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 neighbor's house which had been set on fire and burned by the Hessians a short while before.

"The beasts!" cried Sally, digging her slender fingers into the red earth resentfully. Tis so cruel to wantonly destroy homes!"

"Aye," observed the young Englishman. "But scarcely more cruel," he suggested smoothly, "than to shoot down men from behind a stone wall. It be, I think, even a little more honorable way o' conducting warfare than that!"

"Honorable, say ye!" Sally's glance and voice grew sharp. "Speak ye o' honor where Hessians who fight for hire be concerned? Or the English who pay them? What be wrong to defend one's home, e'en from behind a stone wall, when the enemy invade ye? Nay, ye wrong Master Todd—I know ye mean him!—when ye speak thus, sir! He be the kindest and most honorable o' men, when not driven beyond endurance, forsooth!"

"Mayhap ye be right," answered young Lawrence pacifically. He looked at her as she squatted in the sunshine, her swiftly moving fingers sorting out the tiny seeds in their packets of woven grass. Once more the sun, glinting on her hair, caught his eyes. "Holden red!" he muttered, as he had muttered the day before.

"What mean ye?" asked Sally now, curiously.

"Your hair—'tis almost same color and

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 shade as my guardian's hair—Lord Holden! Indeed, his two little daughters have that same hair, also. Mayhap ye be related!" laughed Lawrence.

Sally's fresh laughter rang out also. "Of course we be related!" she mocked. "Hereafter ye will call me Milady, sir! See that ye do not forget!"

"Nay, but really" began the boy.

"Nay, but really not!" retorted Sally roundly, getting up from her cramped knees and looking down at him, honest mirth in her eyes." Lords and ladies are not apt to have homeless orphans floating around the world. And now," she walked around the garden bed to plump herself down upon its opposite side, "tell me about yourself. Are ye a lord, also?"

The boy, seated upon a three-legged stool with his back against an old cherry tree, shook his head. "Nay," he said briefly.

"Ah, why so sad about it?" remarked Sally, glancing up. "Well, Mary lass," she turned to look affectionately into the little face near her own, "what would ye, sweetheart?"

"Moth-er hath thaid I might ha' thom 'trawberries. Thally, an ye will giveth me thom," answered the little girl, rolling her eyes at the stranger.

He laughed and held out his hand; and, to Sally's surprise, the usually shy child walked into his arms. When she returned with a basket of straw-

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 berries, they were chatting and laughing like old friends.

"Mary hath told me much o' militia training," he said mischievously, as Sally held out the basket to them. Selecting some of the berries, he looked up at her innocently. "One learns much from children," he finished in a bland voice.

The enemy! Again the words seemed to leap at Sally. Yet such a nice one. She laughed as she went back to her vegetable bed; but Lawrence, noticing that she soon found means to get rid of little Mary, smiled to himself.

"Sally?" he said.

"Aye, sir?"

"Know ye naught o' your last name—truly?"

"Nay—I told ye—naught! Grannie Haggerty's son shipped out on another boat, ye see, so that I ne'er knew him! Or, at least, an he did not ship—I ne'er knew him, anyway."

Tis a pity," murmured the boy.

"Sir?" It was the girl's turn to question him.

"Aye, Sally?"

"Know ye naught o' your first name?" She glanced at him across the vegetable bed with dancing eyes.

Young Lawrence planked down the front legs of his stool, upon which he had been teetering, to stare at her, then, perceiving the twinkle in the girl's eyes, he laughed. "Fair enow!" he answered.

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 "Though I ask your pardon, Mistress Sally, an I did seem to cross-examine ye! Mine own name be Gerald Lawrence, mostly called Jerry, at your service!"

"Jerry!" Sally repeated it musingly. "Aye, I like it. It hath a nice, honest sound. One could trust the name o' Jerry, I think."

"Thank ye, Milady!" Young Lawrence got up and made her a courtly bow, then laughed gayly as he selected some more strawberries from the basket at his feet. "Master Todd's farm does not look as barren and lean as the Jersey farmers would have the British believe," he went on idly, resuming his seat, his eyes roving from orchard in magnificent bloom to the fields already green beyond the house.

The enemy! Sally sent him an oblique glance as she bent over her task. Could he be planning to report all that he saw with his alert black eyes, and would that report result in another disastrous raid by the Hessians or the British, with the Todd gatepost marked "R" for the word "rebel"? Her lips tightened as she went on with her work; and Jerry, glancing at the straight shoulders which fairly shouted defiance at him, smiled again to himself. Like most boys, he loved to tease. He did not pursue the subject, however. There was something rather pitiful about those slender shoulders, after all, so alone in the world, yet so eager to assume

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 the burdens of her neighbors, heavy burdens of patriotism and warfare!

It was on the evening of the second day that Jerry, seated at the supper table with the Todds, caught sight of the long, furtive face of Stockton gazing at him through an open window that he chanced to be alone in facing. Jerry's expression did not obviously change; but Stockton at once received the impression that he was to secrete himself somewhere near by until the boy found an opportunity to see him.

It was not long afterward, then, that Stockton, lurking behind a small building used by Mistress Todd as a dairy, heard the young Englishman exclaim loudly as he stepped, unhindered, out of the kitchen door: "I must get a breath o' this fine mountain air before I retire this night!"

Stockton moved forth from his hiding place as Jerry rapidly approached him. The moon had not yet risen, and they were safe from detection. "How now, Lieutenant Lawrence?" demanded Stockton brusquely, In greeting. "From all reports, ye are not seriously wounded. Art not tarrying overly long here, sir? Hast made no attempt at escape?"

"I have gi'en my word o' honor not to escape until after to-morrow, sir," answered Jerry respectfully. "Besides," he added with an amiable smile, "how could I hope to escape without a steed, sir?"

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 Stockton regarded him fixedly a moment. "Ye are quibbling, sir," he answered sternly. "As for word o' honor to a rebel—nonsense!"

Gerald drew himself up. "An Englishman does not break his parole, whether to rebel or other man!" he returned as sternly.

The darkness hid the black flush on Stockton's face; but it could not conceal the anger in his voice. "You English assume too much credit. Lieutenant Lawrence!" he exclaimed rudely. "Ye are apt to lord it o'er us who were born i' the colonies, I ha' noticed!"

Young Lawrence flushed with embarrassment. Why, this was dreadful! It was like boys' squabbling. "I am better than ye!" "Nay, I am better than ye!"

"In truth, sir, I meant no insult," he was commencing humbly when Stockton cut him short. And suddenly the boy knew that here stood an enemy of his for life!

