From Kingdom to Colony

by Mary Devereux

CHAPTER XXIII

The town was as silent as a city of the dead when the four started on their way, Master Storms—a fussy, irritable old gentleman—in advance, with his pretty daughter Patience hanging on his arm, and followed closely by the small erect figure of Dorothy, wrapped in her dark cloak; while Johnnie Strings, on guard against any unseen danger, walked directly behind her.

There were hurrying masses of cloud overhead that made gorges and ravines, hemming in the glittering stars, now grown brighter since the moon had set; and the sound of the sea came faintly hoarse, as the little party bent their steps in its direction. For near it lay the Storms domicile,—up near what was known as "Idler's Hill."

Suddenly a wild uproar broke out upon the night, coming from ahead of them; and Master Storms bringing his daughter to a halt, Dorothy and the pedler came up with them.

They all stood listening. There were the shouts and cries of a not-to-be-mistaken street fight; and the turmoil was becoming more distinct, as though the combatants were approaching.

Patience urged her father to hurry on towards their house; but he hesitated.

"What think you is amiss, Johnnie Strings?" he inquired nervously, fidgeting from one foot to the other, while his terrified daughter tugged at his arm.

"Usual trouble, I guess," drawled the pedler. "Redcoats paradin' the streets, and gettin' sassy." Then turning to Dorothy, he said, "Had n't ye best let me take ye back, Mistress Dorothy?"

Before she could answer him a small body of soldiers issued from a side street near by. A wavering, yelling crowd of angered men swept forward to meet them; and the two girls and their escorts found themselves in the midst of a struggling, shouting mass, with here and there a horseman looming up, whose headgear, faintly outlined in the uncertain light, proved him to be a British dragoon.

Master Storms seized his daughter by the arm, and taking advantage of an opening he saw in the crowd, darted through and sped with the girl down a narrow alley. But the pedler, trying to follow with Dorothy, was baffled by a number of the combatants closing in around them.

He shouted lustily for them to make a passage for himself and his charge; but although he was known to many of them, rage, and the lust of battle, seemed to dull their ears to his voice.

In the midst of it all he was felled to the ground; and with no thought of tarrying to find out if he were hurt, Dorothy, seeing a small opening in the mass of men, dashed through it, with the intention of making her way back to the Hortons'.

She had gone only a short distance when her path was barred by several horsemen, who seemed to be the leaders of the troop. They had fought their way to a clearer space, and were looking back as though for their followers to join them.

"Devils—fools," panted one. "They deserve to be wiped out."

"Aye," said another. "If we might use our weapons as we liked, I, for one, would take pleasure in having a hand at that game."

Dorothy attempted to glide by them, hoping that the dark color of the cloak she wore would save her from detection. But the voice of the first speaker called out gayly, "Aha, who goes there? Stop, pretty one, and give the countersign."

"Or, if indeed you be a pretty one, we'll take a kiss instead, and call it a fair deal," laughed another, as flippantly as if the night were not being rent with the uproar of the fighting mob just behind them.

Dorothy came to a standstill, and for the instant was uncertain which way to turn. Then she resolved to pursue the road she had taken, and said spiritedly, "Stand aside, and let me pass out of hearing of such insults, or it may be the worse for you."

She lifted her head as she spoke; and as the rays of a near-by lamp fell upon her face, one of the riders spurred toward her.

"Mistress Dorothy!" The voice made her heart leap; and then she felt sick and faint.

"Dear mistress,"—and now Cornet Southorn had dismounted close beside her—"let me conduct you safely out of this place, where you surely never should have come."

The other horsemen had drawn to one side and away from them, and were now silent.

Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, Dorothy permitted him to lift her to his saddle. He sprang up behind her, and holding her firmly with one arm about her waist, spurred his horse away from the scene, shouting to the others not to wait for him.

The uproar soon died away behind them, but still they sped on in silence. Then Dorothy heard the young man laugh, and in a way to frighten her, and rally her dreaming senses to instant alertness.

