth paused a moment as if considering whether she should speak the words upon her lips.

"Lord Upperton, you say, desires to pay his addresses to me and you have given consent. It is an honor for any lady to receive attentions from a gentleman of superior station, but I cannot promise you, mother, that I shall look with favor upon his suit, honorable though it may be."

It was said calmly but with resolution.

"I dare say, daughter, you may think so now. It is quite natural. It is just what I said when my mother informed me that Theodore, your father, had asked permission to pay his addresses to me. I said I would not see him; but I did, and have been very glad ever since. After a little while, I used to listen for his footsteps. There were none like his. He always called Thursday evening after the lecture,[49] and I used to sit by the window an hour before it was time for him to put in an appearance, looking for him. So it will be with you, child. Now go to bed, dear, and think of the great honor which Lord Upperton is conferring upon us in asking for your hand!"

[Footnote 49: The lecture on Thursday of each week was instituted by the Puritans soon after the settlement of Boston. There was a moral if not a legal obligation upon every person to attend it. Consequently in the earlier years of the Colony all business ceased, shops were closed, usual occupations suspended, and the entire community flocked to the meetinghouse of the parish to listen to the discourse of the minister. At the time this story begins, the obligation was not quite so binding as in former years.]

"Shall I give him my hand, if I cannot at the same time give him my heart?" Ruth asked, her earnest eyes scanning her mother's face.

"Oh, but you will do both, dear. Many a girl has asked the same question at first, but soon found that the heart and hand went together."

"I think," Ruth replied, "if one may judge from outward appearances, there are some women who have given their hands to their husbands, but never their hearts. I see faces, now and then, which make me think of what I have read descriptive of deserts where there is no water to quench the thirst, no oasis with its green palms giving grateful shade from the summer heat,—faces that tell of hunger and thirst for the bread and water of love and sympathy."

"You fancy it is so, and possibly here and there you may find a mismated couple, but, daughter, you will see things in a different light when once you get acquainted with Lord Upperton. I believe there is not another girl in Boston who would not jump at such a catch. You may not fancy him this moment, but in a short time you will say there is not another like him in all the world. You feel just as I did towards Theodore. At first, I almost hated him, because he presumed to ask permission to visit me, but now he is the best man that ever lived. Just think of the offer that has come to you in contrast with what your father had to offer me. Lord Upperton brings you his high station in life, his nobility, his long line of ancestors, a barony, a castle with its ivied walls, a retinue of servants, his armorial bearings inscribed on banners borne by Crusaders. He will offer you rank, wealth, privilege, honor at his majesty's court. Theodore had only himself to offer me. He was not much then, but he is more now. I have done what I could to make him what he is, and now our daughter has the prospect of wearing laces such as are worn by duchesses; to be received at court; to be spoken of as Her Grace. Now to bed, dear, and be happy in thinking it over."

"But I do not love Lord Upperton, nor shall I ever care for him."

"Don't talk in that way, Ruth. You think so now, but when you are once married and begin to enjoy what will be yours,—a coach, waiting-maids to do your bidding, and are invited to the court of his majesty the king, and preside over your own table in the great baronial hall, with the high-born gentlemen and ladies doing you honor, it stands to reason that you will love him who brings these things to you."

"You speak, mother, of the society in which I shall move, but I have no taste for such associations."

"Tush, child; you know nothing about it."

"Lord Upperton has given me a description of the employment and pleasures of the society in which he moves, and I have no desire to enter it. I shall not find happiness in its circles. I want to be just what I am, your daughter, in our happy home."

"But, Ruth, you cannot always be with us. Your father and I earnestly desire your future welfare and happiness. I am sure he will be surprised and pained to hear that you do not wish to receive the attentions of Lord Upperton."

Mr. Newville entered the room. He saw the trouble on the face of his daughter.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Ruth thinks she never can love Lord Upperton and does not desire to receive his attentions, but I have told her it is only a present whim, just as mine was towards you."

"Of course, daughter," said Mr. Newville, with fatherly dignity, "it could hardly be expected you would feel any very strong attachment for Lord Upperton on so short an acquaintance. Conjugal love is a plant of slow growth, but I think you would, ere long, appreciate the great honors and the high privileges which he would confer upon you, and that your heart would go out to him."

The troubled look upon the face of the daughter became more intense. Her father as well as her mother would have her receive the attentions of a man between whom and herself there was no possible sympathy. What should she say? A tear trickled down her cheek: she made no movement to wipe it away, but lifted her loving eyes and gazed steadily into her father's.

"Since you both so earnestly desire it I will meet Lord Upperton to-morrow evening and hear what he has to say," she replied.

"You could hardly do otherwise. I think the more you see of him the better you will like him," said Mr. Newville.

"Of course you will, my child; and now, dear, think it over in your chamber. I am sure you will see that a great opportunity has come to you," said Mrs. Newville, giving her a kiss.

It was a summer night. The air was fragrant with the perfume of lilacs and apple-blooms. The young moon was going down in the west, throwing its departing beams upon the unfinished tower of King's Chapel. Ruth, looking out from her white-curtained window, beheld a handful of cloud drift across the crescent orb and dissolve in thin air. She could hear the footsteps of passers along the street growing fainter as they receded. The bell on the Old Brick Meetinghouse struck the hour, and then, in the distance, she heard the watchman's voice, "Ten o'clock, and all is well." With perturbed spirit, she laid her head upon the white linen pillow which her own deft hands had made. So Lord Upperton was to solicit her heart and hand, and she had consented to meet him. What should she say to him? Why should he, having an acquaintance with the noble families of England, come across the sea and offer his attentions to an obscure New England girl, and desire to make her mistress at Halford Castle? Ought she not to feel flattered in having a noble lord for a lover? The thought did not stir her blood. Why was she averse to receiving his attentions? What was there about him that made the thought repellent? Was he not a gentleman? Was he not polite? Did he not show proper respect not only to herself but to everybody? Why not make an effort to overcome her repugnance to him? Would any other girl in Boston or anywhere else hesitate a moment over such an opportunity as had come to her to be called My Lady,—to be mistress of a ducal castle,—a position of power and influence among the lords and ladies of the kingdom? To have diamonds and pearls? To have precedence over others of lower station in social life? Questions came in troops before her; vain her attempts to answer them.

Again the deep tones of the bell rang upon the still night air, and once more she heard the watchman's voice announce the hour. For a moment it interrupted her reverie, but again the questioning went on. Her father and mother not only had given their consent for Lord Upperton to make proposal, but they earnestly desired she should become his wife. She could understand the motives that animated them. She was her father's idol, her mother's joy—very dear to them. Were they not ever doing what they could for her? Would not her marriage to Lord Upperton contribute to their happiness? Might not her father, through Lord Upperton's influence at court, attain a more exalted position? Would not her marriage fill her mother's life with happiness? Would it be an exhibition of filial duty were she to disappoint them? And yet, what right had they to make a decision for her when her own life's happiness was concerned? Was she not her own? Had she not a right to do as she pleased? Ought she to sacrifice herself to their selfish interests? She did not like to think it was wholly selfishness on their part, but rather an earnest desire to provide for her future welfare. Ought she not to abide their judgment as to what was best for her? Could she ever be happy with Lord Upperton? Could she find pleasure in fine dressing, card playing, and masquerading as he had described them? What would such a life be worth? Were position in society, pleasure, gratification of self, to be the end and aim of life? There seemed to be another somebody beside herself propounding the questions; as if an unseen visitor were standing by her bedside in the silent night. Was she awake or dreaming? She had heard the great lawyer, James Otis, put questions to a witness in a court where her father in his judicial robe sat as magistrate. It seemed as if she herself had been summoned to a tribunal, and one more searching than the great lawyer was putting questions which she must answer. Should she give her hand to Lord Upperton and keep back her heart? Ought she to allow prospective pleasure or position to influence her choice? Could she in any way barter her future welfare for the present life and for the larger life beyond? Was Lord Upperton of such lofty character that she could render him honor and respect, even if she could not give to him a loving heart?

