every door in hopewell flew open wide to offer shelter to master sheffield now that he was homeless, but it was samuel skerry’s little cottage that, in the end, became his abode. it had been rebuilt three years before, for use when the great house was over-filled with guests, and it was now warm, cosy and comfortable, although a trifle narrow in its limits.

“a man had best abide under his own roof,” stephen had said when mother jeanne pointed out to him the discomforts of living through the winter in so small a place. so there they dwelt, stephen, clotilde, mère jeanne and black jason, while the other servants were lodged in the village.

little by little, they learned the story of how the house and garden had been destroyed. it was plain that the soldiers had acted upon well-understood orders for they had stopped but a few moments, had given no time to robbery or pillage but, once convinced that stephen was not there, had set fire to the house and stayed only to see that it was well ablaze. they had seemed to know, also, that the garden was the love and pride of its owner, for they had piled straw among the flowerbeds and about the hedges and trees, had laid the torch to this inflammable fuel and then had marched on again, leaving the whole place a mass of drifting smoke and evil, licking flames. only the memory of stephen’s stern command as he drove through the town had kept the people of hopewell from falling upon the destroyers and giving them battle there in the streets.

“as it was, we could only turn our energy to the saving of your gear,” said one of the narrators, a lean old man who lived, in abject poverty, at the outskirts of the village and who, by stephen’s charity alone, was kept from starving. “we rescued what we could, and with a right good will, but we would rather have been dealing out death to those rascally heathen-speaking soldiers of king george.”

“and if you had,” commented stephen, “there would have been fifty houses burned instead of one, and many a goodwife to-day mourning the loss of her husband or her son, rather than one man grieving for his house and garden.”

“i came so quickly when i saw the smoke,” resumed the old fellow, “that not all of the soldiers were yet gone. one company, it seemed, had marched behind the rest and only came up when the house was all ablaze. the young officer who led them seemed sorely angered at what the hessians had done; i heard him say hotly to his superior in command,

“‘such wanton destruction is a sin and a shame, sir.’

“i verily believe he would have set his own men to putting out the fire had they not been commanded to go forward at once. i was made bold by seeing that there was one kind heart amongst them and called after, ‘never fear, sir, we will care for our good master’s property,’ and he turned and waved his hat to me as he galloped away. i went up to look at the prisoners when they were marched into hopewell next day, but he was not with them. i thank heaven that he was the single one that escaped.”

“you did well,” said stephen. “i hear from all sides how much you and your comrades saved.”

“there is not a house in hopewell,” replied the man, “that has not within it somewhat that belongs to you, linen, portraits, silver—all that we could carry we bore away. i sought to save your great bible which lay just inside the door, but it was all in flames when i seized it. i had only a glimpse of an open page and upon it a black figure with outstretched arms, and then the whole crumbled to ashes.”

“so there is a fitting end to jeremiah macrae,” said stephen, “one that would have pleased the old puritans most mightily. now we need never again think of that evil prophecy of his.”

“i saved something further,” went on the man, “for at my house i have—”

“hush,” whispered stephen, as clotilde came up the path toward the cottage door, her head drooping, her eyes upon the ground. “we will talk of that matter no more. the little maid grieves so sorely over the loss of the house and garden that i like not to speak of it before her. what you have you must keep for a space, since here we have no room for aught beside our immediate needs. so do you guard my rescued property until i ask for it.”

so the old man went away, shaking his head sadly over the listless greeting that clotilde bestowed upon him when they met at the door. it was true indeed that she thought of little else but master sheffield’s loss and grieved so, that all the people of hopewell who knew and loved her looked after her in despair when she passed by.