"Silence, sir!" said Stockton. He glanced around him. "There be a horse hidden for ye i' yonder swamp, on the rise o' land just beyond the group o' birches up the road. Escape this night—the way seems clear—and report to your company!"

Jerry shook his head. "I will try to escape to-morrow night, sir," he responded quietly.

Stockton moved a step nearer. "Ye will escape this night," he hissed into his subordinate's face,

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 "or ye will be brought up for court-martial when ye do return, sir!"

Jerry paled. "Be that as it may, Captain Stockton, I cannot break my word!"

"Break thy word or be broken by court-martial!" answered the other in a level voice of deadly enmity. Turning upon his heel, he vanished into the night.

Sally, who had been sent to the dairy for a pitcher of fresh milk for the Todd baby, did not dare to move until Jerry had walked away also. Then, cramped by her tense position just inside the low window of the dairy, outside of which the two British officers had been talking, she stood up and, taking the pitcher in her hand, hurried to the door. What was her dismay, however, to see two dim figures sauntering toward her from the farmhouse. She had barely time to close the dairy door again very stealthily when Master Todd and a younger neighbor, Uzal Ball, came to a halt in precisely the same place Jerry and Stockton had stood, outside the dairy window. Sally unashamedly crept over closer to listen.

"Ye advise, then, to lodge the boy in jail, Uzal?" Master Todd was evidently continuing a conversation begun a little earlier, "I like not to do so. After all, he is very young, scarcely o'er eighteen, despite his height and breadth o' shoulder. It means a tedious trial and mayhap e'en death. He says

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 that he comes from England. I ha' heard him talking to Sally." ("Oh, ye have!" thought Sally resentfully. "I wonder what else ye did hear?") "But the lad may be clever enow to realize what his sentence might be from the Council o' Safety, or he may have heard o' the orders His Excellency sent out regarding those Tories who ha' been caught trying to induce New Jersey farmers to join the loyalists—Skinner's "Greens" on Staten Island, ye mind, Uzal. An he be o' Tory family, therefore, it be to his interest to admit it not, e'en going so far as to make up imaginary relatives, a certain Lord Somebody or other!" ("Well, thought("Well," thought [sic] Sally explosively, "ye did indeed hear all, Master Todd, though I'll wager 'twas your wife told ye—it sounds like her! But I wonder—oh, I do wonder an Jerry did speak the truth about his guardian! He doth truly ha' more the manner o' our New Jersey farmer lads—so nice and—and—simple—than what one would expect from a boy associating wi' lords and ladies!") "Therefore, guessing his fate, I do hesitate to commit him to jail, Uzal. He be such a likable sort o' lad," finished Master Todd slowly.

As though his patience were exhausted, Uzal Ball uttered an exclamation. "Likable!" he repeated the word contemptuously. "An ye remember the color o' his uniform, Master Todd, I see not how

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 ye can speak thus o' the kind o' man who wears that uniform!"

"Then ye think" began the farmer.

Uzal interrupted him almost fiercely. "I think he be an enemy, sir, and that ye ought to start early to-morrow morning wi' him and lodge him in the jail at the Town by the River," he said, striking a horny fist into the other fist.

Sally squinted one eye as she peered around a corner to look at Uzal. He was a fine-appearing man of about thirty, the second son of the Widow Ball, who lived upon the same road as the Todds, above the ridge and farther toward Millburn village. But now his face, despite its good looks, appeared hard and grim to the girl, and she shuddered as she thought of what Jerry's fate might be if Uzal, in his patriotic zeal, had aught to do with it.

"I see ye"—continued Uzal suddenly. Sally gave a terrified jump—"I see ye have made no preparations as yet, Master Todd, for taking the prisoner to the Town by the River." Sally, a few feet from the young man, separated only by a wooden wall, heaved a sigh of relief. "Would ye care for my assistance."

As she waited for Master Todd's answer, Sally's thoughts ran like a mill race. How could she stand silently by and let these two men lead Jerry off to death, perhaps? The enemy, yes! But a friend, too,

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 with ideas of honor, a friend whom one could respect, and poor Sally had not had many friends in her life!

Meanwhile, Mistress Todd's shrill voice had been heard calling again and again from the buttery door. Sally clenched her hands. Would the two men ever be through with their conversation that she might make her escape? Her relief was proportionate when she heard Master Todd speak in a tone of finality.

"I cannot go early the morrow. I ha' my plowin' to do. But to-morrow, at sundown—could ye go, then? Ye could? Well, so be it, Uzal. G'-night to ye!"

Departing footsteps sent Sally peeping at the crack. Only Uzal's tall figure could be seen stalking toward the gate. Sally sighed to herself, then smiled to hear her sigh echoed unconsciously by Master Todd outside. But the next moment she uttered a low cry of terror, for her elbow, coming in contact with the milk pitcher she had placed too near the edge of a shelf, had flung it to the dairy floor. She raised her frightened glance to the window opening; and there, as she had feared, was Master Todd's face.

"That you, Sally?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Aye, sir." Carelessly the girl's voice came back to him from the darkness of the dairy. It was fortunate that the shadows hid her pallor. "Mis-

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 tress Todd sent me out to get some milk for baby. I dropped the pitcher; but it did not break."

Tis well." His tone was quite unsuspicious. "Best run along, though, else the mistress will be fretting."

Mistress Todd did indeed greet her with a flurry of vexed upbraiding. Sally, however, when she was through, turned indifferently away. Her whole mind was now bent upon warning Jerry.

Her opportunity came at bedtime. His face, sleepy and bewildered, appeared at the open window in answer to the handful of gravel the girl had tossed into his room to waken him.

"Away!" said Sally noiselessly. "Escape ye at once, Jerry! They plan to take ye away to-morrow eve at sundown!"

Without waiting for his reply, she turned and stole back to the kitchen door.

Despite her warning and to her secret disappointment, Jerry appeared as usual at the breakfast table. Mistress Todd greeted him cordially, for the lad had won her heart by his affectionate interest in her children. Even Master Todd vouchsafed him a smile, while little Mary ran around the table to climb upon his lap as he sat down. Only Sally, after her first amazed stare to see him still there, paid him no attention. Her cheeks red and her head high, she crouched before the breakfast fire and stirred porridge, until Mistress Todd

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 sharply told her to be done before she spoiled it.

It was a busy Saturday morning which ensued. Sally's duty it was to make the butter, to dip the candles, to sand the floor for the Sabbath, and to clean the brass. Harassed, driven, the girl flew from one task to another, scarcely taking time to eat the dinner of boiled beef and young greens she had helped to prepare. It was about five o'clock that, as Sally knelt with a sharp stick drawing an elaborate pattern in the sand. Mistress Todd, pausing at the foot of the stair, asked carelessly if she had seen little Mary.