In the half-dreaming hour another face looked down upon her—the face of him, who, in a time of agony, had been as an angel of God, rescuing her from the hands of ruffians. Oh, if it were he who solicited permission to pay his addresses, how would she lean her head upon his bosom and rest contentedly clasped forever by those strong and loving arms! Through the intervening months his face had been ever present. She lived again the hour of their first meeting, that of the afternoon tea-party, the launching of the Berinthia Brandon, the ride in the pung. She had received several letters from him, which were laid carefully away in her writing-desk. Many times had they been read and with increasing pleasure. He had not declared his undying love for her; the declaration was unwritten, but it was between the lines. He wanted to be more than he was, and she could help him. He wanted to do something for justice, truth, and liberty; to stand resolutely with those who were ready to make sacrifices for their fellow-men. What a sentence was this: "I want to be better than I am; I want to do something to make the world better than it is; and you are pointing the way."

Ever as she read the words her eyes had filled with tears. She pointing the way! Those words in one end of the scale, and Halford Castle and everything connected with it in the other, and the writing tipped the beam.

The night was sultry; her pulses bounding; her brow hot with fever. She sat by the window to breathe the pure air. The stars were shining in their ethereal brightness; the dipper was wheeling around the polar star; the great white river, the milky way, was illumining the arch of heaven. She thought of Him who created the gleaming worlds. Beneath her window the fireflies were lighting their lamps, and living their little lives. She could hear the swallows crooning in their nests beneath the eaves.

"He made them; He cares for them; He will care for me," she said to herself. The night air cooled her brow, a holy peace and calm came to her troubled heart. Kneeling, she repeated as her prayer the psalm which the rector had read on Sunday.

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge, and my strength. My God, in Him will I trust."

In white garments, without adornment, Ruth Newville courtesied to Lord Upperton the following evening as he entered the parlor. Never before had she seemed to him, or to her father and mother, so beautiful, so sweet, and pure.

"Miss Newville," he said, "I take it for granted that you have been duly informed of the purpose of my visit this evening."

"I have, my lord."

"I come to offer you my hand and heart. I have been charmed by your qualities of character and your beauty, and I fain would make you mistress of Halford Castle. I am soon to return to England, and I desire to take you with me as my bride. I have received the gracious permission of your honored parents to begin my suit, and I fondly hope that I may receive an affirmative answer from your lips."

"My lord, I am not insensible of the honor you confer upon me, but I am not worthy of it. I am an obscure girl. I am not fitted to fill the exalted station in which you desire to place me."

"Pardon me, Miss Newville, I have met many a fair maiden, but none so charming as the flower which I desire to transplant from the Colonies to old England. My best judgment has selected you from them all."

"My lord, I appreciate your kind words, and what you would give me—your honor, respect, and love, and an exalted social position. I have heard from your lips somewhat concerning the life you would expect me to lead,—the society in which you would have me move. I trust you will pardon my frankness, but it does not attract me."

"I can quite understand you, dear Miss Newville; it is natural that you should shrink from such a change, but I am sure you would adorn the position."

"More than what I have said, my lord, I do not think I should be happy in such a position."

"Oh, I think you would. Certainly, it would be my desire to place before you every advantage that could contribute to your welfare and happiness. The nobility of the realm would follow in your train. You would captivate them with your grace and beauty. No party, rout, or ball would be complete without you. I am sure that her most gracious majesty the queen would desire your presence at court to grace her receptions."

"You flatter me, my lord, but I do not think that fine dressing, the adornment of pearls and diamonds, promenading, dancing, card playing, and masquerading would give me the highest happiness. I think that life has a nobler meaning. I should despise myself if I made them the end and aim of my existence."

Lord Upperton could not quite comprehend her. He was aware that across the sea many a mamma was laying her plans to make her daughter mistress of Halford, and the daughters had looked at him with languishing eyes, but here was a girl, guileless and pure, who was putting aside the great boon he would gladly bestow upon her. He must set before her the greatness of the gift. He described his estate—its parks, meadows, groves of oak, the herds of deer, flocks of pheasants; the rooms of the castle, the baronial hall, with antlers nailed upon the beams and rafters, banners that had been carried by ancestors at Crecy and Agincourt. He pictured life in London, scenes in Parliament, the queen's drawing-rooms, the pageantry and etiquette at St. James's. Miss Newville heard him in silence.

"Whatever there is to be had, whatever will contribute to your happiness, I shall lay at your feet, dear Miss Newville."

What should she say to him? How inform him that all the pageantry of King George's court, all the wealth inherited from his ancestors, was of little account in her esteem when set against eternal verities, and one of those verities was fidelity to the conviction that she must be true to herself.

"My lord," she said, "you may think me unappreciative; you may regard me as strange, but I must be true to myself. I cannot do violence to my better nature. I cannot barter my convictions. I could honor and respect you, but something more would be your due; that I could not give you. I could not make you happy, and I should forever despise myself."

It was spoken clearly, distinctly, but with a tremor of voice and a flush upon her cheek that heightened her beauty. Lord Upperton sat in silence, pondering her words. It was dawning upon him that a girl of the Colonies had rejected his suit. He had come to her with his castle, his ancestry, his title, his position as a peer of the realm, but she had put them all aside. Not with them could he win his suit. Instead of accepting what he had to give, she stood calm, serene, beautiful, radiant, and pure, upon a height so far above him that he never could stand by her side. The silence was embarrassing.

"Miss Newville," he said, rising and standing before her, "your answer is painful to me. I had anticipated the winning of your hand and heart. It had not occurred to me that I should fail. I appreciate what you have said. A loftier ideal of the nobleness of true womanhood has come to me. My honor, respect, and love for you are deeper than ever, but I see that what I desired cannot be. I bid you farewell."

She courtesied to his bow, and extended her hand. He touched it to his lips, and passed from the room.

Her head was pressing her pillow once more. The bell struck the midnight hour. Once more she heard the watchman's voice.

"Twelve o'clock, and all is well."

"Yes, all is well," she said,—and her sleep for the night was calm and peaceful.



XIII.

THE MOHAWKS AND THEIR TEA-PARTY.

On the evening of October 29, 1773, the Sons of Liberty again assembled at the Green Dragon. A ship had dropped anchor during the day off Castle William, bringing the news that Parliament had passed a law taxing tea. Ever watchful for the welfare of the people, they came together to hear what the London newspapers and their friends in England had to say about it, in letters which Samuel Adams had received. The night being cool, the landlord lighted a fire to warm the room, and enable those who might like a mug of flip to heat the loggerhead in the glowing coals. Upon the table, as usual, were the punch-bowl, crackers, cheese, tobacco, and pipes. Mr. Adams seated himself by the table and opened a letter.

"It is from Mr. Benjamin Franklin," he said, "who writes that Parliament has passed a law levying three pence per pound on tea. It is not to be collected here, as on other articles, but the merchant who ships it is to pay the duty. It is a very adroit attempt to collect revenue. The consignees in the Colonies, of course, will add the amount in their sales, and so the revenue will be collected without any agency on the part of the Custom Houses."

