As the door opened Tahmeroo darted forward exclaiming, “My husband—Walter.”
“How! you want a poor dress, stained by water and faded by the sun; is that it?”
“Exactly; but this toggery can never be brought into the right condition.”
“Look; will this do?”
Tahmeroo untied a little bundle which she had carried under her shawl, and displayed the dress Mary Derwent had given her, worn and faded by a long journey on horseback; and which, notwithstanding the missionary’s advice to the contrary, she had exchanged for her own more brilliant costume, before visiting her husband.
“Do! it is just the thing. Put it up—put it up, before the jailer comes in. Now listen—thank Heaven, you can read. In this paper you will find the name of a family with which they intend to confine me. The people excused themselves from taking me to-day from want of help. Servants are not easily got in Albany these times—do you comprehend?”
“Yes,” answered Tahmeroo, taking up his thoughts quick as lightning. “I am to put on this dress, comb back my hair, look like a white girl used to work, and be a servant to these people. Then, then—some night, after all are asleep, I must watch the sentinel, give him firewater, or take the flint from his gun, and then away for the forest.”
“My brave, bright girl!”
Tahmeroo went on: