“No,” returned Stephen quietly, “he was a man trying to do good according to his own lights and he spoke with shrewd good sense, although perchance he knew it not. Such a person as Master Simon, who dared to stand against narrow public opinion when he knew himself to be right, who taught his children and his grandchildren to do the same, did he run so little risk of bringing danger upon himself and upon that which he left behind him? Master Simon loved freedom and justice, so do all of us who are of his blood, so do the children of those bold Puritans who lighted the fire of a new liberty upon our shores. It is that same fire, my child, that has burned through four generations, and has spread over our whole land. If, upon its way, it has scorched our hearts, and has robbed us of what we loved, let us not cry out, but rather blow the bellows and keep the flame bright so that our sacrifice may not be in vain.”
Clotilde pondered his answer long and found it both wise and comforting.
Meanwhile the slow siege of Boston dragged on, and people began to say that the war would be begun and ended in a contest between General Howe and General Washington as to which one could wait the more patiently. News leaked out that supplies were becoming woefully few in the city, now that Washington had drawn his lines more firmly and no more bands of marauding redcoats had been able to break through. As the cold weather came on, the activity of the busy housewives was redoubled in the effort to keep well supplied the shivering soldiers of the Continental Army. Clotilde stood at her spinning-wheel, or sat all day at the loom that had been left in Samuel Skerry’s workshop ever since the time of the bold Puritan weaver who had built the house. Here she laboured from dawn to dark, while Stephen, when he was not writing in his own tiny room, would sit near her in the big armchair, sometimes reading to her to make the toilsome hours pass more quickly. He himself was very busy in these days, however, for many a messenger clattered up to the door, and many important documents went in and out of the little house or were locked away in the cupboard where Skerry had hidden his gold. Stephen had had the little windows protected with iron crossbars and heavy locks put upon both the doors, so that no pilfering fingers should break in to steal the state secrets of the new country. There were many important meetings in the room upstairs, while Clotilde sat alone below, whirring her busy wheel, looking out through the little barred windows at the falling snow, and dreaming of Master Simon’s garden when it was green and fair. Now and then a scribbled letter from Miles would reach her, but as the boy was sparing of written words, he gave her little news of himself. The first real tidings of him she received when David Thurston brought a letter for Stephen and stayed to consume, with great delight, one of Mother Jeanne’s hot mutton pies.
“You can tell Master Sheffield when he comes in,” he said, for Stephen was out and did not return while the man was there, “that David Thurston has taken his advice and is doing his own part as a fighting man instead of sitting by the fire telling of what he would do were he King George. It is sometimes a weary and a hungry task, this siege of Boston, but all of the Hopewell lads are doing their share bravely. Our young Miles Atherton is a Captain now: heard you of the deed he did just before Christmas?”
“No,” exclaimed Clotilde. “What was it?”
“He is, indeed, a wonder of daring,” Thurston answered, “for he ventured into Boston in a huckster’s garb and brought forth his cousin, Betsey Anne Temple, and her daughter. Lone women they were, the older one ill, and both suffering much from the hardships of the siege. Miles has leave to visit Hopewell soon, so he will perhaps tell you the tale of his adventure himself, but, being so modest, he will not let you see how bold a stroke it was.”
After the man had gone, Clotilde stood dreaming beside her wheel, forgetting to wind the spindle or take up another roll of wool. She was proud of brave Miles, proud that he should risk himself on such a chivalrous errand, and a little envious still that he should do such things and she must bide at home. She longed to see him and tell him how well she thought he had done. It was not until she heard Stephen’s slow footstep on the path outside that she remembered herself and her task, and fell to whirling her wheel around as swiftly as though it had wings.
Some days later she heard the story from Miles himself, who came whistling up the path to knock at the door of Master Sheffield’s new abode. Stephen, sitting in the big armchair, rose to greet him cordially and bade him take his place on the settle on the opposite side of the fire. Clotilde was just coming in from the kitchen as Stephen was saying:
“These are brave accounts that we hear of you and your gallant rescue of your Cousin Betsey Anne. We are all proud of you, lad.”
The girl could not, at that moment, see Miles’ face, but she noticed that his ears turned suddenly the colour of flame and she heard him mutter,