"I suppose," said Doctor Warren, "Lord North and the whole British nation think we are such simpletons, we shall not see the cat in the meal."

"It is an insidious act," Mr. Adams resumed, "intended to undermine the political virtue of the people. Two years ago our wives and daughters exhibited their allegiance to lofty principles by signing an agreement not to drink tea until the obnoxious laws then existing were repealed. Lord North laughed at the time, but he has discovered that the people of the Colonies can be loyal to a great principle. The East India Company's receipts have fallen off at the rate of five hundred thousand pounds value per annum. The company has seventeen million pounds of tea stored in London, intended for the Colonies, and for which there is no market. It owes the government a vast sum. The merchants who have grown rich out of their profits in the past are not receiving any dividends. The shares of the company, which a few months ago were quoted at high rates, have become unsalable. Parliament has repealed the obnoxious laws for taxing the Colonies, and passed this act, doubtless thinking that, so long as we do not pay it directly into the Custom House, we shall acquiesce and go to drinking tea again. And there is where the danger lies. We have been so true to our convictions the revenue received from its sale last year in all the Colonies was only fifteen hundred pounds. It is very humiliating to the king and ministry to turn to the other side of the ledger and find that it has cost several hundred thousand pounds to maintain the troops sent to the Colonies to aid in enforcing the revenue laws upon a reluctant people. This new act, by having all the customs machinery in England, will have a tendency to seduce the people from their allegiance to a great principle. How to thwart the plans of the ministry is the all-important question for us to consider. Mr. Franklin writes that several vessels are soon to leave London for different colonial ports—three of them for Boston."

"There is an old song," said Doctor Warren, "about a crafty old spider inviting a silly little fly into his parlor. I don't believe the fly will accept the invitation this time."

"The consignees," said Mr. Adams, "are Elisha and Thomas Hutchinson, the governor's two sons; Richard Clark and sons, Benjamin Faneuil, Junior, and Joshua Winslow,—all honorable merchants; but their sympathies, as we know, are not with the people. If we allow the tea to be landed, I fear the consequences. We must not permit the levying of a tax, without our consent, in any form."

"I move," said John Rowe, "that we do not permit the landing of any tea."

The meeting voted to adopt the motion. The formal business ended, they refilled their pipes, helped themselves to crackers and cheese, punch and flip.

* * * * *

Berinthia Brandon, the following week, could not understand why Tom wanted Dinah to make him a pot of paste; nor why he was out so late at night,—not getting home till three o'clock in the morning. None of the watchmen, going their rounds, saw anybody pasting handbills on the walls of the houses, but everybody saw the bills in the morning.

TO THE FREEMEN OF THIS AND NEIGHBORING TOWNS.

GENTLEMEN,—You are desired to meet at Liberty Tree, this day at twelve o'clock noon, then and there to hear the persons to whom the tea shipped by the East India Company is consigned make a public resignation of their office on oath as consignees; and also swear that they will reship any tea that may be consigned to them by said company, by the first vessel sailing for London.

O. C. Secretary.

BOSTON, NOV. 3, 1773.

Show us the man that dare take this down!!!!!

Early in the morning the town crier was jingling his bell and calling upon the people to be at the Liberty Tree at the appointed hour. Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Doctor Warren, and William Molineux were there, and a great crowd. The consignees were assembled in Richard Clark's store. The people voted to choose a committee to inform them that, if they did not resign or pledge themselves not to land the tea, they would be regarded as the enemies of their country. William Molineux, Doctor Warren, and six others were chosen.

A great crowd accompanied the committee. Governor Hutchinson, looking out upon them from the window of the council chamber, saw that they were the foremost men of Boston. The consignees were in Richard Clark's store, and the door was locked.

"From whom are you a committee," asked Clark, opening a window.

"From the whole people."

"I shall have nothing to do with you."

"Then you will be regarded as an enemy of your country," replied Molineux.

"Out with them!" cried somebody.

"Hold on. Don't let us make fools of ourselves," said Tom Brandon.

There was a murmuring in the crowd.

"In the king's name, I command you to disperse," said the sheriff, stepping forward.

It was not he, however, but Doctor Warren, who, by a wave of his hand, stilled the people, and persuaded them to depart.

On Sunday morning, November 29, Tom Brandon, looking with the telescope, saw a ship at Nantasket, and knew by the signals that it was the Dartmouth, Captain Hall. When meeting was over at noon, he called upon Doctor Warren and found him writing a circular to be sent to the surrounding towns, asking the people to assemble on Monday morning in Faneuil Hall. Tom took the writing to the printing office of Edes & Gill in Queen Street, and a printer quickly put it in type. On Monday morning the people of Boston, Charlestown, Cambridge, and all surrounding towns were reading it.

FRIENDS! COUNTRYMEN! BROTHERS!

The worst of plagues, the detested tea, shipped for this port by the East India Company, has arrived. The hour of destruction or manly opposition to the machinations of tyranny stares you in the face. Every friend to his country, to himself, and posterity is now called upon to meet at Faneuil Hall at nine o'clock this day, at which time the bells will ring, to make a united resistance to this last, worst, and most destructive measure of administration!

BOSTON, NOV. 30, 1773.

The bells rang. The people surged into Faneuil Hall. There was a crowd in the square around the building,—so many people that they adjourned to the Old South Meetinghouse, where they voted that the tea must go back to England, and that twenty-five men should keep watch day and night, to prevent its being landed. The meeting adjourned till Tuesday morning to hear what the consignees would do.

Through the night Abraham Duncan and the other watchmen patrolled the wharves. The Dartmouth had sailed up the harbor and was riding at anchor.

A great crowd filled the meetinghouse at nine o'clock Tuesday. The moderator read a letter from Richard Clark and the other consignees, who said they could not send the tea back, but would put it in their stores till they could hear from the East India Company.

"No! no! no!" shouted the people, who were more than ever determined that it should not be landed.

Tom saw the sheriff, with his sword by his side, as the emblem of authority, enter the meetinghouse, with a paper in his hand.

"It is from his excellency, the governor," said the sheriff, bowing to the moderator.

"We don't want to hear it," shouted the people.

"We are assembled in orderly town meeting. I think we had better hear what the governor has to communicate," said Samuel Adams, and the great audience became silent. Tom's blood began to boil as the sheriff read:—

"You are openly violating, defying, and setting at nought the good and wholesome laws of the Province under which you live. I warn you, exhort, and require each of you, thus unlawfully assembled, forthwith to disperse, and to surcease all further unlawful proceedings at your utmost peril."

Tom, and all around him hissed.

"We won't disperse till we've done our business," shouted a man in the centre of the house.

"We will attend to our affairs, and Tommy Hutchinson may mind his own business," cried another.

"Let us hear from Mr. Rotch," the shout.

Mr. Rotch, a young merchant, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, and who owned the Dartmouth, rose.

"I am willing the tea should go back without being landed," he said.

The people clapped their hands.

"Hall! Hall! Let us hear from Captain Hall," they cried.

The captain of the Dartmouth, sunburned by exposure, said it made no difference to him. He would just as soon carry the tea back as anything else. Once more the people decided the tea should not be brought on shore. To prevent its being landed it was voted that the watch should be maintained; that if the attempt was made by day, the meetinghouse bells would ring, if by night, they were to toll.

