“All right,” said Uncle Pete, and off he went to get the ladder. But quick Martha checked him, saying: “Why, father, the sign-board is all right for Britishers.”
“Oh! so it is,” ejaculated Uncle Pete; then, with a grin: “The fact is, child, I’m so used to turning it round and round—first to King George, then to George Washington, then back again to King George—that I’m afraid some day I’ll make a mistake, and I’ve half a mind to give you charge of it.”
“If you do I’ll either nail the sign fast to the house, or else take it away entirely,” answered Martha.
Her parent was still laughing at this innocent, unbusiness-like speech when the British dragoons arrived, and at their head was Harry Valentine.
Harry was a very different looking man from Elisha Williams: not only was he clad in a brilliant scarlet uniform, but he had more refined features and courtly manners, which seemed to confirm the view that Martha’s father held—namely, that the most genteel people were Tories. And now, while Harry clasped the hand of his sweetheart, the latter forgot altogether Elisha’s freckled but honest face, his sandy hair and homespun coat, with naught to distinguish him from an ordinary citizen save a black cockade and eagle feather in his hat, and she thought to herself: “Was there ever such a magnificent wig as my Harry’s! ’Tis powdered to perfection! Dear, darling boy!”
“Ah! there is the magnolia I gave you,” said Harry, smiling, as they entered the little sitting-room, where Martha passed most of her time when not engaged in the kitchen.
“How fresh it looks! Yet ’tis a good while since I brought it.”
“An age,” returned Martha, eying him fondly.
“And what pretty flowers those are yonder!” he continued, looking toward the other end of the mantel-piece.
“None could be prettier,” said Martha in a quiet voice, yet she felt the blood stealing over her cheeks.