Lettice observed him more closely; then she gave an exclamation of surprise. “Why Aunt Hagar, it is Pat—poor Patrick Flynn!”
“Is dat so? I says, ‘whar I see him befo?’ Dat jes’ who.”
“But how did he get here?”
“I jes’ drug him along. I right spry yit, an’ I git him a little way an’ den drap him an’ git mah bref twel I gits him to de boat. I say ef he a fren’, I boun’ to cyo’ him up, an’ ef he a Britisher—what yuh reckon I do, Miss Letty?”
“I don’t know. Don’t let us talk of that. It would be hard to decide. As it is, I am very glad it is poor Patrick. He should be taken at once to Aunt Martha’s—but no, he probably escaped from some British ship, and was shot while trying to get away. We shall have to keep him in hiding till he gets well.”
“Das what I say, an’ dat why I ast yuh come look at him. I say Miss Letty so sma’t she know ef he a Britisher, fo’ all dem clo’es he w’ars.”
“I hope he will get well,” said Lettice. “What a joy it will be to his mother if he does. It is just as well that she should not know that he is here, for if he should not recover, she would have the double grief of losing him. Take good care of him, Aunt Hagar, and I will send over some things for him from the house. I will tell Sister Betty. Perhaps she will insist on having him removed to our house, although I really think he is much safer here;” a wise decision, as was proved true before the week was out.
It was late one rainy evening that Rhoda and Lettice were sitting in the open doorway, listening to the patter of the rain on the leaves. “I feel very dreary, and full of forebodings,” said Lettice. “I suppose it is because the autumn is so near. I always hate to see the summer go, and I believe that somehow Aunt Hagar has scared me into thinking something dreadful is going to happen.”
“Something dreadful is happening all the time,” Rhoda answered. “I certainly think that an ignorant old woman’s vagaries have nothing to do with it. I am not so superstitious.”
“Then you are not a descendant of a Salem witch,” returned Lettice, laughing.