A few days later, the Beaver, commanded by Captain Coffin, and the Elenor, commanded by Captain Bruce, arrived. Tom, once more looking down the harbor, saw the warship Kingfisher drop down below the Castle and anchor in the channel; also the Active. He understood the meaning of the movement—that the governor did not intend the ships should depart with the tea on board. He knew things would soon come to a head, for under the law, unless a vessel discharged its cargo within twenty days after arriving in port, the ship and cargo would be confiscated. Once more the people assembled, electing Thomas Savage moderator, and passing a vote directing Mr. Rotch to ask the collector to clear the Dartmouth for London.

Rain was falling, and the wind east, rolling the waves into the harbor, on the morning of December 16. Unmindful of the storm, people from Boston and all the surrounding towns were gathering in the Old South Meetinghouse. Little did the farthest sighted among them comprehend that the fullness of time had come for the opening of a mighty drama; that the bell up in the tower was heralding the beginning of a new era in human government.

Tom and Abraham found seats in the gallery. After prayer, Samuel Adams said the committee appointed at a previous meeting had called upon the collector, with Mr. Rotch, asking him to clear the Dartmouth, but the request was not granted.

"We all know," he continued, "that the twenty days will expire at twelve o'clock to-night. After that hour the Dartmouth will be moored under the guns of Admiral Montague's warships, and will be taken possession of by a party of marines. I therefore move that Mr. Rotch be directed to enter his protest at the Custom House, and that he be further directed by this meeting to apply to Governor Hutchinson for a permit that shall allow the Dartmouth to pass the Castle and sail for London."

"All in favor of that motion will say aye," said the moderator.

"Aye!" thundered the floor, galleries, aisles, and pulpit stairs.

"All opposed will say no."

The silence was so profound that Tom could hear his heart beat.

"This meeting stands adjourned to three o'clock," said the moderator, and the great crowd thereupon surged into the streets. Some went to the Cromwell's Head; others to the Bunch of Grapes, White Lamb, Tun and Bacchus, drank mugs of flip, and warmed themselves by the bright wood-fires blazing on the hearths. The meeting had adjourned to give Mr. Rotch time to jump into his chaise and ride out to Milton to see Governor Hutchinson.

Tom and Abraham walked towards the Cromwell's Head. They were surprised and delighted to meet Roger Stanley.

"I didn't hear of the meeting till last evening," said Roger, "and I have come in to see what is going on."

The rain had drenched his clothes.

"See here, Roger, you are wet to the skin; you must have some toddy. Come along, I'll stand treat," said Tom.

They entered the Cromwell's Head, and each took a glass of flip, then made their way to the Long Room in Queen Street. Climbing the stairs, Tom rapped on a door. A moment later a panel opened, and a nose, mouth, and eyes appeared. Tom gave another rap which the nose, mouth, and eyes seemed to understand, for the door opened, and they passed in and it closed behind them.

Several of the Sons of Liberty were already there. Some were smoking pipes, others sipping mugs of hot punch. Edward Preston was sitting at a table writing.

"The sachem has just finished his proclamation, and is going to read it," said Henry Purkett.

The room became still, and Preston read what he had written.

ABRANT KAN-AK-AR-A-TOPH-QUA, CHIEF SACHEM OF THE MOHAWKS, KING OF THE SIX NATIONS AND LORD OF ALL THEIR CASTLES, ETC., ETC., TO ALL LIEGE SUBJECTS. HEALTH.

WHEREAS, tea is an Indian Plant and of right belongs to the Indians of every land and tribe; and whereas, our good allies, the English, have in lieu of it given us that pernicious liquor, Rum, which they have poured down our throats to steal away our brains; and whereas, the English have learned the most expeditious way or method of drawing an infusion of said Tea, without the expense of wood or trouble of fire, to the benefit and emolument of the East India trade, and, as vastly greater quantities may be used by that method than by that heretofore practiced in this country, and therefore help to support the East India Company under the present melancholy circumstances:

THEREFORE, we of our certain knowledge, special grace, and mere motion will permit or allow any of our liege subjects to barter, buy, or procure of any of our English allies, Teas of any kind: provided always each man can purchase not less than ten nor more than one hundred and fourteen boxes at a time and those the property of the East India Company; and provided also that they pour the same into the lakes, rivers, and ponds, that, while our subjects in their hunting, instead of slaking their thirst with cold water, they may do it with tea.

Of all which our subjects will take notice and govern themselves accordingly. By command,

TO-NE-TER-A-QUE.

"Attention, braves," said the sachem. "Each subject will provide himself with a tomahawk and be at the wigwam one hour after candle-lighting to-night, prepared to carry out the proclamation. The tribe will remember that the Mohawks do not talk much, but do in silence what they have to do."

They heard the proclamation in silence, and one by one took their departure. Roger said he would be in the Old South Meetinghouse at three o'clock to hear the result of the visit of Mr. Rotch to Governor Hutchinson.

"I doubt if I shall be there; I may have an engagement early in the evening," said Tom.

Abraham Duncan said the same.

"I went down to the shipyard this morning and got two tomahawks. They are in my chamber, together with the feathers and war-paint and the other things. Come round early, Abe," said Tom as they parted.

Again at three o'clock a great crowd filled the meetinghouse. The clouds had rolled away, and the setting sun was throwing its beams upon the gilded weather-vane when Roger Stanley entered the building. It was so full that he could only stand in one of the aisles. The moderator was reading letters from the selectmen of the surrounding towns, saying that they would stand by Boston in whatever might be done to prevent the landing of the tea.

"Their letters," said William Molineux, rising in one of the front pews, "are all very well; they show the determined spirit of our fellow-citizens; but we must have a committee whose duty it shall be to prevent the landing of the tea. I move the appointment of such a committee."

The meeting voted that a committee should be appointed.

* * * * *

The evening shades were falling and the housewives lighting their candles. In the Brandon house Tom and Abraham were putting on Indian uniforms which Mr. Brandon years before brought home from the tribes along the shores of the St. Lawrence—buckskin breeches and coats, fur caps trimmed with eagle's feathers. Tom tripped upstairs to the garret, and returned with a bunch of garget berries, with which they stained their faces and hands.

"You look just like Indians," said Berinthia.

"Say nothing to nobody as to what you have seen, 'Rinth," said Tom, as he closed the door and walked with Abraham rapidly along the street.

In the Old South Meetinghouse Josiah Quincy was speaking. The sexton brought in two tallow candles and placed them on the table before the moderator. There was a stir at the door—a commotion—a turning of necks in the pews, as the young merchant, Mr. Rotch, entered the building. Many in the audience thought he had been lukewarm in his desire to have the tea sent back to London, and were ready to hiss at him.

"Let us be just," said Doctor Young. "Let no one utter a word against our fellow-citizen. He is doing all it is possible for him to do to have the detested tea sent back."

The murmuring ceased as Samuel Adams addressed him:—

"Will you, Mr. Rotch, send the Dartmouth back to London with the tea on board?"

"Were I to make the attempt in compliance with the request of the people it would be my ruin."

Roger and all around him saw what they had not seen before, that were he to make the effort his ship would be seized and himself arrested, and in all probability sent to England to be tried for treason.

"Who knows how tea will mix with salt water?" shouted John Rowe.

"Let us treat the fishes to a cup of tea," shouted another, and the windows rattled with their stamping.

"Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!"

It was a yell from the street.

"Let the meeting be in order. It is a trick of our enemies to distract us," shouted some one.

"Order, gentlemen!" cried the moderator.

"Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!"

Longer and louder the yell.

"The Mohawks! the Mohawks!" the cry at the door.

Those in the galleries left their seats and hastened down the stairs. People were rising in the pews and crowding the aisles.