"So now, my sweet little rebel, you are my captive, instead of being my jailer, as that night in the summer." And she felt his breath touch her cheek. "You shall not speak to me in such fashion. And—oh, you have passed the street leading to Mistress Morton's, which is where I must go."

Dorothy began with her usual imperiousness, but ended in affright as she saw the street fade into the darkness behind them.

"Is that where I stole like a thief to catch one glimpse of you, pretty one?" he asked, paying no heed to her indignation. "And I felt like committing murder, when I saw all the gallants who wanted your smiles for themselves."

"Take me back this minute!" she demanded angrily; but her heart was now thrilling with something that was not altogether rage nor fright.

"That will I not," he answered quickly, and with dogged firmness.

"You are no gentleman," she cried, beginning at last to feel real alarm, "if you do not take me to Mistress Morton's this minute."

The young man leaned forward until his lips were close to the girl's ear; and his deep voice, now trembling as with suppressed feeling, sent each word to her with perfect distinctness.

"I hope, sweet Mistress Dorothy, I am a gentleman," he said. "As such I was born, and have been accounted. But"—and his voice sank to a tremulous softness—"take you anywhere, I will not, until we have seen good Master Weeks, for whose house we are now bound. And when we leave it, it will be as man and wife."

"You—dare not," she gasped. "You dare not do such a thing."

He laughed softly. "Dare I not? Ah, but you mistake. I dare do anything to win you for my own. I know your sweet rebel heart better than you think, and I know that except it be done in some such manner, you may never be mine."

She tried to speak, but fright and dismay sealed her lips. Suddenly he bent his face still closer and whispered: "Ah, little sweetheart, how I long to kiss you! But my rose has its thorns; and I fear their stinging my face, as they did that day in the wood, ages ago,—so long it seems since I had the happy chance to hold speech with you."

Still Dorothy could not utter a word, seeming to be in a dream, while the powerful gray flew along the deserted streets that somehow looked new and strange to her eyes. And now she felt the broad breast pillowing her head, and she could feel distinctly the beating of his heart, as if his pulse and her own were one and the same.

And so they rode along in silence until they reached the house of Master Weeks, where the young man pulled up his horse, and without dismounting, pounded fiercely with his sword-hilt upon the door.

An upper window was soon raised, and a man's querulous voice demanded to know what was wanted.

"Make haste, and come down to see," was the impatient answer. "It is Cornet Southorn who wishes to speak with you."

The window was closed hastily, and a light soon flickered in the lower part of the house; and then came the noise of the door being unbarred.

The young man sprang to the ground and held out his arms.

"Come, sweetheart," he said, "let me lift you down, and I will fasten the horse to a ring in the step here. He has been fastened there before, but," with a soft laugh, "scarce for a like purpose."

Dorothy clung to the pommel. "I'll not,—I'll not!" she declared. "You shall not dare do so wicked a thing, and Master Weeks will never dare listen to you."

"We'll see to that," he laughed, and lifted her from the saddle. Then, as she reached the ground, he kissed her, as he had that day in the wood.

"Be good to me, and true to yourself, my sweet little rebel," he whispered, "and fight no longer with truth and your own heart. Own that you love me, and know that I love you,—aye, better than my life."

"I care naught for your love," cried Dorothy, struggling to free herself from his arms. "And I tell you that I hate you!"

"Aye," and he laughed again, "so your lips say. But I know what your heart says, for your eyes told me that, long ago. And I shall listen to your heart and eyes, and pay no heed to your sweet little rebellious mouth."

They were now standing on the upper step of the small porch, and in the open doorway was the minister, Master Weeks, a candle in his hand, and held above his head as he peered out into the darkness with wonder filling his blinking eyes.

"Good Master Weeks, here is a little wedding party. And despite the unseemly hour, you must out with your book, and your clerk, as witness, for binding the bargain past all breaking."

With this, the young officer, carrying Dorothy in before him, entered the house and closed the door, against which he placed his broad back, his gleaming teeth and laughing eyes alight like a roguish boy's as he smiled down upon the bewildered little divine.

"You will do no such thing, Master Weeks," Dorothy protested, her eyes flashing with anger. "I am here against my will, and forbid you to listen to his madness."

"Aye," the young man said, looking into her glowing face, "mad I am, and with a disease that naught will cure but to know that you are my wife."

"Why, Cornet Southorn," exclaimed Master Weeks, "whatever can you be thinking on? Surely this lady is Mistress Dorothy, the daughter of Master Joseph Devereux." And he looked closely into her face.

"Yes, so I am," she cried, moving nearer to him. "You know my father, and you'll surely not hearken to this young Britisher?"

"Aye, but he will, and that speedily," the young man asserted. The smile was now gone from his face, and his hand stole toward his pistol.

"Master Weeks," he said sternly, "it will go hard with you if within ten minutes you do not make this lady my wife." And he looked at his watch.

The frightened little man said nothing more, but hurriedly summoned his housekeeper and her son, who was also his clerk. A few minutes later, and Dorothy, held so firmly—albeit gently—by Kyrle Southorn that she could not move from his side, heard the words that made her his wife.

When it was over, she was strangely silent, scarcely seeming to comprehend what had taken place.

The newly made husband put his name upon the register. Then, as he drew Dorothy forward to take his place, he bent down until his face came beneath her own, and gave her a curious, beseeching look,—one that seemed to act upon her bewildered senses like a deadening drug.

Yes, he was right. She loved him better than all else in the world. Her mind had fought the truth these many months; but now her heart rose up, a giant in strength and might, and she could never question it again.

For a moment her great dark eyes looked down into his pleading ones. Then in a subdued, obedient way, entirely unlike the wilful Dorothy of all her former life, she took the pen he proffered and wrote her name underneath his bold signature.

A deep sigh now burst from his lips,—one of happy relief; then, as if utterly unmindful of the minister's presence, he pressed a kiss upon the little hand that still held the pen.

She submitted to this in silence, standing before him with downcast face, and eyes that seemed fearing to meet his gaze, while he carefully drew the cloak about her once more.

"I trust, Mistress Dorothy, you will in no wise hold me accountable for this young man's rashness, when the matter shall come to your father's ears, but that you will kindly raise your voice in my behalf to testify how that I was forced for my life's sake to agree."

Master Weeks was already on the black list, owing to his well-known sympathy for the King's cause, and for having remonstrated openly with the patriots of his congregation.

"You have but to keep a close mouth, Master Weeks," said Southorn, as the little man lighted them into the hall; "and the closer, the safer it will be for your own welfare, until such time as one of us shall call upon you to speak."

A few minutes later they were again speeding along, with everything about them as silent as the stars now glittering in an unclouded sky.

The touch of the keen air upon Dorothy's face seemed to arouse her; and as her senses became awakened, she was filled with a wild yearning for the safe shelter of her father's arms.

What would that father say,—how was she ever to tell him of this dreadful thing?

And yet was it sure to be so dreadful to her?

Yes, it must be. This man was the sworn enemy of her country, and of the cause for which her brother and her friends were imperilling their very lives. If she went with him—this Englishman who was now her husband—it meant that her family would brand her as a traitor, and that she would be an outcast from them. It might bring about the death of her father, the light of whose eyes and life she knew herself to be.

She seemed to see once more the beloved face, and hear his voice, warning the pedler to take care of her.

And poor Johnnie Strings—might he not at this moment be dead, stricken down by the followers of this very man who was now holding her so close to his breast, and murmuring fond words between the kisses he pressed upon her lips.

She was beset by a sudden loathing of him and of herself, and pushing away his bended face, she tried to sit more erect.

"Stop!" she cried fiercely. "Don't touch me. I did not mean to give way so. I detest you!"

"Ah, my little rebel,"—and he spoke in no pleased tone,—"have I to fight the battle all over?"

"You have taken an unfair, a dishonorable advantage of me," she said. "I am not used to such manners as you have shown. But I tell you this,—although you have forced me to become your wife, you cannot force my love."

"So it would seem," was his grim answer.

