"Ruth, I cannot!"

"Andy, you shall!" They looked into each other's eyes and then because they were young and brave, they smiled; smiled above the danger and heartache.



"What a girl you are!" laughed Andy.

"Yes, there are few like me," sighed the girl. "Born to trouble as the sparks fly upward."

"Born to deliver others from trouble, I verily believe," added Andy.

"Not a moment to spare!" commanded Ruth. "You have eaten a noble meal. I must go to my room to suffer now. When Hans bawls from the wagon, be ready, and remember the eggs are a shilling more to his majesty's men than to Washington's."

It took all Andy's courage to don the female attire. He had never done so hard a thing, yet he knew that Ruth was right. If he hoped to reach the patriot camp he must not attempt it as Andy McNeal. "Next best then," he thought, "is to go as Ruth White. God bless Ruth!"

"Hi!" rose shrilly on the soft evening air, "hi! we starts now!"

It was Hans bellowing from the wagon. Andy plunged into the bonnet, whose big, flapping frill almost hid his face. He took his crutch—its aid was not to be despised now—and hobbled down-stairs.

"Washington is in the Morris Mansion!" Ruth whispered as he passed her door.

Under his sunbonnet Andy turned scarlet, but he did not turn toward Ruth.

"There goes our Ruthie to sell eggs," called little Margaret White from over her bowl of milk in the kitchen. "Does your leg hurt awful, Ruthie?"

Mrs. White at the table did not turn, but she said:

"Take heed, Margaret, your milk is spilling. Ruth is all right." As in very truth she was.

"We be late, already," called Hans from his wagon. "Can you get up, miss?"

Andy mounted slowly, and crouched behind Hans among the baskets and pails. The Dutch boy had but recently come over from Long Island to live with the parson. After the battle of Long Island he had fled to what he thought were more peaceful pastures for employment; but he had his doubts. Dangers pursued Hans, and he was sore distressed. It was necessary for him to sell the products of the little farm, and, really, the danger of the parson's daughter going along to straighten matters out, was no great matter. Peddlers, unless suspected, were allowed to pass the lines, and their wares paid for with more or less honesty.



CHAPTER VIII

AT HEADQUARTERS

"Your excellency, dar am a lame girl, an a fool Dutchman outside. De girl done say, she's got to delibber de eggs to yourself, sah!"

"Eggs!" The tall, anxious man at the table turned sharply. He was writing to Congress, and the interruption annoyed him.

"Yas, sah." The colored man bowed humbly. "I'se been tellin' dem we has eggs nouf, but the Dutchman he deaf as a stun wall, an' de girl am dat sot, dat your own self couldn't be sotter, sah. She done say her folks 'prived demselfs of food an' drink, sah, to save dese eggs fur your excellency, an' she goes on tu say, sah, dat she done been habbin' de debbil's own time gettin' past de lines wid de eggs. She's been 'sulted by de British and odder hard things. She won't go, sah, till I done tell you all dis rubbish."

"Bring her in," quietly said the listener.

Washington never slighted the humble, and, besides, messages were sent in odd ways. It was always better to be willing to listen. The black man departed, muttering, and presently returned, showing the lame girl in with no very good grace.

"Dat am de General!" he explained, shutting the heavy door after the limping figure.

There was no need of explanation. The eyes under the drooping frill grew joyous at the sight of the honored face. The heart under the coarse cotton frock beat high with pride, and—yes, shame, for how was the boy to make himself known?

"Pray be seated," the deep voice was saying. "You are weary and you have taken chances of danger to reach me with your gift."

Andy sank into the nearest chair.

"I appreciate your devotion and unselfishness, but I would advise no future attempts to pass the British lines for such a thing."

"There were other reasons, sir," said Andy. Washington came nearer.

"I fancied so," he said, "and they are?"

Andy drew the basket of eggs to him, and unwrapped several, handing the papers to Washington. The General took them, crossed to the window, and for a few moments pieced the bits together carefully. Then he read. Andy watched him, remembering that other face in the greenhouse on the never-to-be-forgotten night.

"Where did you get these?" he said suddenly. Andy stood up leaning upon his crutch.

"A messenger, in time of danger, must come as he may, sir," he said, bravely. Then tearing off the bonnet he added:

"Andy McNeal, at your service, sir!" Washington's face never betrayed him, but a glad look came to the overweary eyes. He extended his hand, and grasped Andy's.