"This meeting can do no more," said Mr. Adams, and he declared it adjourned.

The people saw forty or fifty Indians who had suddenly appeared upon the street. Where they came from no one knew, but they were rapidly making their way to Griffin's Wharf where the ships were lying. Roger Stanley and a great number of citizens followed them. The sentinels with muskets on their shoulders, keeping watch over the ships, made no effort to stop the Mohawks. Roger saw the ship Dartmouth alongside the wharf and the Elenor and Beaver a little distance from it. The chief leaped on board the Dartmouth. The captain was on the quarter-deck; the crew huddled at the bow were astonished to see Indians with tomahawks climbing over the sides of the vessel.

"The Mohawks will unload your tea. Please direct your men to open the hatches and then order them below into the forecastle," said the chief, addressing the captain. "You will retire to your cabin. The Mohawks will not injure your ship or do you any harm."

It was spoken resolutely and in such good English that the captain understood every word. The sailors lifted the hatches, provided hoisting tackle, and disappeared down the forward hatchway, and the captain retired to his cabin. Roger saw an Indian run up the shrouds by the mainmast and hitch a tackle. He thought the savage had some resemblance to Tom Brandon. He also saw by the light of the moon, near its first quarter, that while one party of savages were at work upon the Dartmouth, others were warping the Elenor and the Beaver to the dock. It was nearly low tide, and the waves were swashing the timbers beneath the wharf. Not far away lay the Romney with her cannon peeping from the portholes. Very quietly the Mohawks began their work, hoisting chests from the hold, cutting them with hatchets, pouring the contents over the sides of the vessels. Roger felt a desire to take part in the work. Running to a blacksmith's shop, he smeared his face and hands with charcoal, took off his coat, turned it inside out, put it on, leaped on board the ship, seized a hatchet, smashed the chests, and tumbled them overboard. The Indians worked in silence. The clock was striking ten when the last chest was thrown into the dock. Their work finished, the chief rapped upon the cabin door, and the captain opened it.

"We have discharged your tea, captain, but we have disturbed nothing else. If we have we will cheerfully pay the damage."

The captain thanked him for being so considerate.

Tom, Abraham, and Roger, and the other Indians, walked up the street past the house of Nathaniel Coffin, his majesty's receiver-general. His eldest son, Isaac, one of Tom's schoolmates, had just sailed for England, Admiral Montague having obtained a commission for him in the king's navy, but John, the younger brother, was at home.

Admiral Montague was there standing by an open window.

"Well, boys, you have had a fine, pleasant evening for your Indian caper; but don't forget, you will have to pay the fiddler by and by."

"Oh, never mind, admiral, we are ready to pay him now," Tom replied.

The other Indians laughed as the admiral closed the window and turned away.

Very quietly the Mohawks separated. Abraham went to his own house, Roger went with Tom. They were soon in their chamber washing the garget stains and charcoal from their faces and hands.

"Rat-a-tat-tat!" went the knocker on the door.

They heard feet tripping over the stairs and then Berinthia's voice. "Oh, Tom, the officers are at the door. Put out your light. Let me have your Indian clothes. Get to bed, quick."

Tom raised the window, emptied the water from the bowl into the alley behind the house, handed his Indian suit to Berinthia, put out the light, and jumped into bed. Captain Brandon was not at home, having gone to Maine to obtain timber for the building of a ship. Berinthia returned to her room, lifted the sheets and blankets, tucked Tom's suit safely away between the feather bed and the straw mattress beneath it.

"Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!" went the knocker, louder than before. Tom heard Berinthia's window open.

"Who's there, and what is wanted?" It was Berinthia speaking.

"Is Captain Brandon at home?" asked one of the men at the door.

"He is not. He is in Maine."

"We want to search your house."

"Why do you wish to search it?"

"An outrage has been committed, and we believe that his son had a hand in it!"

"My brother is in bed, and a friend is spending the night with him; but I will go and tell him."

Several minutes passed before Tom could strike a light with the tinder-box, put on his clothes, and get to the door. Before descending the stairs he looked in the glass to see that the stains had been wholly removed from his face, and examined the floor to ascertain that no tea-leaves had been dropped from their clothing. He then descended the stairs and opened the door.

"Good-evening. What is it you wish?" he said.

"You are Tom Brandon, are you not?" asked one of the officers.

"That is my name."

"It is believed, Mr. Brandon, that you were one of the party who poured the tea into the harbor this evening, and we have come to search for evidence."

"Come right in, gentlemen."

The officers stepped into the hall.

"This is the parlor, here is the sitting-room, and beyond it is the pantry. I don't think you will find much tea, for we quit drinking it three years ago, and haven't had any since," said Tom.

"Shall we see your chamber, Mr. Brandon?"

"Certainly; you will find my old schoolmate, Roger Stanley of Concord, in bed, but he won't mind."

They climbed the stairs, entered the chamber, asked Mr. Stanley's pardon for intruding, took a look at the washbowl, opened a clothespress, got down on their knees and looked at the floor, to see if they could find any tea.

"Here is another chamber, my sister's; she spoke to you from the window. You will hardly think of entering the room till she has had time to put on her dress."

"Oh, no; we would not be so rude as to enter her chamber. We do not suppose she had anything to do with it," said the officers.

"Will you not take a look at the garret?" Tom asked.

"No. You have covered your tracks so well, I do not suppose we should find anything."

"Thank you. If, as you say, I had a hand in it, I regard it quite a compliment that I have covered my tracks so well," Tom replied, as the officers took their departure. He went upstairs and opened the door to Berinthia's chamber a little.

"'Rinth, you are the best girl that ever lived," he said.

"Oh, Tom, you did that splendidly," she replied.

There was merry laughter from her lips as he closed the door and returned to his chamber.



XIV.

BENEVOLENCE AND BROTHERHOOD.

The summer of 1774 was waning. Once more Robert Walden was on his way to Boston. The wagon which Jenny and Paul were dragging was loaded with bags filled with corn and rye, not to be sold in the market, but a gift from Joshua Walden and his fellow-citizens of Rumford to the people of Boston. Parliament, in retaliation for the destruction of the tea, had passed an act closing the port to commerce.[50] After the first day of June, no vessels other than those of the navy could enter or depart from the harbor. Fishermen could no longer catch cod or mackerel for the market. Farmers on the banks of the Mystic could not dig potatoes from their fields and transport them down the river on the ebbing tide to the town dock. The people of Charlestown could not gather cabbages from their gardens, take them across the ferry, and peddle them in Boston. Only by the road leading to Roxbury could the suffering people be supplied with food. Besides closing the port, Parliament had abolished the charter of Massachusetts. The people no longer could elect thirty-six councilors; they were to be appointed by the king, instead. No more could they lawfully assemble in town meeting to elect representatives to the legislature. All rights and privileges were swept away.

[Footnote 50: It is known in history as the Boston Port Bill. It was passed as a retaliatory measure. No possible advantage could accrue to government by its passage and enforcement. It was designed not only to awe the people into submission, but to overturn the government of the people and establish kingly prerogative. Parliament could not have committed a greater blunder. Instead of humbling the people of Boston, it aroused the sympathies of the entire country, and became a potent influence in bringing about the union of the Colonies. Contributions of food, wheat, corn, rye, peas, beans, flocks of sheep, and herds of cattle came from all of the Colonies.]

