"Boston! That has been a journey, indeed. Surely my son did not allow you to travel in his company through Massachusetts?"
"Nick go alone. Two path; one for major; one for Tuscarora. Nick got dere first."
"That I can believe, if you were in earnest. Were you not questioned by the way?"
"Yes. Tell 'em I'm Stockbridge--pale-face know no better. T'ink he fox; more like wood-chuck."
"Thank you, Nick, for the compliment. Had my son reached Boston before you came away?"
"Here he be"--answered the Indian, producing another missive, from the folds of his calico shirt.
The captain received the note which he read with extreme gravity, and some surprise.
"This is in Bob's handwriting," he said, "and is dated 'Boston, June 18th, 1775;' but it is without signature, and is not only Bob, but Bob Short."
"Read, dear Willoughby," exclaimed the anxious mother. "News from him, concerns us all."
"News, Wilhelmina!--They may call this news in Boston, but one is very little the better for it at the Hutted Knoll. However, such as it is, there is no reason for keeping it a secret, while there is one reason, at least, why it should be known. This is all. 'My dearest sir--Thank God I am unharmed; but we have had much to make us reflect; you know what duty requires--my best and endless love to my mother, and Beulah--and dear, laughing, capricious, pretty Maud. Nick was present, and can tell you all. I do not think he will extenuate, or aught set down in malice."' And this without direction, or signature; with nothing, in fact, but place and date. What say you to all this, Nick?"