"Where do you purpose taking me?" she demanded, all her wits now well in hand.

"That shall be just as you say, sweet mistress," he replied, so good-naturedly as to surprise her.

"Then take me at once to my father's house," she ordered, with her natural imperiousness.

"So be it," he said. "And that will be on my own way, as it leads to Jameson's."

They rode in silence along the snowy road, whose whiteness and the stars made the only light, until they were within her father's grounds, and partially up the driveway.

Here she bade him let her down; and he dismounted silently and lifted her from the horse, detaining her as she stood alongside him, as in her heart she had hoped he would. And yet had he not done this, she would have gone her way without a word.

"Is there any doubt but that you will get within the house all safe?" he asked anxiously.

"None." She lifted her face, and he wished there were a better light with which to see her.

"And now," he said, "what is your will that I do?"

Dorothy answered quickly and with angry decision.

"Go away and leave me," she exclaimed, "and never speak to me again!"

She could not see the look of pain come to his face. But he still lingered beside her, and asked again, "And you are certain to get within the house, and that you fear naught?"

"I fear nothing!" she said impatiently.

"Aye,—I should have cause to know better than ask such a question," he declared, in a voice that sounded as if now he might be smiling. Then he asked, "And you mean it,—that I leave you, and keep away?"

"Yes, yes; let me go." And she sought to escape from his grasp.

But he held her firmly, and still closer.

"Do you realize, sweet mistress, that you are my wife,—my own little wife?"

She did not reply; and bending his head nearer, he exclaimed passionately: "My own wife you are, and no man can change that,—never, never! And now, having gained you, I am content to await your pleasure. My lips shall be sealed until you choose to open them; and until you send for me, sweet mistress of my heart, I shall not come nigh you. Only, I pray you, in God's name, not to let the time be far away."

"Let me go," was all she could say, dismayed as she was by the weight of sorrow that had come to her, and threatened those whom she loved.

He released her without another word, and she fled swiftly to the house.

Having awakened Tyntie by tossing some bits of ice against her window, she soon gained entrance, and quieted the wonder of the faithful servant by telling her that there had been a street fight, and a gentleman had brought her home on his horse.

Despite the terrible struggle going on in her childish heart, Dorothy kept up bravely until alone in her own room, whose very familiarity seemed almost a shock to her, for all that had been crowded into these few hours made it as though weeks had passed since she arrayed herself for her brother's wedding,—little dreaming that it was for her own as well.

And such a wedding! How was it that the young Britisher had dared to do such a thing? How was it that she had come to sign the register so meekly? How could she ever dare tell of it? And if she did so, might not her revelation bring harm to him?

Such were the questions that chased one another through her mind, only to return again and again with renewed importunity.

She had told him to go, and yet—she loved him truly. And could she be loyal to her father's cause with such a love battling in her heart?

With thoughts like these the few remaining hours of the night wore away, bringing to her but snatches of fitful sleep.

Johnnie Strings appeared at the Devereux farm early the following morning. The red of his face was almost pale, and he was haggard and wild-eyed, with one of his arms in a sling.

He came to report to John Devereux the happenings of the night before, and to consult with him as to the best way of imparting to his father the news of Dorothy's disappearance.

The newly wedded pair had already been told by Tyntie of the girl's presence in the house; and Jack now hastened to assure the almost distracted pedler of her safety, adding that they had thought it best to leave her sleeping undisturbed until she should be ready to come down and join them.

When Johnnie Strings heard this, he collapsed into a chair.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed, as soon as he could find his voice, "I never was so dead beat out! My broken arm is pretty bad, to be sure, but my feelin's was a danged sight worse when I come to my senses last night. There they had me in fisher Doak's, an' naught could they tell o' Mistress Dorothy, for none had seen her. I went down to Storms's at daybreak, and then over to Horton's, an' she'd been seen at neither place. Comin' by Master Lee's, I first thought to make inquiry there, thinkin', ye know, she might o' flewed to her father. Then, thinks I, 'Hold on, Strings. If she did, then she's safe as safe; an' if she did n't, why, ye may be the death o' the old gentleman.'