It was near sunset when Robert turned into the highway leading from Roxbury to Boston. He was surprised to find fortifications—a ditch and embankment and cannon mounted upon it—at the narrowest part of the Neck. The sentinels glared at him, but did not offer any insult.[51] He knew several regiments of troops had already arrived, and it was reported that others would soon be sent from England to enforce the laws. He drove slowly along the street, past the Liberty Tree. A half dozen citizens were sitting on the benches beneath it smoking their pipes. There were few people but many soldiers in the streets. He watered the horses at the pump, then drove to the Green Dragon.

[Footnote 51: Several regiments of troops had already arrived in Boston, and fortifications were being constructed on Roxbury Neck, making it a garrisoned town.]

It was a hearty welcome which he received in the Brandon home.

"You find us under the harrow," said Mr. Brandon. "The king and ministry are determined to crush the life out of us. All business has stopped. Grass is growing in the streets. Ship-carpenters, joiners, blacksmiths, ropemakers, are idle; no one has any work for them. Thousands have already left town, and others are going. Nobody can earn a penny, and we are all growing poorer. We should starve in a short time were it not for the kindness and benevolence of the people. We are receiving contributions of food from everywhere. Doctor Warren, John Hancock, and a large number of our public-spirited citizens are distributing the gifts."

Tom said he was aiding the committee, looking after the poor. Not only were kind-hearted people sending grain, but flocks and herds.

"Only yesterday," he said, "Colonel Israel Putnam, who served in the French and Indian war, arrived with a flock of sheep from Connecticut. Day before yesterday a sloop dropped anchor in Salem harbor, loaded with corn contributed by the people of North Carolina. It will be teamed into Boston. The Marblehead fishermen have just sent between two and three hundred quintals of codfish. The committee has received a letter from Mr. Gadsden of South Carolina, expressing the hope that we never will pay a cent for the blasted tea. As evidence that South Carolina is with us, he sent one hundred casks of rice, contributed by his fellow-citizens, shipping it to Providence, to be hauled the rest of the way by teams. The people of Baltimore loaded a vessel with three thousand bushels of corn, twenty barrels of rye flour, and as many of shipbread. Herds of cattle and flocks of sheep are driven in every day. The town of Lebanon, Connecticut, sent three hundred and seventy sheep; Norwich, two hundred and ninety; Groton, one hundred sheep and twenty-six fat cattle. Two schooners have arrived at Salem, bringing three thousand bushels of corn from Maryland. Another vessel brought one thousand bushels from Virginia."

"These contributions," said Mr. Brandon, "show that the people of the Colonies, or at least a large portion of them, sympathize with us in our resistance to tyranny."

"You have not told me about Rachel; is she well?" Berinthia asked.

Robert informed her she was quite well, and hard at work as usual.

"I suppose she is spinning for herself, these days?" said Berinthia, smiling.

"Yes, I dare say; she has been making sheets and pillow-cases since Roger Stanley was in Rumford."

"She has written me about him, and thinks there is nobody else in the world so good as he. I'm glad they are engaged. She is just the one for him and he for her."

There was one person whom Robert wished to know about, who had been in his thoughts through every step of his journey. How should he ask about Miss Newville without revealing his interest in her? How ascertain if she were well: if her heart was still her own?

"I suppose the arbitrary acts of Parliament may have brought about estrangements between old-time friends," he said.

"Yes, former friendships are being broken. Many of my old acquaintances do not speak to me."

"Is it so bad as that?"

"Yes, families are being divided. Fathers and mothers taking sides with the king, sons and daughters standing resolutely for the rights of the people. You remember that sweet girl, Lucy Flucker, whom you met at Miss Newville's garden party?"

"Yes, a lovely lady."

"Her father is secretary of the Colony, and of course sides with the king, but she is soon to be married to the bookseller, Mr. Knox, greatly against the wishes of the family; not because he is not worthy of her, but because he opposes the king and his ministers," said Berinthia.

"Are you and Miss Newville still friends?"

"Yes, just as good friends as ever. Her father, of course, is a Tory, and her mother is a red-hot one, but Ruth keeps her own counsel. You can have no idea what a noble girl she is, gracious to everybody, but true to herself. She had an offer of marriage from Lord Upperton, a little while ago, and refused him, to the astonishment of all her friends, and especially her mother. Just why she rejected his suit no one knows. Intimate as we are, she never has let me into the secret."

"From what little I have seen of Miss Newville, she seems to be a lady of sterling character," Robert replied.

"She has many admirers, especially among his majesty's officers. She receives them with charming courtesy, listens to their flattering words, but is very chary of her favors. I do not wonder that half a dozen colonels, majors, and captains are dead in love with her. I hope you will see her while here. She often inquires about you and Rachel, and wishes she could have another ride in a pung. I'll tell you what I'll do,—invite her to take supper with us, and then you'll see what a glorious girl she is."

"I can believe all you say of her."

Once more, the following morning, Robert had the pleasure of shaking hands with Doctor Warren and Samuel Adams, and receiving the thanks of the committee of supply for the contribution from Rumford.

Mr. Adams said the Colonies must prepare to enter upon a struggle to maintain their liberties. Governor Gage was carrying things with a high hand. A few nights before, a body of troops had seized the powder in the magazines out towards Medford, and taken it to the Castle.[52] General Gage was seizing muskets. He had purchased cannon and cohorn mortars, and chain-shot of Mr. Scott, and had paid him five hundred pounds for them. He hoped the people of Rumford would put themselves in a condition to be ready at a minute's warning to resist any aggressions on the part of the troops. It was evident that the king was determined to carry out his plans by force of arms.

[Footnote 52: The powder belonging to the Province was stored in a magazine on Quarry Hill, in Charlestown. During the month of August, 1774, several of the towns removed their proportion of the ammunition. At half past four o'clock, on the morning of September 1, Lieutenant-Colonel Madison, with 260 men, embarked in thirteen large boats at Long Wharf, rowed up Mystic River, and landed at Mr. Temple's farm, seized 250 half barrels of powder and landed it in the Castle, also two cannon from the gun-houses in Cambridge. The news spread, and before evening nearly 5,000 people had assembled in Cambridge with their muskets. They compelled Mr. Danforth, member of the governor's council, to resign. The high-sheriff promised to serve no warrant under the new act of parliament. Lieutenant-Governor Oliver hastened to Boston, and informed General Gage that if he were to send a body of troops into the country the people would rise in their anger. Upon his return to Cambridge the people surrounded his house and compelled him to resign his commission. General Gage wrote to London that he must have more troops to enable him to strike a decisive blow. He expected the people would march into Boston. In order to prevent surprise, the guards were doubled, and the troops ordered to lay on their arms through the night.]

Having delivered the donation to the committee, Robert strolled through the town, finding many houses, shops, and stores tenantless. There was a strange silence,—no hurrying of feet, no rumbling of teams, no piles of merchandise. The stores were closed, the shutters fastened. Grass was growing in the streets and tufts of oats were springing up where the horses, a few weeks before, had munched their provender. Here and there he met men and boys, wandering listlessly, with sadness in their faces, but yet behind the sorrow there was a determination to endure to the bitter end.

Robert visited his old acquaintance, Henry Knox, no longer in the bookstore at the corner of King Street, opposite the Town House, but in a store of his own on Cornhill. He passed a tailor's shop and a harness-maker's before he came to Mr. Knox's bookstore, where he was heartily welcomed.

"I remember the book which you purchased the first time we met; I hope you liked it."

"It is very entertaining, and has been read by nearly everybody in Rumford, and is pretty much worn out," Robert replied.

While talking with Mr. Knox, he saw a white-haired gentleman pass the store. The next moment he heard a bell jingling in the shop of the harness-maker, then in the shoemaker's, and lastly in the tailor's. Mr. Knox laughed as the gentleman quickened his pace.