"Nay," answered the girl, "I have not seen her recently. Is she not wi' her father, mistress?"

"Mayhap." The mother's tone was calm.

Half an hour passed. Sally finished her task and went out of the house toward the brook that gurgled its way to the valley past the farm. There she bathed her dusty feet and played with a little turtle that went serenely upon its way over the miniature dam she had built in the brook to tease it.

"Hast seen Mary yet?" inquired Mistress Todd, glancing up from her knitting as Sally went through the kitchen. Answering in the negative, the girl passed on up the stairs.

It must have been a vague premonition that made her pause a little later at the head of the stairs before descending to the kitchen. Or perhaps it was the terrible note of alarm in Mistress Todd's

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 voice. Running down hastily, Sally found husband and wife staring at each other with ashen faces.

"Not—wi'—ye, Samuel?" repeated Mistress Todd gaspingly, sinking back upon the settle from which she had started up a moment previous. All her strength seemed to have left her.

"Nay!" Master Todd made a violent gesture of frightened reproach. "Why, Moll, I told ye I had the big south field to plow this day. Didst forget? Ye must have known I would ne'er take little Mary down there wi' me, in this heat and all!"

Sally sprang to the door. "Mary! Mary!" she called desperately.

Mary's father joined in the calling: "Mary! Mary!"

But it brought no response. There came no fat baby form in homespun running to greet them, and at last Master Todd turned back into the kitchen with a groan.

There was a step outside the door a moment or so later, however; but it was Uzal who appeared. "Well, neighbor, art ready?" he was commencing briskly, when something in their faces stopped him. He stared at them inquiringly.

"Go up and see an the lad be i' his room, Sally," bade Master Todd dully. "He must help search for us—the more we have, the better. We are worried about little Mary," he turned to Uzal Ball, as the

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 girl flew to obey him. "She hath not been seen all afternoon. Well, Sally?"

Sally, at the foot of the stairs, made a vague gesture. "His room be empty," she said slowly. "He be gone!"

Uzal Ball brought his hand resoundingly down upon his thigh. "Why, o' course he be gone!" he exclaimed loudly. "The varlet hath doubtless escaped this day to the British lines, either to New York Town or to Staten Island, and taken little Mary wi' him for revenge!"

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HAT be it! He hath stolen Mary because o' my wounding him! The villain! I would I had killed him as he lay there i' the lane." Master Todd's face was distorted with rage.

"Samuel! Stolen my Mary! Stolen" Mary's mother, who had started up at Master Todd's words, now fell back upon the settle as though death itself had struck her down. Uzal Ball sprang to aid his neighbor in restoring the poor woman. The two men chafed her hands and forehead, and finally Master Todd spoke over his shoulder: "Sally, some cold water, quick!"

There was no answer and impatiently he glanced around the room. The kitchen, save for themselves, was empty! Sally was gone! With an exclamation of anger. Master Todd fetched the cold water himself. There was no time, now, to discover Sally!

Sally had indeed fled. Seated upon old Dot, she had paused at the gate with but one idea in her head. She must find Jerry and make him restore little Mary to her parents. Frantically, she looked

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 up and down the silent road. No one was in sight, and there seemed to be no choice. Anyone escaping to the safety of the British stronghold on Staten Island would ride south on the Second Road—the lane past the Todd farm—to Elizabeth Town and the Point and thence across Kill von Kull. Yet a flight to New York and British protection there would lead one north on the Second Road to Orange Valley and so to Newark and across the swamos to Paulus Hook and the ferry.

Choosing the road to the settlement, Sally noticed a queer, unearthly light succeeding the late afternoon glow, the forerunner of a storm. The trees, which all day long had drooped motionless beneath the abnormal heat, were now tossing their branches in a moaning wind, and miniature whirlwinds tore up the thick dust that lay over road and underbrush alike. A zigzag of lightning tore across the sky upon her left, ripping open a great black cloud which had thrust its threatening head up over the mountain.

Sally shuddered. Almost more than anything else in the world was she afraid of a thunderstorm! More often than she cared to admit before the ridicule of Master Todd had she sought the protection of her feather bed during the frequent electrical storms which every summer were wont to play up and down the valley between Newark and the First Mountain. But now she gritted her teeth;

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 and bending her head before the little clouds of swirling dust, she urged old Dot to a faster and yet faster pace.

Master Tompkins's tavern at Freemantown, a few scattered farmhouses, with always the black swamp to her right and occasional spots of tall timber to her left as she rode along—this was what stormy darkness was swiftly eradicating from Sally's sight. She breathed a sigh as she turned at last on to the First Road. There were still four or five miles to Newark; but her journey ever seemed half accomplished, though in reality but a mile had been passed, when she reached this junction of the roads, where the Dark Lane, at this end of the Second Road, joined the First Road at what is now West Orange Center. The burial ground at her right now took the place of the great swamp, though the girl imagined she saw distant glimpses of the latter as she trotted along.

But now the storm was upon her! Furiously, with rain, hail, and much noise of wind and thunder, it broke with almost tropical violence after the day's heat. Sally was drenched to her skin at once, and as old Dot slipped and slid in the water-swept road, the girl realized miserably just how wild and impractical had been her impulse to find Jerry. No one passed her upon the road, for no one was abroad this dark night. Each isolated farmhouse, with its twinkling candle in the window, was an

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 invitation to stop and dry herself. It took all of her determination to urge poor old Dot on through the driving rain.

At last she reached the church. This was a plain stone structure built lengthwise to the road, with its steeple upon the eastern end. Sally pulled Dot up short before it and pondered desperately. Though there was no sign of let-up to the storm as yet, still it might clear in a short space of time, when it would be much easier to continue her quest. Meanwhile, any shelter would be welcome, especially one where she would not be eyed askance, asked to give an explanation of her presence, alone and unprotected, with perhaps an unceremonious return to Master Todd in the end. Yes, she thought, the church was just the place; though she felt wicked and sacrilegious in using it as a mere shelter. She could almost feel Parson Chapman's and Deacon Riggs's reproving eyes upon her as she stalked through the rain-drenched grass to the front door of the edifice. But the door was locked.

She turned away in keen disappointment. Darkness had now completely blotted out every visible thing; she could not even see old Dot at the edge of the road, standing with patient bowed head in the wet. There were the windows to try, two of them in front on each side of the door and some in the eastern end beneath the steeple, though she was doubtful about their having been left unlocked.

