“They hunted through the garret well,” said Betty, “but there was so much piled up this side that they never dreamed there could be any one beyond. I had forgotten the place myself, though William has often told me how you boys used to hide there and make a playroom of that end of the garret.”
“Jamie had suggested it as a good place, and told me I would find it just the same, so I concealed myself till, through the chinks, I saw the rascals go off, and then as Jamie had not come, I was seized with a mighty fear for him, and could not stay. It will be sad news for our father.”
“Yes; but there will be good news for him, too,” Lettice tried to comfort him by saying. “We have you again.”
A little later, with a quiet good-by to her brother, she parted from him and made ready for her own departure. Lutie, her unwilling helper, dawdled so persistently over the packing that Lettice at last spoke up sharply. “We’ll never get ready at this rate. I’ll leave you here to be gobbled up by the British if you don’t move faster, Lutie.” But this threat did not seem to have the desired effect, for, though Lutie hung her head, she looked more cheerful, and Lettice, bending down, regarded her searchingly. “I believe you want to stay,” she said severely. “I believe you want to desert your mistress, Lutie.”
Lutie’s head hung still lower. “No, ma’am, Miss Letty, ’deed I doesn’t; but I wisht yuh wa’nt gwine.”
“Why? You are so scared of Cockburn and his men, and yet, now there is danger, you don’t want to leave. Ah, I see; it is Jubal. And what does Jubal say, pray?”
“He say dey ain’ gwine tech me, but dey gwine run yuh-alls off. An’ he say ef he’d a knowed hit were Mars Torm what runned f’om ’em, he’d foun’ a way ter git him home better’n de way he come.”
“Humph!” Lettice was thoughtful. “Lutie,” she cried suddenly, “I believe it was Jubal who informed on him. It was Jubal who showed those wretches the short way here, and he had caused your dear Marster Jamie’s death. Oh, the wretch! Why did I spare him?”
“’Deed, Miss Letty, he ain’t gwine hu’t a hair o’ yo’ haid; Jubal ain’. He turr’ble bad over losin’ Mars Jeems; he weep, an’ mo’n, an’ go on; ’deed he do, Miss Letty. He sutt’nly fon’ o’ Mars Jeems. Ev’ybody love him, Miss Letty, an’ Jubal nuvver do him no ha’m, please, Miss Letty.”
“Hush, let me think.” She sat with her cheek pensively resting in her hand, thinking deeply. All at once there was heard a clatter below. “Hark!” she cried, starting up. “See what that is, Lutie.”