"Possibly, Mr. Walden, you do not understand the ringing of the bells in succession. The gentleman is one of the Tory councilors recently appointed by Governor Gage. He has accepted the appointment and the citizens are worrying the life out of him. Each shopman has a bell which he jingles the moment he spies a councilor, giving notice to the other shopmen." Mr. Knox looked up at the clock. "It is about time for the council to assemble in the Town House; quite likely you will hear the bells tinkle again. More than half of those appointed by General Gage have already resigned, and I do not doubt others will ere long throw up their commissions. Not much honor is to be gained by holding an office against public opinion."

"It is not a pleasing sight—the presence of so many troops," Robert remarked.

"Nominally, we are under civil law; but in reality our civil rights are gone, and we are under military government," Mr. Knox replied.

Two officers entered the store and were courteously received by the bookseller, who showed them the latest books received from London. He informed Robert, in a whisper, that they were Major John Small and Ensign De Berniere. Another gentleman entered, a citizen, whose coat was covered with dust, as if he had been long on the road. He was heartily welcomed by Mr. Knox, who introduced him to Robert as Colonel Israel Putnam of Connecticut.

"I think I have heard my father speak of you; he was a lieutenant under Captain Stark at Ticonderoga. Perhaps you remember him," Robert said.

"Indeed I do remember Joshua Walden, and a braver man never wore a uniform in the Rifle Rangers than he."

The major of the king's troops laid down his book and approached with outstretched hand.

"Well, I declare! If here isn't my old friend Putnam," he said.

There was mutual hand-shaking between Major Small and Colonel Putnam, who had fought side by side under the walls of Ticonderoga and at Fort Edward.

"And so you are here to enforce the Regulation Act," said Putnam.

"It is because you are rebellious," Small replied.

"You are attempting to subvert our liberties by enforcing unrighteous laws. The Colonies exhibited their loyalty to the king when we stood side by side to drive out the French. We taxed ourselves to the utmost. England has repaid but a very small proportion of the cost. We were loyal then, and we are loyal now; but we never will submit to tyranny," continued Putnam.

"The people of this town threw the tea into the dock, and now they must pay for it. Those that dance must settle with the fiddler," Small replied.

"Not one penny will we ever pay. Parliament and the king have closed the port, bringing distress upon the community; but it has awakened the sympathies of the country from Passamaquoddy to Savannah. Now, Small, you are an old soldier, and so am I; we have smelled gunpowder, and can afford to talk plainly. You are here, five thousand or more, with several thousand additional troops just ready to sail from England. You have come to overawe us by force of arms. You have changed the charter of this Province; if this, why not all the others? Why do you do it? I say you, for you represent the king; you do it because you are determined to make the Colonies subservient to the crown. You cannot bear to have us manufacture anything this side of the sea, and are determined to make us your milch cow. Let me tell you that you won't succeed. You do not know the spirit of the people. Let one drop of blood be shed by the troops, and a mighty host of armed men will close around you. I know you can fight, and so can we; if you don't think so, try it."

"Ha, ha! Put, you are the same old flint, ever ready to strike fire. We won't quarrel now. Come, let us step down to the Bunch of Grapes, have a glass of wine, and talk over old times."

Arm in arm they walked down King Street to the tavern.

Early the following afternoon Miss Newville was welcomed to the Brandon home.

"It is a long time since we have met," she said, reaching out her hand to Robert. "I am pleased to see you once more. I hope you are well. And how is Rachel?"

Many times he had thought of her as he last beheld her, standing beneath the portico of her home in the radiant light of the moon. Her parting words had been an abiding memory—"Good-by, till we meet again." Once more her hand was resting in his. She was no longer a girl, but entering upon womanhood. He told the reason of his being there, to bring the gift of Rumford to the suffering poor. She had many questions to ask about Rachel. Was she still making cheese? Had she many flowers?

"I suppose Rachel's brother prepares the flowerbeds as in former years," she said, laughing.

"Yes, I spaded them for her."

"Berinthia informs me that she has found her true love."

"So it appears."

"I doubt not she is very happy."

"She seems to be; she is singing from morning till night."

"I am so glad. I only saw Mr. Stanley at the time of the launching of the ship, you remember, but thought him worthy of any woman's love. Do you still have delightful times at quiltings and huskings?"

"In the country, customs rarely change. The young ladies still have their quilting parties. Rachel will soon be getting her fixings, and we doubtless shall have jolly times."

"I should like to be able to help her. With so many things to care for, I do not suppose she finds much time for reading?"

"Very little. Besides, we do not have many books to read. 'The New Hampshire Gazette' comes once a week, giving us a little glimpse of what is going on in the world."

"I forgot you have no bookstore with all the new volumes printed in London,—history, travel, poetry, and novels, as we have here."

She said that Mr. Knox, the bookseller, had been very kind to her, supplying her with the new books arriving from London, and had just handed her the poems of Oliver Goldsmith.

The afternoon waned.

"Shall we go up on the housetop and see the sun set?" Berinthia asked.

The harbor, the fleet of warships at anchor, the distant ocean, the distant woodlands, made a beautiful panorama.

"When I see such beauty," said Miss Newville, "I want to be an artist or a poet to give expression to my feelings. See the purple and gold on the Milton Hills, the light on the water, the russet and crimson of the forests! How beautiful!" she cried, with a rich bloom upon her cheek as she gazed upon the landscape. The tap of a drum and the tramping of a regiment along the street attracted her attention. "I am weary of seeing scarlet uniforms," she said.

"Will you not make an exception of those who call upon Miss Newville?" Berinthia asked.

"No. I do not even care to see General Gage or Earl Percy in their gold-laced coats. They are delightful gentlemen, and frequent visitors in our home. I find much pleasure in listening to Earl Percy's description of things in London; but I should be better pleased were he to visit us as a citizen, laying aside his military trappings, the emblems of arbitrary power."



The sun was sinking behind the western hills. As the last beams faded from the gilded vane of Christ Church, they heard the beating of drums and the shrill piping of boatswain's whistles on the decks of the warships. A cannon flashed on the bastion of the Castle, and the boom of the gun rolled far away as the Cross of St. George descended from flagstaff and topmast to be furled for the night.

"It is the sunset gun; the signal for taking down the flags," said Berinthia.

"I often watch from my chamber window for the flashing of the cannon," Miss Newville remarked.

"It is a beautiful sight; but would be more exhilarating if the flag was what it ought to be," said Robert.

The twilight had not faded from the sky when Robert accompanied Miss Newville to her home. Officers of the king's regiments lifted their hats to her upon the way; their attentions were recognized with dignified grace. Robert saw scowls on their faces as they glared at him, as if to challenge his right to be her escort.

"The night is hot and the air sultry, and if you please, Mr. Walden, we will sit in the garden rather than in the house," she said.

They strolled beneath the trees bending with the weight of ripening fruit, and seated themselves in a rustic arbor. The early grapes were purpling above them.

"I do not know, Mr. Walden, that I quite comprehended your meaning when you said the flag would be more beautiful if it were what it ought to be. I think it very beautiful as it is."

"I did not have reference, Miss Newville, to the texture or quality of the cloth, or the arrangement of colors, neither to the devices,—the crosses of St. George and St. Andrew,—but thought of it as a symbol of power. My father fought under it, and it has waved in triumph on many battlefields; but just now it is being used to deprive us of our rights."

"Have you ever read the legend of St. George?" she asked.

"I have not, and I hardly know what the Cross of St. George stands for."