"I remember!" he said. "You have been true to your trust. And now for the story."

Sitting in the stately room of the mansion, opposite the great General, Andy McNeal told his story. Try as he might, his voice would break, but he thought no shame of his weakness, for the keen eyes looking into his own were often dim.

"I asked a great thing of Nathan Hale," said the General at last, "but he gave it willingly. Andy McNeal, you have been a faithful friend to as great a hero as the Revolution will ever know. Many offer their lives. He offered his honor. Willing was he to die, and to die dishonored by the many. Some day his country will understand."

"And, sir, do you know the British are bringing their ships up the river?"

Washington's eyes gleamed. "I have sent men to Frog's Point," he smiled. "They will meet a welcome when they land. Thank you. And now farewell. Take heed as you return. You are safer without a guard."

"Is there no work for me to do? Is there no place in the ranks for such as I?"

The tremendous question broke from Andy's lips. To go back into idleness was his one dread. He longed to follow; to be the humblest, but most patriotic, of the many. Washington understood.

"I must leave here directly," he answered. "Ere another week passes I shall be gone. Where future battles are to be fought, remains to be seen, but always, my first object is to guard the Hudson. I need faithful hearts here. I shall not forget you, Andy McNeal, nor your service. If I can use you, be ready. I shall know where to find you. You are sure to be more useful here than elsewhere. You know your woods as few others do, and I know I can depend upon your courage and faithfulness. Again farewell."

Andy arose, drew on the disguising headgear, not even thinking of it, so full was his heart, and so he departed to face whatever lay before.

The immediate thing that faced Andy McNeal was the meeting with his own father. It took all the courage he possessed to do this, and yet he knew that he could not begin to live again until the new complications had been grappled with and readjusted.

After dark of the same day upon which Andy had seen Washington, he reached his mother's little house. Hans and he had had several encounters with the British, but a thickheaded, deaf Dutchman, and a young, frightened lame girl, with a hideous bonnet, served only for a moment's idle sport for the king's gallant men. And after annoying delays they were allowed to pass with a warning to come soon with more food, or their houses would be burned over their heads.

Andy paused outside the cottage. He heard his mother moving about, and the indistinct voice of a man from the guest-room beyond.

"The vine again!" thought Andy. But the ascent in the gown was difficult. "A maid's progress is bitter hard!" smiled he, and he thought tenderly of Ruth.

The little loft-room seemed oddly changed to Andy. He looked about. Everything was the same, and yet—

"It is that voice below-stairs," muttered he. "It alters everything." A feeling of hatred crept in Andy's heart against this man who had suddenly assumed so close a relationship to him.

"What will mother do?" he questioned as he changed his clothing, and put on the decent Sunday-suit that was hanging from the pegs. "What will she do?" And in his heart Andy knew what she would do, what, at least, she would want to do. He had seen it shining back of the trouble in her eyes when she first spoke to him. The want had brought the look of beauty with it, and had banished the marks of the lonely years.

"But a Britisher!" moaned the boy, smoothing his hair, "a Britisher for Janie and Andy McNeal! I might forgive him for all else—for mother's sake, but not that, not that!"

"Andy, lad, is it you?" Andy started. His mother was coming up the stairs!

"Yes, mother." She stood before him now. The coarse cotton gown that was familiar to Andy's boyhood was gone. A dull, bluish linen with white cuffs and collar had replaced it, and above the becoming dress shone the face of a new Janie.

A jealous pang struck Andy's heart, and he shivered in spite of himself.

"I thought I heard you, lad. You are safe?"

"Quite safe, mother."

"But sair tired?" she dropped into the Scotch unconsciously.

"Not overtired. I did my errand well."

"And now, Andy, what next?"

"Nothing. Since I cannot follow and fight, I must bide at home and wait. Does any one come here for help from the patriot army we must be ready, mother."

"Aye, surely, lad. You know where my heart lies!"

"But, mother, the—the person below. He is—a deserter if he is found here. What then? And surely not even he must keep us from doing our duty."

"Lad" (Janie came close), "I cannot hope to have you understand. When love comes your way, Andy, it will plead for me. All these years—I have been a starved and forsaken woman, and it has changed me. We all go astray, Andy, and—and your father. Oh! call him that, son, for my sake. Your father has dealt sorely with me and you, but he has come back. He was hunting us long before he found us. He wants to mend the past. Andy, as we hope for mercy from the good God, let us be merciful."