“the maid is fair sick with her sorrow,” they said to each other. “one would think she were of master simon’s own blood, so stricken is she.”

although clotilde was not of master simon’s race and kindred, she loved his memory as dearly as though she were. there was not one story of the staunch old puritan and his brave children and grandchildren that she had not heard stephen tell a dozen times. and now to see perish that precious work of master simon’s own hands, the garden that had bloomed through four generations—it was seemingly a greater grief than she could bear. gone was the bed of blazing tulips that every year renewed the memory of that first coming of the indian ambassadors, gone were the rows of herbs that had soothed and healed so many ills, burned to a few blackened twigs was the huge hawthorn bush that master simon had grown from a tiny slip brought from england. roses, hollyhocks, lilies, fair maids of france, all had their stories and all were dead. more than once clotilde had slipped out, in the dusk of the autumn twilight, laid her cheek against the charred bark of the linden tree and sobbed out her grief alone.

“it was all the fault of that wicked scotch minister,” she burst out one day to stephen. “that his prophecy has been fulfilled and the garden destroyed and even his likeness burned, makes me think that he was, as people used to say, in league with the devil!”

“no,” returned stephen quietly, “he was a man trying to do good according to his own lights and he spoke with shrewd good sense, although perchance he knew it not. such a person as master simon, who dared to stand against narrow public opinion when he knew himself to be right, who taught his children and his grandchildren to do the same, did he run so little risk of bringing danger upon himself and upon that which he left behind him? master simon loved freedom and justice, so do all of us who are of his blood, so do the children of those bold puritans who lighted the fire of a new liberty upon our shores. it is that same fire, my child, that has burned through four generations, and has spread over our whole land. if, upon its way, it has scorched our hearts, and has robbed us of what we loved, let us not cry out, but rather blow the bellows and keep the flame bright so that our sacrifice may not be in vain.”

clotilde pondered his answer long and found it both wise and comforting.

meanwhile the slow siege of boston dragged on, and people began to say that the war would be begun and ended in a contest between general howe and general washington as to which one could wait the more patiently. news leaked out that supplies were becoming woefully few in the city, now that washington had drawn his lines more firmly and no more bands of marauding redcoats had been able to break through. as the cold weather came on, the activity of the busy housewives was redoubled in the effort to keep well supplied the shivering soldiers of the continental army. clotilde stood at her spinning-wheel, or sat all day at the loom that had been left in samuel skerry’s workshop ever since the time of the bold puritan weaver who had built the house. here she laboured from dawn to dark, while stephen, when he was not writing in his own tiny room, would sit near her in the big armchair, sometimes reading to her to make the toilsome hours pass more quickly. he himself was very busy in these days, however, for many a messenger clattered up to the door, and many important documents went in and out of the little house or were locked away in the cupboard where skerry had hidden his gold. stephen had had the little windows protected with iron crossbars and heavy locks put upon both the doors, so that no pilfering fingers should break in to steal the state secrets of the new country. there were many important meetings in the room upstairs, while clotilde sat alone below, whirring her busy wheel, looking out through the little barred windows at the falling snow, and dreaming of master simon’s garden when it was green and fair. now and then a scribbled letter from miles would reach her, but as the boy was sparing of written words, he gave her little news of himself. the first real tidings of him she received when david thurston brought a letter for stephen and stayed to consume, with great delight, one of mother jeanne’s hot mutton pies.

“you can tell master sheffield when he comes in,” he said, for stephen was out and did not return while the man was there, “that david thurston has taken his advice and is doing his own part as a fighting man instead of sitting by the fire telling of what he would do were he king george. it is sometimes a weary and a hungry task, this siege of boston, but all of the hopewell lads are doing their share bravely. our young miles atherton is a captain now: heard you of the deed he did just before christmas?”

“no,” exclaimed clotilde. “what was it?”