"So thinkin', I rode back to Horton's ag'in an' begged 'em—an' Mistress Lettice, who was about plum out o' her head with fright—to keep quiet, an' not risk scarin' your father to death, while I rode out here to see ye an' have a sort o' meetin' over it, to decide what's to be done next an' best. So now, thank the Lord, I find the bird is safe here in the nest where she b'longs, an' I'll hurry back an' tell Mistress Lettice, as I promised to do."

With this he pulled himself up from the chair and started for the door. But the young man stopped him.

"You had better stop here awhile, Strings," he said, "and have something to eat and drink; I can send Leet in to see Aunt Lettice." And Mary adding her persuasions, the worn-out pedler was induced to accept the invitation.

Tyntie soon had a tempting meal spread for him; and having been without food since leaving the Horton house the night before, he was in a condition to do it full justice.

John Devereux sat by while the pedler ate, and drew from him the details of the disturbance.

It had been brought about by a party of the Britishers being requested to depart from a tavern kept by one Garvin, where they were eating and drinking until a late hour. A wrangle ensued, during which one of the dragoons knocked Garvin down, and then the latter's son had retaliated in kind.

At this, some of the other guests—townsmen—had joined in, and a regular fight began, spreading soon from the inn to the street, where, aroused by the noise, others had taken part, although scarcely knowing why, except for the reason that here were some of the hated enemy, and they must be made to retreat.

No one had been killed outright, although several were quite badly hurt.

"The queerest part of it is, sir," said the pedler, having finished his story, "that I've a firm belief 't was none other than David Prentiss who broke my arm for me. Somethin' must o' turned him blind, I should say, for him to see a red coat on me."

"That is the trouble with these street fights, and especially at night,—the men seem to lose all sense of sight and reason. Something has got to be done to make the Governor remove the troops from the Neck." While speaking, John Devereux rose from his chair, and paced up and down the room in angry excitement.

"Aye, very true, sir," Johnnie assented, as he drained the last drop of spirits from his glass. "But however will such a thing be brought about?"

"I don't know," was the impatient reply. "But it must and shall be brought about, if we have to rise up and drive them out by main force, and at the risk of turning our very streets into a battle-ground. And this is the only thing that has kept us from doing it long ago. But their insulting tyranny only grows worse, and they seek deliberately to stir up the people to rash actions; and these, when reported, serve but to hurt the real cause of our revolting, when tidings of them comes to the King's hearing."

"Aye, no doubt," the pedler agreed, as he arose from the table. "Now, if His Majesty could be got to sit down, comfort'ble, like another man might, an' listen to all we could tell him, he might agree to let us have what we want, an' what is only fair we should have, an' no fightin' need be done o'er the matter. The trouble is in this everlastin' lot o' lyin', gabblin' poll-parrots that he puts atwixt himself an' us, to tell him what the people do an' don't say an' do. An' to the poll-parrots he listens, and, listenin', b'lieves. So, for one, I should say the quicker we fight it out—whether it be in our streets or up to Boston—"

Mary now came into the room looking very grave; and her husband, paying no further attention to the pedler, asked anxiously, "What is amiss, sweet wife?"

She tried to speak quietly, but the tremor in her voice told of alarm.

"Dorothy is awake," she said, "and I think you had best see her at once. She seems ill."

They left the room together and were soon standing at the girl's bed,—one on either side, looking down at the restlessly moving head.

The big eyes stared at Jack for an instant with evident recognition. Then a vacant look came into them, and she laughed in a way to fill him with apprehension.

A moment more, and she began to mutter—something about Hugh Knollys falling into the water, and how dark and cool it was, and that she wanted to go into it, for she was hot,—so hot.

"She is out of her head," Mary whispered; "and this is the way she went on, to me, before I called you."

Her husband looked again at the unquiet little figure, and reached down to take the small hand wandering about the coverlid; but she snatched it from his clasp.

