"It was worth half a man's life! It gave us a country. And there hath a friend of thine come up with me, a brave young fellow—one Gilbert Vane."
"Oh!" was all she answered.
Then the horse came, giving a joyful whinny as he felt the fresh air, and Andrew Henry went out into the night as if a beautiful vision were guiding him. Was it Primrose in all that strange, sweet glory?
He had ridden fast and far many a time. Up by the river here, under this stretch of woods, then a great level of meadows, here and there a tiny light gleaming in a house, hills, a valley, then more woods, and he drew a long breath.
Someone came to meet him. He took his mother in his arms and kissed her, but neither spoke, for the rapture was beyond words.
There was a candle burning on each end of the high mantelshelf. There was Friend Browne, bent and white-haired, who looked sourly at the soldier trappings and gave him a nerveless hand. There was Friend Preston. On the cot lay the tall, wasted frame of James Henry, as if already prepared for sepulture, so straight and still and composed. His mother took her seat at the foot of the bed. Andrew knelt down and prayed.
It was in the gray of the dawning when James Henry stirred and opened his eyes wide. They seemed at first fixed on vacancy, then they moved slowly around.
"Andrew, my son, my only son," and he stretched out his hands. "Tell Primrose—tell her to burn the ungodly thing. I am glad thou hast come. Now I shall get strong and well. I was waiting for thee."
Andrew Henry held his father's hand. It was very cool, and the pulse was gone. That was the end of life, of what might have been love.
Rachel met her cousin in the morning with a strange gleam of fear in her eyes. He was very gentle. After breakfast he had to go into town and report, and get leave of absence, and inform some of the friends, Madam Wetherill among the rest.