Don had the breath almost crushed from his body, and the little prepared speech of greeting that he had had all ready seemed to have fled from his memory. “Aunt Martha,” he gasped. “I didn’t know—you were so—so strong!”
“Now,” said his aunt, releasing him at last, “tell me everything, Donald,—everything!”
Hungry as Don was, he made no mention of food but sat down in the low white rocker beside the window and began with the thing that was most vivid in his mind—the skirmish at Concord.
And all the while that he talked, Aunt Martha sat pale and rigid in the chair beside him. Only once were her eyes moist, and that was when Don gave her the last of his uncle’s three messages; but she said nothing and merely nodded for him to continue.
“Well, I guess that’s all,” said Don at last. “You know, Aunt Martha, I’d have been home long ago except for my ankle.”
“I know, Donald; and I’m thankful, I hope. It might have been worse. And now let me get you something to eat. Oh, Donald, you’ll never know how glad I am to have you with me again.”
It was a long while before Aunt Martha ceased to ask questions; and then it was Don’s turn. A great change, he learned, had come over the town even in the few days that he had been away from it. It was in a state of siege, cut off from the outside world, and food was scarce among the poor. There were suffering and distress; many persons, like Aunt Martha, had relatives and friends in the Continental army and thought with dread and apprehension of what might happen if the besiegers should attack.
“I don’t know what’s to become of us, truly I don’t,” said Aunt Martha. “With your uncle and Glen with the army, it’s most too much to bear. Fortunately, though, we shall not lack for food; the store’s well stocked.”
“And that stuff in the cellar, is it still there?” asked Don.
“Yes, and it’s likely to remain.”