"But a Britisher, mother. An enemy to our cause. Oh, mother!"

"Andy, lad, come!" She put out her hand pleadingly, and Andy followed. There was a candle burning in the guest-room, and by its modest gleam sat the man who, when Andy had seen him last, was proclaiming his own son to be the rebel who had presumably struck one of the king's men in the cave. Very pale was the man now, and the bruise on the forehead shone plain even in the dim light. He looked up at Andy in a curious, interested way, and half extended his hand.

"You do not care to take the hand of a Britisher, I see." The white face relaxed in a faint smile. Andy went nearer.

"For my mother's sake I can take my—my father's hand, though it all seems mighty queer."

"I want you to know," said the man, "that I would not have told my head officer who you were that day, but I was so alarmed at the likeness you bore my mother that I was unaware of what I was doing. It was horrible to realize as I was beginning to do then, that I was probably speaking to my own—son."

"It was more horrible to think that my own father had been struck by a blow dealt in my defense. You must have thought that, too."

"No, I did not. Who struck that blow?"

"Nathan Hale."

The man started. "And he?"

"Died the death of a spy two days ago."

"Andy!" It was Janie who cried out. "Was our dear schoolmaster, Nathan Hale, the spy?"

"Nathan Hale, the patriot!" corrected Andy, and his eyes dimmed.

"Oh! how you have suffered, lad."

"Aye." Andy sank into a chair.

His father was looking at him keenly; and a growing expression of admiration was dawning in the searching eyes. Here was a son of whom he might yet be proud.

"Andy," he said, "I can imagine your feeling toward me. I do not say I do not deserve it. But your mother is willing to forgive the past, if you are willing to give me a trial." The thin lips twitched. Martin was a proud man, and his humble diet seemed never to be coming to an end. The hard young face opposite appeared more unrelenting than Janie's had seemed.

"What is best for mother is best for me," said Andy. "I am almost a man. When the war is over I shall try to do a man's part in the world. Each one of us has his life."

Martin again became serious. "I have money, Andy; I can help you, and give you a fair start."

"Your money will make mother's life easier. It has been a hard life."

"There, there, Andy, lad! Do not be bitter, son."

"Not bitter, mother. But I cannot forget. Not just at first."

"I can educate you, Andy," Martin added. "You might take that help from a stranger, and repay it later on."

A hungry look came into the boy's eyes. The teaching of the master had awakened an appetite that would not sleep. "I did without for many years," he replied. But Martin had seen the gleam, and was proud.

"In a day or so, Andy," he went on, "I must ask a favor of you. I want you to guide me to the patriot headquarters." The boy started. "I came half-heartedly to fight against the colonies. It is my desire to throw my lot in with theirs now. You may be able to do me a favor with your General. He will know you. If I come back you may be able to respect your father. If not—your mother has a good son, and Parson White will see that what belongs to you two will be yours."

"Father!" Andy arose, and this time stretched forth his hand gladly. "Father, I will try to be a good son to you, too!"

"Thank God!" sobbed Janie, kneeling by the chair, and drawing Andy within the circle of her new hopes.

The old clock ticked and ticked contentedly. The hissing of the kettle on the fire recalled Janie to her happy tasks, and Martin and his son wondered what the future would bring.



CHAPTER IX

PEACE

"Only the cane now, Andy. The days of crutches are over!"

"Yes, Ruth, the country, the dear free country and I can nearly go alone now." Andy stood up proudly and beamed upon the pretty girl standing by his mother.

"I declare!" he laughed, "you look but little older than Ruth, mother!"

"Box his ears well, lass," said Janie, mightily pleased. "He struts, does Andy, and you and I must take him down."

"Come," Andy broke in, "we must start now. Wrap up well, girls," he laughed again, "'tis bitter cold, and the way is long."

"No cold can reach me!" cried Janie, pulling her hood well over her happy face. "Warm hearts make glowing bodies. To think, lad, he will be with us to-night!"

The door of the little house was drawn to and locked. All within was beautiful and ready for the patriot who that night would return full of honors for the part he had played during the last two years.

"Yes. He will be with us, mother," echoed Andy. He looked at Ruth. He had learned to understand his mother now, and Ruth had shown him the way.

"It was no light matter," said the girl, keeping step with Andy over the crisp snow, "for you—your father to be a patriot. He was not only a patriot but a deserter from the king's army. In every battle he had to face that."