"Go away,—go far away!" she cried. "I told you to go, and I meant it. Oh, yes,—I did mean it. I am only crying because I hate you,—never think it is for anything else. I hate you because your coat is red,—red, like the ruby ring you forced on my finger whether I would or no. And even the ring did not want to stay, for it knew me better than you did. It was so big that you had to hold it on; and now I've put it away safe,—safe, where no one will ever see, ever know. But it is red, and red means cruelty; and that is what this war is to be."

The babbling died away in a moan; but before Jack or his wife could speak, Dorothy began again, now in a stronger voice than before.

"Moll said it must bring sorrow,—sorrow. And yet she said I wound him like a silken thread around my finger. Ah, that winds tight, although the ring was loose. And the thread Moll spoke of means love, but the ring means—But no, I must not tell, never, never, for it would kill my father. Father, I want you,—where are you?"

This came in a loud cry, and she sank back sobbing, on the pillows,—for she had struggled partially to her elbow, where Jack held her so that she could rise no farther.

"Mary, what is to be done?" asked the young man helplessly, anxiety and fear having for the moment deprived him of his usual promptness and decision.

"Don't you think we had best send for your father and Aunt Lettice?" Mary said in her calm way, although the tears were running down her cheeks. "And the doctor must be called at once."

"Leet has already gone into the town to tell them that Dot is here. But I will have Trent put the horses into the sleigh, and he and I will hasten in at once and fetch them all back, and the doctor as well, unless he can come out ahead of us. You will stop right here beside her, won't you, sweetheart?" he added anxiously, as he turned to leave the room.

"Why, of course I will." And Mary looked at her husband a little reproachfully.

"And you do not mind being left alone?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder, while his hand gripped the open door in a way that told of the tension upon him.

She shook her head, smiling at him through her tears.

Jack had no sooner gone than the faithful Tyntie came to see if she were needed. But Mary sent her away with the assurance that she herself could do all that was to be done at present.

The ravings of the sick girl troubled her; and she deemed it prudent that no other ear should hear words she felt might have a hidden meaning.

Dorothy still rambled on about the ruby ring and scarlet coat. Once the name of Master Weeks fell from her lips, coupled with wild lamentations that she had ever signed the register, and so risked the breaking of her father's heart.

After a little time—Dorothy having become quiet—Mary stood looking out of the window, her eyes resting on the glittering fields that spread away to the gray line of the ocean, where the cold waves were curling in with glassy backs, and foam-ridged edges as white as the snow they seemed to seek upon the land.

She had been watching the gulls circling about with shrill screams or hanging poised over the water, when a low call caused her to start.

She turned at once, to see Dorothy sitting up and looking intently at her, while she seemed to fumble under the pillow for something.

"What is it, dear?" Mary asked, hastening to the side of the bed.

Dorothy drew from beneath the pillow a heavy ring of yellow gold, with a great ruby imbedded in it, like a drop of glowing wine.

"There it is," she whispered, putting the ring into Mary's hand. "It is his ring,—only he gave it to me. Hide it,—hide it, Mary. Never let any one see—any one know. I want to tell you all about it, but I am so tired now, so tired, and—" The girl fell back with closed eyes, and in a moment she appeared to be asleep.

After standing a few minutes with her eyes fixed upon the unconscious face, Mary opened her hand and looked at the ring.

It was a man's ring, and one she recalled at once as having seen before.

It had been upon the shapely brown hand lifted to remove the hat from a young man's head, that summer day, at the Sachem's Cave.

There came to her a sudden rush of misgiving, as she asked herself the meaning of it all. What had this hated Britisher's ring to do with Dorothy's illness and with her ravings? What was all this about Master Weeks, and signing the register?

She determined to tell her husband of what she had heard and seen, and let his judgment decide what was to be done.

And yet when he returned, and with him his father and Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha, all of them sad-faced and alarmed over Dorothy's sudden sickness, something seemed to hold back the words Mary had intended to speak. And so she said nothing to her husband, but hid the ring away, resolved that for the present, at least, she would hold her own counsel.