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 Still, it would do no harm to try them! But each window disappointed Sally afresh.

At last, turning the corner upon the eastern end, she remembered that there was a door there—a fact her anxiety had eradicated from her memory, though she had entered often enough on Sundays with Mistress Todd and the other women—that being their side, with the men seated upon the opposite side and the boys at the back of the church, with a tithing man to keep them in order. This door, to Sally's great joy, proved to be ajar, and she stepped inside.

A warm, musty odor came rushing to meet her, the church interior evidently having retained its heat from the day; and now Sally shrugged her wet, dripping shoulders, grateful for the warmth she had been protesting earlier. Opening a near-by pew door which, with outspread, groping hand she succeeded in locating, she stepped inside the pew and, seating herself upon the warm wooden bench, spread out her wet skirts to dry.

The intense darkness denied her gaze. But she did not need vision to know how the pulpit, bare save for its narrow bench built against the wall, its four wooden pegs above that bench, faced her, flanked right and left by Church officials' pews. The drumming of the rain upon the roof was like a bombardment, thrum, bang, boom! Then with a swish stopped suddenly. And in the abrupt

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 silence the girl heard low, sinister voices whispering!

Now the darkness of the stormy night seemed to menace her. No longer was it a pretty curtain shutting out familiar scenes. Rather it was like a smothering black curtain, enfolding her, dulling the senses with which she would have striven to discern intangible danger.

She stirred—restlessly. Her foot kicked the pew door. And with her unguarded movement the whispering ceased. In vain she peered in every direction—only shadows met her straining gaze. As she stared, however, her eyes became accustomed to the darkness and vague outlines sprang to meet her gaze. That was the pulpit, there, and there Squire Riggs's pew! Across from the latter's pew was that of Master Eleazer Lamson! One by one she identified the familiar pews, foot by foot her eyes travelled over the big bare room. Then, as she leaned forward, staring, a green-yellow glare of lightning etched each window into place and revealed all that her seeking vision had attempted to discover. She uttered an exclamation of fright and jumped to her feet. For, crouched beside the pulpit, upon the floor were Stockton and Jerry!

Apparently her entrance into the church had been unnoticed by the red-coats, engrossed as they had been in their own conversation. But now as they were shown to Sally, so her wide eyes and

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 slender, unkempt figure stood out in the lightning flash. Before she could do more than wrench the pew door open, she felt her arm seized, and she was a prisoner! Almost immediately, she knew that it was Stockton and not Gerald Lawrence who held her in his grip.

"Easy on the maid!" Jerry's good-natured voice came from his place beside the pulpit. He had not stirred. Plainly he had been more than willing to give Sally a chance to escape back into the night whence she had come; but not so Stockton. He dragged her roughly out of the pew and thrust her up the aisle to Jerry.

"Wouldst have had the maid escape," growled Stockton, when he had pushed poor Sally down upon a pulpit step and had seated himself beside her and retained a grasp upon her thin wrist.

"What harm an she had?" queried Jerry lightly. "I fain would not bother wi' her!"

"Art a fool?" asked Stockton gruffly. "Ye do not know how much nor how little she hath o'erhead!"

"She hath proved herself our friend—did I not tell ye she gave me warning?" Young Lawrence's voice grew a little sharper, and for a moment there was hostile silence between the two men.

Then Sally broke it. "Your friend!" she said in a low, bitter voice. "Aye, but how did ye reward me, Jerry Lawrence?"

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 her. "Well," he demanded, when Sally's lips closed over the hot words she longed to hurl at him, "well, how did I reward ye?"

"Ye know!"

"Nay, I prithee, tell me!"

"The maid be play-acting!" interrupted Stockton impatiently. "Come, let us decide what to do wi' her!"

"How did I reward ye?" Inexorably Jerry's voice repeated his question.

Stockton, ignored, fell to muttering.

"Ye rewarded me by stealing Mary Todd, that IS what ye did!" burst out Sally. "A varlet thou art—a rogue, I dub ye! Ungrateful wretch! What did the poor Todds do to ye that ye should ha' taken little Mary wi' ye!"

"But wait!" Jerry's voice was bewildered. "I take Mary wi' me, ye say?"

"Aye, you!" Sally's voice was scornful. "Do not play-act in your turn and affect not to know her whereabouts. Master Lawrence!" she added. "Where is she? Where is little Mary?"

Before Stockton could guess her intention, Sally had slipped out of his grasp to go on to her knees before Jerry, who was standing stock still in the darkness before her. "Oh, please let me take Mary home!" implored the girl, a sob in her voice. "Surely the war be cruel enow without stealing her away from her home and her father and mother!"

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 Jerry made a strangled noise in his throat. "But I did not take her!" he shouted. "Say what ye will, believe what ye will, I did not take her!"

Sally sprang to her feet and shook his arm. "Then where is she?" she gasped. "Where is little Mary Todd?"

"I know not," answered the young British soldier sullenly. "The last I saw o' the child she was going across the road toward the swamp, after following me a short way up the lane, teasing me to take her. That was as I rode away—my parole ended—after finding the horse that Stockton, here, did"

"Enough!" Stockton's voice was violent, and he rose in a threatening manner. "Lieutenant Lawrence, report to your company immediately!"

But Gerald Lawrence did not budge. He shook his head obstinately until he realized that in the darkness that was no answer. Then he spoke: "Nay, Captain Stockton, I cannot desert Sally! These people were kind to me, though they were my captors, sir! I must stay and help search for the child!"

"Ye would again run into danger, sir, in such a fashion!" returned Stockton contemptuously. "Ye ha' strange ideas o' honor, indeed! Did ye not escape when still on parole?"

"Nay, sir!" Jerry took an impetuous step in the other's direction, stopped. Sally, standing

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 beside him, could feel the effort he made toward self-control. "Nay, sir, ye wrong me, I do protest," said the boy more quietly, then. "I ha' said that I waited until my parole had expired, about an hour before sundown!"

"Ah, Jerry," the light was suddenly breaking across Sally's mind, "was that why ye did not go last night after I had warned ye?"

"Aye, Sally," answered the boy gently.

"Very honorable, indeed!" sneered Stockton. His tone changed: "I had intended to let ye escape the reprimand ye so richly deserved for disobeying me, sir: but now I give ye fair warning, Lawrence, that this be insubordination for the second time in thus defying me, your superior officer. Wilt risk serious punishment on both charges, wi' death dealt ye by the rebels, mayhap, an ye return to be caught?"

"Aye, Captain Stockton," answered Jerry steadily.

