The chamber which the lads entered was graced with two small, inexpensive pictures of a religious character, a pretty rug covered most of the floor, the walls were tastefully papered and there were several chairs, to say nothing of the mirror, stand and other conveniences.
Not only was the broad bed with its snowy counterpane and downy pillows roomy enough for two, but a wide cot had been placed on the other side of the neat little room for whoever chose to sleep upon it.
That which caught the eye of the three was a musket leaning in the far corner. Chester stepped across, and asking permission of Mrs. Friestone, picked it up and brought it over to where the light was stronger. He saw it was a Springfield rifle, but the lock and base of the barrel were torn into gaping rents.
“I suppose this belonged to the captain,” said Chester inquiringly. The widow nodded her head.
“And it did good service—that is certain,” added Chester, with his companions beside him scrutinizing the weapon. “But it seems to have been injured.”
She smiled faintly.
“Carter brought it home from the war, declaring it was better than when new. He put a double charge in one Fourth of July morning, forgetting that the weapon was much worn from many previous firings. It exploded at the lock and came very near killing him. But,” she added, with a sigh, “it is very precious to me.”
“I am sure of that,” said Chester as he reverently carried the gun back to the corner.
The good woman kissed each lad on the forehead. When she thus saluted Mike, who was the last, she placed her thin hand on his head, and said with infinite tenderness:
“I thank you for what you did to-night.”