"Yes," broke in Janie, "and when he went with Wayne to storm Stony Point, he was nearly captured, as you will remember. And the British yelled at him, 'Don't shoot that deserter, lead's too good for him. We'll try an Indian trick on him!'"

Andy's face grew grave. "He's a brave man," he whispered, and drew Janie's arm within his own. And so the little party came to Fraunce's Tavern, and bided near the room in which Washington and his officers were dining before the General departed for Annapolis, where he was to lay down his commission, for the war was over, and peace had come to the young country.

"Andy," said Janie, closing the door of the small room which had been reserved for them, "'twas great luck that my host's wife and I are friends. Think of us having this to ourselves, and the great General right in the next room. Ruth, lass, there is a communicating door, as true as I live! Andy, draw away the sofa."

"Mother, you would not be an eavesdropper?"

"God forbid! Ruthie, is there a keyhole?"

"No keyhole, but a good generous crack in the panel! Hurry, Andy, with the sofa, the thing weighs a ton. Push!"

"Ruth! We cannot spy upon the General." Andy tried to look severe.

"I can!" laughed the girl, mounting the sofa, and applying her eye to the crack. "I'm afraid the Revolution has demoralized me, but I must see the thing through. Andy, they look—they look magnificent!" Ruth was quivering on her perch. Janie flung prudence and dignity to the winds, and climbed to Ruth's side, and, being taller, gained a portion of the crack above the girl's head.

"I can see no one but the General!" she said. "The crack is over-narrow for such doings!"

"There is no one but Washington!" breathed Andy, and he lifted his head proudly.

"Yes, there are others," whispered Ruth, misunderstanding, "and if you run your eye up and down the crack quickly, you can catch a sight of them. The crack is wider in some parts."

"Heaven save us, lass!" (Ruth's head had come in violent contact with Janie's chin). "You have loosened my teeth!"

"They are going to drink a toast!" said Ruth, not heeding the accident, but thrilling with excitement. "Andy, 'tis no wrong we are doing. The General's voice can be heard distinctly, and I vow there are a dozen heads at every window opening on the porch. The crack is fine down here. I can see everything!"

Andy stood still.

"He is raising his glass!" said Ruth near the floor.

"With my heart full of love and gratitude I now take leave of you all. Most devoutly wishing that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable."

"His eyes are full of tears!" almost sobbed Ruth, and the eyes of them in the little room were dim. Glasses clinked together, then the full voice went on:

"I cannot come to each one of you and take my leave, but I shall be obliged if you will come and take my hand." They needed no second bidding those comrades, tried and true. One by one, feeling no shame in their manly show of sorrow, they grasped their General's faithful hand and parted from him with bowed heads.

"They are going out!" panted Janie. "Now, Andy, for the hall. We must meet him at the door."

As he came from the banquet room, Washington and his officers met the three. He knew Andy at a glance, and then recognized Janie. He took them by the hand, and bowed in courtly fashion.

"Patriots all!" he smiled. "You well deserve your hard-earned peace."

They joined the throngs which followed Washington to the river. They stood upon the Battery until the barge which bore the gallant figure away faded from sight. So lost were they in admiration that for a moment none of them noticed a tall figure approaching dressed in Continental uniform. Then Janie saw him. Her face flushed like a girl's.

"Andy!" she whispered, pulling her son's sleeve, "see, here is your—"

"Father!" greeted Andy, and stretched out a welcoming hand.

Back to the lonely pass the four went, Janie and Martin on ahead.

"And now," questioned Ruth in a soft whisper, "what comes next, Andy?"

"I am to study. Ah! Ruth, how I shall study! I mean to learn all that I can and carry the best to them who call me."

"You really mean to be a minister?"

"That I do, God willing!" answered Andy, reverently.

"'Tis a hard life, Andy."

"For that I love it."

"Have you thought where you would like to go?"

"Just where the most urgent call comes. Ruth, the life is hard—"

"I know the life, Andy, and love it!"

"Could you—could you, Ruth?"

"Keep on living it? Yes, dear. Who so well fitted as I?"

They paused on the snowy path, and looked into each other's brave eyes.

"I wonder if any life is really hard, dear Ruth, where—"

"Love lifts the burden? I think not, Andy. Love bears the weight. We take the glory. It is a wonderful thing."

The red glow of the winter sunset seemed to warm the snow-covered earth, and in the still beauty the two followed Janie and Martin.

THE END