“he is, indeed, a wonder of daring,” thurston answered, “for he ventured into boston in a huckster’s garb and brought forth his cousin, betsey anne temple, and her daughter. lone women they were, the older one ill, and both suffering much from the hardships of the siege. miles has leave to visit hopewell soon, so he will perhaps tell you the tale of his adventure himself, but, being so modest, he will not let you see how bold a stroke it was.”

after the man had gone, clotilde stood dreaming beside her wheel, forgetting to wind the spindle or take up another roll of wool. she was proud of brave miles, proud that he should risk himself on such a chivalrous errand, and a little envious still that he should do such things and she must bide at home. she longed to see him and tell him how well she thought he had done. it was not until she heard stephen’s slow footstep on the path outside that she remembered herself and her task, and fell to whirling her wheel around as swiftly as though it had wings.

some days later she heard the story from miles himself, who came whistling up the path to knock at the door of master sheffield’s new abode. stephen, sitting in the big armchair, rose to greet him cordially and bade him take his place on the settle on the opposite side of the fire. clotilde was just coming in from the kitchen as stephen was saying:

“these are brave accounts that we hear of you and your gallant rescue of your cousin betsey anne. we are all proud of you, lad.”

the girl could not, at that moment, see miles’ face, but she noticed that his ears turned suddenly the colour of flame and she heard him mutter,

“i would that people did not make so much of so small a thing!”

“nay, but it was no small deed,” insisted stephen, “and the risk was really great, as we all know. there is no hope of success in your effort to make light of what you did, the grateful tongue of your cousin betsey drowns all you can say.”

“it is so,” answered the boy with a sigh. “did you ever know a woman so feeble of body, yet so untiring of speech? i sometimes think it is small wonder that the british were so willing to let her pass.”

“for shame, miles,” laughed clotilde, coming at this moment round the corner of stephen’s great chair. “you do a gallant deed and then seek to spoil it by such ungallant words.”

miles’ face lighted happily as he rose to greet her, but dropped once more into gloom as he sat down again. for a few moments he remained silent, gazing into the fire, and then burst out into hurried and determined speech.

“you cannot know, master sheffield,” he said, “how terrible it is to be praised by all for a deed whose memory brings me only rage and shame. people call me brave when really i have done nothing save to prove that i am the greatest and most blundering fool in general washington’s army. i came hither with the firm determination that you, at least, and clotilde, should know the truth of this adventure, since to you alone i can speak freely. ah, i could beat my head against the wall when i think of what a booby i have been.”

“tell on, boy,” directed stephen, smiling, “but allow us to reserve judgment until we know all.”

he leaned back in his chair, pulling at his long tobacco pipe while clotilde bent forward in hers, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. miles drew a long sigh of relief, and began.

“my mother had spoken and written to me, more than once, of the plight of her cousins who were alone and helpless in boston and in great distress. the british have been allowing the women and the non-combatants to go forth, but held back all the able-bodied men, so these two were free to go but, the mother being ill and the daughter timid, the task of passing the lines alone seemed more than they could undertake. the matter of coming to them looked hopeless for a time, but in the end was simple enough. certain market gardeners, living on the outskirts of boston but within the besieged circle, still sell their wares in the town, and most welcome they are. one of these gardeners is david thurston’s brother, and, although the man himself is with our army, his wife is carrying on the business to keep herself and the children from starving. to this house, therefore, i stole in the night, was given the clothes of the gardener’s boy and, in broad daylight, drove into the town, mounted on a load of turnips and cabbages. faith, soldiers and civilians alike were so glad to see aught that they could eat, that they had no eyes for the lad who brought it.”

“it was something of an undertaking,” commented stephen. “you ran the risk of being arrested as a spy, which is no pleasant fate.”

“i think you dared most nobly,” cried clotilde, her eyes bright with eagerness to hear the rest of the story, “and oh, what fun it must have been to go through the streets crying turnips and cabbages!”

“ay, it was for a time,” said the boy, “and my first mark of stupidity was that i delayed my errand merely to enjoy myself and loitered about far too long, watching the swaggering, red-coated soldiers and the hessians drilling on the common. presently, however, there passed a man in a captain’s uniform who looked at me so long and keenly that i whipped up my horses, turned the nearest corner and drove rattling down the street to cousin betsey’s house.

“the two women were so overjoyed and so astonished at seeing me that, for a space, i thought they would never let themselves be rescued, so busy were they weeping for gladness that i had come and for terror lest i should not get safely away again. but at last, when it began to grow dark, we made the sick woman comfortable on a mattress in the wagon, packed in as much of their household stuff as we dared carry, and set off.

“we had not yet passed the edge of the town, however, when cousin betsey set up a great wailing that her bead purse, that had belonged to, i know not how many grandmothers, and that contained five gold pieces, had, in the hurry of departure, been left behind for british soldiers to make way with, a thought far too terrible to endure. so, in my growing folly, i must needs give the reins into cousin eliza’s hands and tell her to drive on slowly while i slipped back to fetch the purse. of course i knew well that the risk to our safety was greater than the worth of the money, but, to tell you the honest truth, i had begun to feel that cousin betsey’s tireless tongue was a travelling companion hard to bear with, and was glad of any excuse to be away from it for a little. besides, great oaf that i was, i began to feel that my unaided wit was a match for the whole british army.”

stephen chuckled and then laughed aloud.

“go on quickly with the tale,” he said, as miles paused, perhaps spent with such unaccustomed flow of speech. “i am anxious to know what occurred next. it must have been a grievous happening, to make you shower yourself with such hard names.”

“i reached the house safely enough,” went on the unhappy story-teller, “and found the purse upon the table. i opened it to see if the contents were safe and discovered at the bottom, besides the gold, a tiny embroidered copy of general washington’s new flag, with its union jack in the corner and its thirteen stripes of red and white. cousin betsey, loyal soul, had heard of our new banner and had made this one to carry always with her. as i stood with it in my hand, i remembered passing a building used for soldiers’ barracks where there was no guard outside and where there was a great sound of revelling and roistering coming from within. so i thought, like a clever lad, how excellent it would be to pin this flag on the outside of the door and write beneath, ‘with the compliments of general washington’s army.’ i turned cousin betsey’s workbox upside down to find a piece of chalk and set off in high glee.”

“ah,” exclaimed clotilde, “how i should like to have seen the faces of the soldiers when they found it!”

“the face to see was mine,” said miles ruefully, “when, just as i was scrawling my impertinent message, a hand fell upon my arm and a voice said:

“‘put that flaunting banner in your pocket, man, and come with me.’

“i turned and recognised the same officer who had looked at me so long and earnestly near the common. i thought of knocking him down and making a run for it, but such an act would have brought a whole regiment about my ears in a moment, so i could only grind my teeth and submit. he slipped his arm firmly through mine and led me to a house near by, where he unlocked the door and led me upstairs to his room. there he bade me sit down and himself stood looking at me long and in silence. had his expression been a mocking one, i vow so great was my rage that i would have sought to slay him on the spot, but he looked only grave and thoughtful. strange it is, master sheffield, but it flashed across my mind that his face was somehow familiar and that, in a certain way, he was like you.”

“like me?” repeated stephen in amazement, and then laughed again. “surely i would make a fine figure for a british soldier!”

“he was like you, whatever you may say,” miles affirmed stoutly, “his eyes were yours to the very life. we say in hopewell ‘there is no blue like sheffield blue,’ for the colour and fire of your eyes and your mother’s and your sister’s are things of which we often speak.”

stephen glanced up quickly at the portrait hanging above the mantel, one of the very few of his rescued possessions that he had brought to the cottage. the picture was of master simon, painted before he left england; it showed a dreamy-faced boy with those same wide, grave blue eyes. margeret bardwell had had them, and amos and alisoun, but none of them quite so like master simon’s as were stephen’s.

“it is curious,” he said at last, “but go on with your tale. if we pause to talk of the colour of eyes we will never come to the end of your adventure.”

“when the officer spoke at length,” miles continued, “his words knocked all the wind from the sails of my silly vanity.

“‘i have been watching you,’ he said, ‘ever since you stopped by the common, and i had no difficulty in recognising you as an officer in the continental army. it was not the first time we had met, however. do you recollect a night raid last october, when your men made a stand north of hopewell to the great discomfiture of the soldiers of king george?’