After all—so she tried to reason—it might be nothing more than that the young Britisher had given Dorothy the ring.

And yet that the girl should accept such a gift from him surprised and grieved her, knowing as she did that had there been any lovemaking between the two, it would surely bring greater trouble than she dared now to consider.

Mary was one who always shrank from doing aught to cause discord; and so, albeit with a mind filled with anxiety, she decided to keep silence.

Dorothy's ailment proved to be an attack of brain fever, and it was many weeks before she recovered. And when she was pronounced well again, she went about the old house, such a pale-faced, listless shadow of her former self that her brother watched her with troubled eyes, while her father was well-nigh beside himself with anxiety.

But as often as they spoke to her of their misgivings she answered that she was entirely well, and would soon be quite as before.

She appeared to have forgotten about the ring, and Mary waited for her to mention it, wondering after a time that she did not.

At last, late in January, the hated soldiers were ordered away from the Neck; and great was the rejoicing amongst the townspeople, whose open demonstrations evinced their delight at being freed from the petty tyranny of their unwelcome visitors.

It was John Devereux who brought the news, as the other members of the family sat late one afternoon about the big fireplace in the drawing-room.

Aunt Lettice and Mary were busy with some matter of sewing, and 'Bitha, with an unusually grave face, was seated between them on a low stool. A half-finished sampler was on her knee, and the firelight quivered along the bright needle resting where she had left off when it became too dark for her to work.

Dorothy was at the spinet, drawing low music from the keys, and playing as if her thoughts were far away.

Her father had just come from out of doors, and now sat in his big armchair, with his hands near the blaze, for the cold had increased with the setting of the sun.

It had gone down half an hour before, leaving a great crimson gash in the western sky, above which ran a bank of smoky gray clouds, where the evening star was beginning to blink.

It had been a day of thawing. The sun had started the icy rime to running from the trees and shrubs, and melted the snow upon the roofs, while the white covering of the land was burned away here and there, until it seemed to be out at knees and elbows, where showed the brown and dirty green of the soil.

But an intense cold had come with the darkness, turning the melted snow to crystal, and hanging glittering pendants from everything.

"I wish Cousin Dot was all well, the way she used to be," sighed small 'Bitha, sitting with her rosy face so rumpled by the pressure of the little supporting palms as to remind one of the cherubs seen upon ancient tombstones.

She spoke in a voice too low for any one to hear save those nearest her; and Mary gave a warning "Hush," as she glanced at the abstracted face of her father-in-law, who was gazing intently at the flames leaping from the logs.

"She 'll not hear what I say," the child went on, now with a touch of impatience. "She often does n't hear me when I speak to her. Many times I ask her something over and over again, when she is looking straight at me; and then she will act as if she'd been asleep, and ask me what I've been saying."

"Your cousin was very ill, you must remember, 'Bitha," her grandame explained; "and it takes her a long time to recover, and be like herself again."

But the child shook her blonde head with an air of profound wisdom.

"I think it is only that bad medicine of Dr. Paine's," she said. "When I am ill, I shall ask Tyntie to fetch me a medicine man, such as the Indians have. I should like to see him dance and beat his drum."

"I should think we have had enough of the sound of beating drums, 'Bitha," replied Mary, speaking so sharply as to arouse her father-in-law into looking toward her.

Here John Devereux, just returned from the town, came in and announced the withdrawal of the British soldiers from the town and Neck.

"When will they go?" his wife asked eagerly.

"A shipload of them has already sailed,—it left the harbor before sunset; and some of the dragoons are about starting. It did my heart good to see the red-backs taking the road to Salem. We are well quit of them; and when they are gone we can easily manage all the ships they send into the harbor to annoy us or spy upon us."

He laughed with a mingling of indignation and contempt; but his manner changed quickly as he glanced toward his sister.

"Dot!" he cried, "what is it, child?" And he sprang to her.

She had turned about when he came into the room, and was now lying back against the spinet, her head on the music-rack,—lying there speechless, motionless; for the girl—and for the first time in her life—had fainted.