Sally clasped her hands. "Then come!" she cried, starting forward impatiently. "Do not waste any more time an ye will help me to find Mary!"

"One moment!" Stockton's cold voice stopped her. "Ye realize, young mistress, ye be leading a man into sure death by asking him to return to the Orange Valley?"

Sally hesitated. There was something in Stockton's voice, much as she disliked the man, which

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 told her that in the letter of warfare he was right; yet her heart cried "Hurry!" and her heart guided her as usual.

"An Master Lawrence cares not for the danger he encounters, why should ye care, sir?" she asked impudently.

Fury shook Stockton's voice when he spoke. "Lieutenant Lawrence, ye are bent on defying my orders, sir?"

"Aye, Captain Stockton, until I find the child, little Mary Todd."

"Then I dub ye in revolt, sir, and must deal wi' ye accordingly!" So saying, Stockton drew out his pistol and fired point-blank.

At the flash, Sally shrieked; but the next instant she felt herself being hurried along toward the church door.

"Run ye, Sally!" gasped Jerry's breathless voice and grimly, bent only upon escape, she obeyed him.

A moment to unfasten old Dot, once that patient beast was reached, a second or so to mount, and she was off, followed by Jerry, who had miraculously found his horse in the darkness. The flare of lightning, now faint and far off, revealed to their backward glances the figure of Stockton in the open door of the church, shaking a malevolent fist after them.

For a while they galloped along in silence. The rain had stopped, as Sally had hoped, and now a

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 tiny star, like faint hope, had crept through a rift in the murky clouds. Soon there was another star and another. Then the moon sailed into glorious freedom, as the two turned their galloping steeds into the Second Road—no longer fittingly named the Dark Lane—and the whole world turned silver-white.

Sally shuddered as she glanced aside into the swamp shadows that even the most brilliant moon ray could not strip of their weird mystery.

"Think ye—think ye—there be quicksand i' there?" stammered Jerry, noticing her sidelong glance.

"I know not, indeed," returned Sally faintly. She looked into Jerry's pale face as he drew abreast her horse, seated upon his own. "Oh, why did ye not stop Mary, an ye saw her going toward the swamp this afternoon?" she reproached him.

"Ye would turn a soldier's duty into that o' a nursemaid!" retorted the other bitterly. But Sally recognized the pain beneath his words. "How knew I she was not allowed across the road?" he groaned after a pause. "Poor little maid! She was but a babe, after all!"

Sally shut her teeth upon the edge of a sob. With work to do this night, she would not yield to weakness, she told herself fiercely. There would be plenty of time for weeping afterward if But her heart shrank away from the hideous possibil-

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 ities of little Mary Todd's disappearance; for besides the war, wild beasts still roamed the Newark Mountains, and always there was the danger of the swamp. "There must be no if! Mary Todd must be found!" Sally thought. However, her young face grew strained and white.

Approaching Ned Tompkins's inn at Freemantown, Sally pulled old Dot to a standstill. "I think," she said slowly, "I will borrow a lanthorn."

Young Lawrence nodded. "Aye, 'tis wise. Best go in alone, though," he added, glancing down at his red uniform wearily.

How reluctant were Sally's feet as she went up the stepping stones to the inn's back door. Only Mistress Tompkins was in the big kitchen, though; and since she was deaf, she made out but half of what Sally tried to tell her. At last she gestured toward the lantern hanging upon its peg. "Take it," she said in the breathless voice of one who cannot hear. "I cannot understand why ye wish it," she smiled resignedly, "but I will trust ye, Sally!" Sweeping her a grateful curtsey, Sally seized the lantern and, removing its tallow candle, lighted the candle wick in the supper embers still glowing upon the hearth. Then nodding again gratefully, the girl rejoined Jerry outside.

At sight of his drooping figure, however, a pang of pity swept over Sally. For the first time that night she remembered that he had been wounded,

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 that he was in the land of his enemies, and that—more prosaic but equally important—like herself, he was doubtless supperless. She hesitated, for she was afraid of the risk of being detained by the tavern hostess; but finally setting the lantern down upon a stump in the yard, she turned and sped back to the kitchen door. With her hand upon the latch, though, she paused, startled. Loud voices were now exclaiming in the kitchen.

"Run away, ye say, Todd!" That was mine host's voice.

"Aye," answered a sad voice. "Run away! And we know not where to search for Mary, either! I ha' been scouring the Mountain wi'out result this night! I fear, indeed, the young red-coat took her wi' him for revenge!"

"The varlet!" growled Master Tompkins. "An we find him, we will make short work o' stringing him up!"

He turned and shouted the tale into his wife's deaf ear, so that in the ensuing confusion—for the poor lady got everything twisted—Sally escaped without detection. Dashing past the little shed at the rear of the house, the girl halted. It was the dairy, she knew, and she tried the door. Yes, it was open, and a little later Jerry was staring down with unbelieving eyes at the brimming gourd of milk Sally held up to him.

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 Then as the girl hastily, in a low voice, informed him of events within the tavern, he gulped down the milk gratefully. When he handed back the gourd, he looked and felt much better. Sally threw the gourd back into the inn yard, then quickly remounted old Dot.

"They ha' not spied us because o' the great trees sheltering us here and because we stopped at the rear door i'stead o' the front one!" she exclaimed. "But we'd best away, Jerry!"

They were too late! Master Todd, followed by Uzal Ball, issuing from the tap-room door of the inn just as they started away in the bright moonlight, recognized both boy and girl. The men gave a loud shout and ran for their horses; but the others had a head start and galloped off.

"Hast any plan?" asked Jerry grimly, as they galloped neck to neck.

"Aye!" shouted Sally in his ear. "Follow me!"

And the next moment she pulled up. Jerry doing likewise, she guided them both aside and rode directly into the swamp. Splashing through standing water, with Jerry following closely, she drew up behind a thick screen of underbrush and saplings upon what seemed to be a tiny islet. When Master Todd and Uzal, galloping past them unsuspectingly—for Sally and Jerry, slipping aside, had been

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 hidden by a turn of the road as they had done so—to disappear up the road, Sally used her heels as spurs and regained the lane in short order to gallop in the opposite direction, toward home.

"Now," she said, when Jerry had come up with her once more, "let us hurry!" She whispered suddenly: "Oh, what be the use o' hurrying when it may be too late!"

"Courage!" returned Jerry. "The little Mary will yet be found safe!"

At last they reached the old stone wall whence had come the fatal shot from Master Todd's musket. Across the way was another opening into the swamp which Sally knew. Once more she guided old Dot into water knee-deep to the horse, followed by Jerry. Once more they reached a strip of higher ground, above the water. And there, slipping off from old Dot, Sally tied her to a tree and helped Jerry tie his nag, also, for his abused and wounded arm was now paining him again—a fact he had tried to hide from the girl; but which her sharp scrutiny had detected and pitied. At last, free to set forth upon their search for the missing child, they faced each other.

"Hast any idea which direction Mary might ha' taken?" asked Jerry in a hopeless manner.

Sally, shaking her head, jumped in nervous terror. Was that a snake she had stepped upon! Examination proved it to be but a stick. "Nay," she said.

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 "We must keep to high land, an we can—though, i' truth, I ha' never heard o' anyone finding quicksand here for certain, as they have i' the Newark swamps! Give me the lanthorn, please!" she added, extending her hand.

"The lanthorn! Nay—I—I" Jerry's voice trailed off into silence.

"Ye must ha' dropped it!" said Sally bitterly, after a little. "Nay, stay, I mind I left it myself upon that stump in the inn yard! Well," she squared her shoulders in a debonair fashion, "an we come to the worst shadows we—we—will wait and—and—see what they be! Besides, the moonlight doth filter through enough to—to—let us see, most o' the time!"

So, chatting forlornly, to keep up her show of bravery, Sally led the way into the depths of the swamp.

It was in vain! No sign was there of little Mary Todd anywhere! They fell to calling her name presently in a last hope that somewhere in that great, shadowy place she would hear and answer them. But again and again they listened, and nothing could be heard in response save perhaps the flight of a swamp rat or the scolding of a chipmunk upon a near-by stump.

It was their calling, as they neared the road once more, which was Sally's undoing. Master Todd, passing by and hearing her voice, came bursting

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 through the underbrush, and when she would have run, caught her in an angry grasp.

"How now!" he exclaimed fiercely. "What foolishness be this, Sarah?"

Sally, glancing over her shoulder and seeing Jerry slip safely away behind the chipmunk's tree stump, allowed herself to be haled out of the swamp and hurried along the road toward the Todd farmhouse. "I—I—was—was looking i' the swamp for—for—little Mary," she explained at last, wearily, in answer to the indignant questions Master Todd kept shouting at her as he half dragged, half carried her along by her thin arm.

He seemed beside himself with fatigue and anxiety. His tone softened as he glanced down at the childish figure staggering along beside him, with downcast eyes and bowed head of auburn curls. "All this time, Sally?" he asked. Without waiting for a reply, to Sally's intense relief, for she had hesitated in answering him, not wishing to tell him an outright falsehood, Master Todd continued more gently: "Ye must be tired, then, lass! Best home wi' ye to bed!"

"But Mary!" cried the girl despairingly. She gave a little sob. "I could not sleep—I must help to find her!"

"I will keep up the search, Sally, never fear!" Grimly, determinedly, the father looked down at her out of eyes like sunken coals. "Ye had better

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 get some sleep, though, for to-morrow—to-morrow ye may ha' much to do." His voice broke and he turned away for an instant. Then, clearing his throat, he made a pretense of looking over his shoulder; and Sally, glancing up at him, saw a rough homespun sleeve drawn across his eyes. He immediately became very brisk and matter-offact, however. "Uzal!" he shouted into the night. "Bring the horses to the house, will ye?"

"Aye, Squire!" came back the answer.

"What made ye think o' looking i' the swamp, Sally?" asked Master Todd suddenly, jerking a thumb backward over his shoulder as they turned in at the farm gate.

"Why not there?" returned Sally evasively. "When one searches, one must look—everywhere!"

Her voice now broke in turn, and, stumbling, she would have fallen but for Master Todd's hand upon her arm. All at once she seemed pathetically little to him, and stooping, he picked her up and thus carried her into the house.

His wife, seeing him burdened, started up from the settle with wild hope in her eyes, then in the candlelight, perceiving it to be Sally, she burst into tears and sank back. Her attitude of utter hopelessness touched Sally, pierced through her dislike and resentment toward the other; and when she was placed gently upon her feet inside the door by Master Todd, the girl went over to place her hand

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 in pitying tenderness upon the poor woman's shoulder. The other did not move, however, did not utter a word. She merely sat there, staring stonily ahead of her at nothing, the great tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

"Well," it was Master Todd's husky voice which finally broke the stillness, "I shall go out again, Molly!" He waited a moment; but his wife did rot speak or move, and he slowly withdrew into the night.

Scarcely had he gone, however, when he wis back. There was a rush of feet in the doorway, a man's rapturous cry, and Master Todd burst in upon them again. "Mary is found!" He strode over to shake his wife, who looked up at him bewilderedly. "Ye hear, Moll! Our Mary!"

They all turned toward the door, and an instant later Jerry staggered across the threshold with little Mary in his arms. Swiftly, silently he leaped across the room and placed the chubby form in her mother's outstretched arms. He alone saw the terrible appeal in Mistress Todd's eyes. "Aye, she is alive!" he said simply.

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HERE was a long moment of silence, during which Mistress Todd clasped her child to her heart and uttered crooning mother words' with her face buried in little Mary's curls. Then bamuel Todd turned slowly to Jerry and, putting his hand upon the boy's shoulder, spoke sorrowfully: "It is my duty to arrest ye, Lawrence! Ye are my prisoner!"

Jerry raised exhausted eyes to meet the tired ones of his captor and merely nodded, but Sally started forward wildly with clasped hands. "Ah, no. Master Todd!" she choked. Tis not fair when he came back from freedom at my appeal to help search for Mary!"

Master Todd, however, only shook his head silently and turned away. It was Jerry who answered the girl. "Do ye not know, mistress, there be naught fair about war?" he said bitterly.

At that, then. Master Todd swung around and looked at the young Englishman. "I cannot do it!" he said heavily. "I cannot arrest ye an ye came

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 back to search for my baby! There be freedom!" He pointed toward the open door. "Take it!"

Jerry and Sally looked at him almost unbelievingly for a second; then the boy sprang toward the entrance like a bird whose cage door has been opened unexpectedly by a friendly hand. But upon the threshold he was stayed by Uzal Ball's tall figure. Face to face, the two glared at each other until Uzal put out a restraining hand.

"The prisoner!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Here be thy prisoner, Squire!" Then, as only silence answered him, he peered in puzzled surprise over Jerry's shoulder. "An ye do not wish to take charge, neighbor," he said dryly, "I shall take pleasure i' reporting his capture and delivering him to headquarters."

Sally glanced quickly at Master Todd. "Nay, let him not take charge o' Master Lawrence!" she implored. "Surely 'twould be better, an he must be arrested, for ye to report his arrest. Master Todd!"

"I want naught to do wi' it," answered that worn-out man impatiently. "Come, Moll," he turned toward his wife, "let us put wee Mary to bed!"

But Sally placed her hand beseechingly upon his arm. "He found Mary!" she reminded the father softly.

Master Todd hesitated, looked toward Uzal Ball at last. "I will report his arrest, Uzal," he said

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 decisively. Then, as the young man lingered doubtfully, he glanced at him from beneath drawn brows. "I will be responsible for Master Lawrence," he repeated in a tone not to be gainsaid, and Uzal was forced to release the hold he had kept all the while upon Jerry's wounded arm.

"Very well," said Uzal gruffly. "I will bid ye good-night, then. Squire," and, turning upon his heel, he stalked away.

"Why did ye wish me to be the one to arrest you lad?" asked Master Todd, turning curiously to Sally when Uzal had disappeared into the night. "Come in, Lawrence, and close the door. I must again put ye upon your honor not to escape, an ye will so promise," he added gravely. "Best do so, for ye be in no condition to ride far this night."

Jerry, his hand clamped upon his wounded arm, which Uzal had hurt afresh, looked at Master Todd thoughtfully, then nodded his head.

Sally glanced from one to the other. "I wished ye to be the one to arrest Master Lawrence," she said boldly, "because ye can secure more favors for him an he be sent to prison than Uzal Ball can, by reason o' your greater age and your better position on the Mountain and at the settlement, sir."

Master Todd stared at her and followed his stare by an admiring chuckle. "Ram's horn—ye do be a smart lass for fair!" he exclaimed. He turned to young Lawrence for confirmation. "Can ye beat

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 that for shrewd thinking and planning, lad?" he demanded.

Jerry shook his head. He did not speak, however, and Master Todd now saw the clutching fingers upon his wounded arm and the lines of pain upon his face that showed white beneath the tan and dirt.

"Here be another patient, Moll!" called the farmer to his wife. Mistress Todd glanced up at her husband's approach. "Is the Mary-patient asleep?" he asked whimsically.

"Aye," the mother nodded. Rising, she carried the little girl up to her trundle bed and returned to set to work with kind fingers upon the young soldier's arm.

"Where found ye Mary?" she asked presently. Sally drew near for his answer.

"She was curled up inside a hollow tree-stump, so sound asleep she did not once hear us calling," answered Jerry. "That very same stump the saucy chipmunk sat upon and chattered at us, Sally," he glanced with an irrepressible grin at the girl. "The little maid must ha' found her hiding place before the storm, for she was dry as toast i' there!"

Both parents' eyes were very tender; but Mistress Todd said slowly: "We must watch the tiny lass after this 'til she be older, Samuel. They do say there be quicksand in the swamp. I know I've ever had a horror o' the place. And then, to think

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 that Mary" She stopped with a shudder, her hand trembling as she bound some soft linen around Jerry's bare arm.

"That be not so," returned Master Todd. Tis only old women's tales because the swamp be dark and gloomy."

"Then ye think Mary was in no real danger?" asked Sally, almost disappointed.

"Nay, I said not that!" answered Master Todd gravely. "There was very real danger for a little one her size i' the swamp. So we have ye to thank just the same, Lawrence." He turned in a friendly way to the young Englishman. "And now let us to bed," he ended, seeing that his wife had finished her task and that the boy was leaning back in his seat with closed eyes.

"Ease after pain—be there anything so wonderful!" murmured Jerry, following the others up to bed.

"Nothing—save freedom after imprisonment," murmured Sally resentfully, who was at his heels upon her way upstairs for her blankets.

Jerry faced her in the narrow hallway; and finding that the others had closed their chamber door, he looked soberly at Sally over the lighted candle he was carrying. "I will hold the candle for ye to get your blankets out o' you chest," he remarked in a loud voice for Mistress Todd's benefit. Then, in a lower tone, he hurried on: "There be no reason ye

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 should harbor a grudge against Master Todd, Sally, for arresting me when Uzal Ball forced him to do so. These be war times, and I blame him not for what he did."

Sally, red-faced from stooping over the chest, straightened herself and looked at him scornfully. "Men be strange creatures!" she muttered, shaking her head, then. "Mayhap ye think 'tis fine to stay here and risk your life thus; but I wonder at ye, promising once more not to escape! Ye could ha' easily done so to-night and so reached Staten Island or New York Town once more."

Then Jerry said a strange thing, looking at her sidelong. "But New Jersey holds you, Sally!" he told her softly. Immediately, he blushed a bright scarlet in the candlelight and bolted into his room, leaving a bewildered Sally standing there, staring through the darkness toward his closed door.

The next day. Master Todd rode away with his prisoner, accompanied by Uzal Ball, who had appeared bright and early. Sally watched their departure with a heavy heart. In vain she kept reminding herself that not only was Gerald Lawrence almost a stranger to her, that five or six days ago she had not even known of his existence; but that he wore the enemy colors. He was her friend, despite all this! Almost the first real friend she had ever had in her lonely young life!

As a matter of fact, the English boy had en-

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 deared himself to the whole family, so much so that Master Todd even now would have allowed him to take his freedom were it not for the watchful presence of Uzal Ball. He knew, however, that everyone had to think of himself during these dark days of the Resolution, and anyone who showed favoritism or partiality to the enemy was apt to become a marked man and eyed with suspicion later on. Already Master Todd could feel the hostility in Uzal's manner, his alert glance often upon both him and the prisoner.

There were many Tory families living in Orange at this time—although many left, after their homes had become confiscated, and emigrated to Nova Scotia—and these people were both feared and hated by their Whig neighbors. Samuel Todd had no desire to join their ranks, of course, so that he made an especial effort to be cordial to Uzal, showing by his manner and his words that more and more he was determined that Jerry should not escape!

But human plans are uncertain, at best, and it was not long after her husband's departure that Mistress Todd called faintly from within the kitchen to Sally, standing drearily at the door. Turning reluctantly away, the girl blinked at the sudden transition from bright sunshine to the gloom of the big room. When her vision steadied, though, she ran forward to kneel beside Mistress

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 Todd, whom she was shocked to find outstretched upon the floor at the foot of the stairs.

"What is it?" gasped Sally in horrified amazement. "Surely ye did not fall down the stairs! Nay, I did not hear ye!"

"I slipped," groaned Mistress Todd. She pulled herself to a sitting posture with great difficulty, aided awkwardly by Sally; but when she moved her foot, she uttered a sharp cry and turned pale.