“‘what,’ i cried, ‘are you the officer that escaped?’ he nodded. ‘then,’ i went on, further rage swelling in my heart, ‘you must have had a hand in the burning of that house and garden!’

“‘i am glad to say, that was no work of mine,’ he answered; ‘my division did not join the rest until that ugly task was done. the commander’s orders in the matter were strict and definite but had they been issued to me i fear i would have made some trouble over obeying them. that is not the question now, however. here are you, a soldier out of uniform, within the enemy’s lines, and that means hanging as a spy. what were you doing here beyond decorating his majesty’s barracks with the rebel flag?’

“i explained my errand briefly and cursed the bragging folly that had been my undoing. he interrupted my hot words, however, before i had gone far on that subject.

“‘do you remember,’ he said, ‘how, when i escaped from that battle where your forces fought to so much greater advantage than ours, there was a certain officer of the rebel army who snatched a gun from one of his men, slipped down a path that he knew and was waiting for me, with rifle in rest, at the turn of the road?’

“‘yes,’ i stammered, ‘i remember.’

“‘and do you recollect how he took careful aim as i galloped by and then suddenly flung up his weapon and saluted me instead of firing? i remember it well, even to the man’s face, for although it was a hurried moment, one notes clearly the countenance of an enemy who is about to take one’s life. i was thinking of it when i saw that same officer in huckster’s clothes, standing by the common. and i am thinking of it still’—and here he opened the door—‘when i bid that man go free now, to follow cousin betsey, who wants his protection more than king george wants his life.’

“i tried to gasp out my thanks, but was too much amazed to speak the half of what i felt. i had thought no one knew of my chance to slay the escaping officer and of my having, at the last moment, no heart to take the life of so brave a man. his face had been partly hidden by his flying cloak and i should not have known him again.

“‘waste no more time,’ he said, cutting short my stammering thanks; ‘there are two unprotected women out yonder on the lonely road. take my grey horse that stands before the door; when you have caught up with your wagon you can turn him loose and he will come home again alone. so go on your way, but i warn you, stay not this time to leave love-tokens for the british army.’

“you may be sure that i lost no time in carrying out his directions and that cousin betsey received her purse in safety. her complaints and her description of the terrors she had felt over my being gone so long, lasted us for many miles. the sentries permitted us to pass with earnest recommendations that i come soon again with another load of provisions, and before morning we were safe within our own lines. cousin betsey has been spreading through all the country, it seems to me, the tale of our escape and of my heroism, as she calls it. and i must needs be silent under all these praises, for to tell of my real adventures would mean to tell also how i failed in my duty as a soldier and did not capture a fleeing enemy. ah, but my heart is lighter, now that some one knows how miserably i bungled the whole affair.”

stephen arose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and came over to put his hand on miles’ shoulder.

“you do well to bemoan your heedless folly,” he said, “for you risked much and for very little. none the less you did a brave deed in saving those two women, but, since your cousin betsey sings your praises so loudly, i will leave the task of doing you justice, to her. and think not that you failed in your duty when you hesitated to slay a brave man; there is no wrong in an act of plain humanity. i think that we acquit you of those woeful charges against yourself. eh, clotilde, do we not?”

and most completely and heartily did clotilde agree that miles was the most noble soldier in the whole patriot army.

“one satisfaction i did have,” miles said more cheerfully. “when christmas came and my mother sent me a great hamper of good things, i dared the passage to the house of david thurston’s brother again, and sent by his boy a fine ham and a large, fat goose as an aid to that officer’s holiday dinner. i knew not his name, but i could give the lad directions for finding the place where my friend lodged. and to the goose’s leg i fastened a paper that said, ‘with the compliments of general washington’s army.’”

“do you think that he received it?” asked clotilde.

miles grinned.

“i know he did,” was his answer, “for, two days after, there was put into my hand a packet containing a toy wooden gallows, such as children use for the hanging in a punch and judy show. and to it was fastened a paper saying, ‘with the compliments of king george the third.’”