"I know that name well," said she. "I have heard my brother speak of a young Mr. Frothingham who was employed with him. He was at Mr. Wyeth's, the merchant's."
"Ah, indeed!" was the answer.
The young soldier drew forth a bag of gold. As he did so the light from the fireplace shone clearly upon his left hand. Across the back of it ran a scar.
"Eugene," said the woman, turning to the boy, "make haste to the stable and put the saddle on the colt. 'Tis all we have left, sir, but you are welcome. When you reach Morristown you may be able to send him back again. Perhaps you know my husband. My name is Ralston, and my brother's name is Samuel Thomas. You must remember him. My son was killed on Long Island. Were you there?"
"No, madam," was the thoughtful answer; "I was not."
The woman left the room, and the young man gazed into the fire.
He had had no idea of the devotion of these people to this cause. In far-away England he had suspected nothing of the intensity of feeling or the self-sacrifice and patriotism that animated the country.
A qualm of misgiving came over him. Was it not rather an uncomfortable part to play—taking his brother's place, as it were, and accepting the help and hospitality of these brave folk, who would give "their all," as the woman had said, for what they considered their rights and liberties! A feeling akin to pride had swept over him when the woman had spoken of his brother George; it could have been no other.
He struck his knee a blow with his closed fist.