"It is a beautiful story. I read it not long ago in a book which I found in Mr. Knox's store. Would you like to hear it?"

"Please tell me about it."

"The story runs that ever so many years ago there was a terrible dragon—a monster, part snake, part crocodile, with sharp teeth, a forked tongue, claws, and wings. It could crawl upon the land or swim in the water. Every day it came from its lair and ate the sheep in the pastures around the old city of Berytus. When the sheep were gone it ate little children. The king of the city could think of nothing better than to issue an edict requiring the selection of two children under fifteen years old by lot, to be given to the dragon. One day the lot fell upon the king's daughter, the Princess Cleodolinda, a beautiful girl, and as good as she was beautiful. It was a terrible blow to the king. He offered all his gold, precious stones, glittering diamonds, and emeralds, and half his kingdom, if the people would consent to her exemption, which they wouldn't do. He had made the edict; they had given their children; he must give his daughter. Being king, he thought he could take somebody else's daughter. That made the people angry, and they threatened to kill him. Then the princess showed how good and noble and true she was. She said she would die rather than there should be any trouble. It was a sad morning when she bade her father and mother and all her friends good-by, and went out from the city, all the people weeping to see her in her youth and beauty, so calm, peaceful, and resigned, walking in the green field, waiting for the dragon. They saw the monster crawl towards her. Just then they beheld a young man with a shining shield and waving plume, on horseback, with sword and lance, approaching. It was George of Cappadocia, a brave Christian youth. 'Fly! fly!' shouted the princess. 'Why should I fly?' he asked. 'Do you not see the dragon? He will eat you as he will me.' 'I am not afraid of him, and I will deliver you,' said he, rushing upon the dragon with his lance. It was a terrible fight. The monster hissing, running out his tongue, snapping his jaws, striking with his tail and sharp claws; but the brave George kept up the fight, striking his lance through the thick hide and shiny scales, and pinning the writhing creature to the earth. 'It is not by my own might, but God, through Jesus Christ, who has given me the power to subdue this Apollyon,' he said. At that, the whole city accepted the Christian religion. In recognition of the victory he put the sign of the letter X, representing the cross, upon his flag. The king was so pleased that, besides becoming a Christian, he offered George all his gold and silver and diamonds and precious stones; but the prince would not keep them; he gave them to the poor."

"It is indeed a beautiful story," said Robert, charmed by the narration.

"I suppose the legend represents the conflict between wickedness and righteousness," added Miss Newville.

"Did George become the son-in-law of the king?" Robert asked.

Miss Newville laughed heartily.

"If it were a story in a novel," she said, "of course that would be the outcome of the romance. No; he went on his travels converting people to Christianity. The Greek Christians kept him in remembrance by adopting the letter X as the sign of the cross. When Richard the Lion-Hearted started on his crusade to rescue the holy sepulchre from the Moslems, he selected St. George as his protector. He is the patron saint of England. He stands for courage in defense of the truth."

"That is what the Cross of St. George should stand for, Miss Newville, but just now it represents tyranny and oppression. It is a beautiful flag, the crosses of St. George and St. Andrew combined, in red, white, and blue. No other banner symbolizes so much that is precious of what men have done, but the king and his ministers are perverting it. St. George and St. Andrew were representatives of justice and righteousness. They died for principles which in their nature are eternal, which will remain, when we are gone. I have taken pride in being an Englishman. The flag thrills me. I like to think of the brave deeds that have been done under it. No other banner means so much. It stirs me to think of it as waving not only in England, but here, in Canada, in South America, and on the banks of the Ganges. Of course, the flag, the crosses upon it, signify suffering, devotion, heroism, bravery. It is these things that warm my blood."

"Go on, please, Mr. Walden. I want to hear more," said Miss Newville as he paused.

"I have delighted in being an Englishman because the flag stands for all I hold most dear, but I am conscious that my love for it is not what it was. The king and his ministers by their arbitrary acts, Parliament by passing laws taking away chartered rights, are alienating the affections of the Colonies. We are not so meek that we are ready to kiss the hand that smites us. The time may come, Miss Newville, when the people this side the Atlantic will have a flag of their own. If we do it will be a symbol of a larger liberty than we now have. The world does not stand still. I do not know what Almighty God has been reserving this Western world for through all the ages; but it must be for some grand purpose. It is a great land and it will be peopled some day. We have made our laws in the past, and we shall not surrender our right to do so. The king and his ministers are not using the crosses of St. George and St. Andrew for the good of all. The crosses should represent brotherhood, but they do not. I think the time may come, though, when there will be such a flag."

Again he paused, and again Miss Newville begged him to go on.

"I cannot tell when it will be, but I know what I would like to see."

"Please tell me," she said earnestly.

"I would like to see the time when men will recognize their fellow-men as brothers, and when the flag will stand for equality, unity, liberty, and brotherhood."

"Do you think such a time will ever come?"

"I do not doubt it. The prophets in the Bible have predicted it, and it seems to me that the human race is advancing in that direction. Have you not noticed that almost everything we prize has come through sacrifice and suffering? I came here with food because the people of this town are suffering. The bags of corn which I have brought are an expression of brotherhood, of unity, love, and good will. The people all the way from the Penobscot to the Savannah are acting from such motives. It is curious that Parliament by passing a wicked law is uniting the Colonies as nothing else could have done. What the king designed for a punishment, in the end may be a great blessing."

"I see it, and I want to thank you, Mr. Walden, for your words. You have made clear what hitherto I have not been able to understand. Of course, you must be aware that I hear many conversations upon affairs in the Colonies. General Gage and Earl Percy are frequent guests in our home, as are many gentlemen who sympathize with the king and the ministry rather than with Mr. Adams and Doctor Warren. I do not see how the king, who they say is kind-hearted, could assent to a law which would bring suffering and starvation to so many people."

She sat in silence a moment, and then went on.

"I like to hear you, Mr. Walden, speak of that good time that is to come. I should like to do something to hasten it. I feel that I am stronger for what you have said. Shall we take a stroll through the grounds?"

Through the day he had been looking forward to a possible hour when he could be with her alone, to feel the charm of her presence. And now that it had come, what should he say, how let her know she had been an inspiration to him; how since their first meeting his last thought at night and the first of the morning had been of her? Were he to say the thought of her had filled the days with happiness, would she not think him presumptuous? They were widely separated by the circumstances of life,—he of the country, a farmer, swinging the scythe, holding the plow, driving oxen, feeding pigs; she, on the contrary, was a star in cultured society, entertaining high-born ladies and gentlemen, lords, earls, and governors; chance, only, had made them acquainted. She had been very kind. No, he must not presume upon her graciousness and tell her that his heart had gone out to her in a wonderful way. Many men had proffered their love, but had been rejected. It was blessedness unspeakable to be permitted to walk by her side, to hear her voice, to enjoy her esteem, friendship, and confidence.

The song-birds of summer had gone, but the crickets were merrily chirping around them; flowers were fading, but fruits were ripening. Slowly they walked the winding paths, stopping at times to gaze upon the clouds, silver-lined, in the bright light of the full-orbed moon.

"I shall not soon forget this quiet evening with you, Mr. Walden, nor the words you have spoken. I have thought it was my foreboding, but now I can see that there may be trying times before us,—times which will test friendships."

"I trust, Miss Newville, that I may ever be worthy to be numbered among your friends."

"I know you will." After a moment's hesitation she added, "The time may come when I shall need your friendship."

Her voice was tremulous. The nine o'clock bell was ringing. They were by the gate leading to the street.

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