It was an entirely reasonable prediction, but its fulfilment was to be almost unaccountably postponed. When its hour arrived, at last, nearly two years later, New London was in ashes and Fort Griswold was a slaughter-pen.
"Mother," said Guert, on his return to the house from one of his visits to the Noank. "I wish you could go with us to the West Indies, the Antilles. Think of it! Summer all the while!"
"But no oranges, or lemons, or pineapples just now," she said laughingly. "I mean to go, some day. Perhaps you will take me in your own ship."
"Any ship of mine will be your ship," he said. "I wish I had some money to leave with you, now. It's awful to think of your being poor."
"Our New York farm will be of no use to us," she said, "until the king's troops leave the island. I shall be very comfortable here, though, except that I shall all the while be waiting for you to come home again."
Very brave was she, under her somewhat difficult circumstances. All the New London people were kind, especially the Averys, but she expected to be poor in purse for some time to come. As to that, however, she had a surprise in store. That very evening, after dark, Up-na-tan lingered in the kitchen.
"Chief see ole woman," he said. "See nobody but Guert mother."
No sooner were they alone than he pulled from under his captured military cloak a small purse, and handed it to her.
"No Kidd money," he said. "Lobster money. Pay ole woman for King George take farm."
She hesitated a moment, and then she exclaimed:—