“Who is he, Jack?”
“O, a soldier-boy from one of the New England colonies. He’s got a brother with him—that’s good.”
The drive home, over the crisp snow, was a very silent one. More than one tear froze on Mrs. Blackstone’s cheek, as she remembered the misery her eyes had beheld, and her hands could do so little to lighten.
The next day Mr. Blackstone reached home from Philadelphia. He had seen the Britons in 164 all the glory and pomp of plenty and red regimentals in a prosperous city. He returned a confirmed Tory, and wished—never mind what he did wish, since his unkind wish never came to pass—but this is that which he did, he forbade Mrs. Blackstone to give anything that belonged to him to a soldier of General Washington’s army.
“What will you do now, mamma, with all the stockings and mittens you are knitting?” questioned Becca.
“Don’t ask me, child,” was the tearful answer that mother made, for her whole heart was with her countrymen in their brave struggle.
Three nights after that time Mr. Blackstone entered his house, saying:
“I caught a ragged, bare-footed tatterdemalion hanging around, and I warned him off; told him he’d better go home, if he’d got one anywhere, and if not to join the army, of his king at Philadelphia.”
“What did he say, pa?” asked Jack.
“O some tomfoolery or other about the man having nothing to eat but hay for two days, and his brother dying over at the Forge. I didn’t stop to listen to the fellow, but sent him flying.”