"What can I do!" implored Sally, pale also from sympathy.

"Is Samuel out o' sight?" moaned Mistress Todd.

"Just barely!" Sally brightened. "Shall I get old Dot and overtake him?" she asked eagerly.

"Aye, an ye can!" Mistress Todd nodded. "No, sweetheart, Mother cannot get up—see, her poor foot be hurt!" she added tenderly to little Mary, who had crept over to pat her mother.

Sally, flying toward the barn to saddle old Dot, was ashamed of herself for her joy. But any unplanned happening which broke the monotony of farm life could not help but be welcome, and her lips were parted in a smile as she rode forth from the Todd gate and turned her horse's head northward upon the Second Road.

She caught up with the men and their prisoner at Master Tompkins's inn. They all turned sur-

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 prised eyes upon her as, breathless and with radiant cheeks, she galloped up to them.

"Mistress Todd!" gasped Sally, enjoying the dramatic side of this incident immensely, I regret to say.

"Aye—what be the matter now?" Master Todd's voice was startled.

"She hath fallen down the stairs, sir—is still upon the kitchen floor, for I could not move her!" answered Sally, excitedly waving her hands, her eyes stealing involuntarily to Jerry's grave young face.

"Hurt badly, Sally? Is she unconscious?" exclaimed Master Todd.

"Nay, not unconscious. I think it is her ankle," Sally told him. "Mayhap 'tis but a strain!" she added comfortingly.

"Whatever it be, I must return, Uzal," Master Todd announced at once. "Wilt bring this list o' tools from Beach and Hews' shop? I need some o' the articles to mend my plow wi'—I cannot get my planting done until I get them."

"Nay, Squire Todd," Uzal shook his head. "I may not return for two or three days. I must stay on business for my mother."

"What! Ye do not return this night!" Master Todd's face fell.

Sally leaned forward in her saddle, feeling that

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 now was her chance. "I be dressed and ready, sir. Why not allow me to purchase the articles ye need and return wi' them this afternoon?" she suggested respectfully, her heart beating with hope.

Master Todd hesitated. Then, to the girl's joy, he nodded. "Ye be as good as a boy, Sally," he said approvingly. Twill help me, indeed, an ye bring home the things. Uzal, there, hath the list—I gave it him wi' my money to put i' his saddlebag. He will gi' it ye when ye reach the Town by the River, wi' the necessary shillings. He was to ha' purchased the articles while I lodged Master Lawrence, here, wi' the authorities." Master Todd held out his hand to Jerry. "No hard feelings, sir," he said wistfully. "We must each do our duty, ye mind."

Sally, glancing at the young red-coat, thought him more sober than she had ever seen him. But later, trotting along the quiet lanes, he seemed to recover his spirits and chatted away gayly with the girl until they began to pass the ruins Cornwallis had left behind him upon the outskirts of Newark—burned farmhouses and barns and devastated farms—a few months before, during the fateful year of 1776. As he rode silently along behind them, Uzal Ball's face grew a little more grim and set when they came upon the places which had once been happy homes; and gradually Jerry, feeling the burning glances Uzal cast upon him, fell silent

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 again. At last the boy turned in his saddle and stared at Uzal self-consciously.

"I gather ye blame the enemy for all this, sir!" he burst out.

"British or Hessian or Tory—the rascality be the same, sir!" retorted Uzal sourly. "Ye see what doth confront Newark farmers—aye, and us at the Mountain, too—after a raid carried out by ye and your ilk!"

Sally, acutely uncomfortable, stared from one angry face to another. Much as she hated the red-coats, she constantly forgot the color of Jerry's uniform until reminded, as now, by some blunt words or happening. But she liked Uzal accordingly!

All fell silent as their horses climbed the last ridge before Newark, leaving behind them the fields and the scattered ruins of farmhouses. This ridge, now known as High Street, formed the western boundary of the Town by the River, as Newark was then called. Only one or two homes had been built along this ridge—its main attraction was a pretty woodland path known as "Lovers' Lane," where sweethearts, at that time, were wont to stroll and admire the little hamlet below them. They had only to raise their eyes to obtain a fine view of the surrounding country—Staten Island, lying to the south, Newark Bay, and the two ribbons which were the Passaic and the Hackensack

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 rivers—or, as they were then called, the Pesayak and the Second rivers. The heights of Bergen hid the mighty Hudson River; only from the vantage point of the First Mountain above what is now Orange and Montclair could be discerned New York Town, and then only on clear days. Newark itself was only a small village of one hundred and forty houses during the American Revolution, with less than a thousand inhabitants. Most of the houses were built along a broad lane, magnificently called Broad Street, with a few other lanes running parallel upon each side and a few more crossing it at right angles—leading from the Mountain or the river. All of the public buildings—the court house, the churches (two of them), the jail, the taverns, and the few shops were located upon Broad Street. There, too, was the space of ground devoted to military training, now known as Military Park. And there, placed, for some obscure reason, ten or twelve feet below the road's level, in the center of the village at the junction of Broad Street and Market Street, was the town pump. This was a rendezvous for stout matrons and buxom maidservants, though the steps leading down to it were apt to be coated with ice in winter and wet and muddy in summer.

Sally, however, desperately thirsty after her long, hot ride, eyed it longingly as they trotted up Market Street toward it. Uzal turned so decidedly

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 south on Broad Street that she dared not ask permission to dismount and obtain her drink and delay the party by five or ten minutes. Being feminine, though, she achieved her end.

"Good-bye, Jerry," she said soberly, pulling upon old Dot's reins until she had fallen behind. Jerry, glancing around, also dropped behind.

"Fare ye well, Sally," he answered as soberly. Then, without another word, he suddenly wheeled his horse and shot off in the opposite direction. Uzal, at that, glanced around, gave a shout that brought people running in every direction.

"Stop him! Stop the red-coat!" yelled Uzal.

There were one or two futile attempts to do so; but Jerry, by that time, was riding too hard to be stopped—it would have been almost certain death beneath his horse's feet to try to do so. Therefore, everyone was perfectly willing that Uzal, alone, should strike his heels into his horse's sides and start after the escaped prisoner. This he did, to disappear in a cloud of dust. One or two men, having procured horses, followed hastily, disappeared in their turn. But Jerry, riding low in his saddle, was no longer in sight even when the dust had slowly settled and the others were mere specks upon the horizon.

Sally, all this time, had been sitting with her mouth open. She had not forseen Jerry's attempt at escape in the least—indeed, she was as honestly

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 surprised as anyone, although, she thought dismally, she would have a hard time to convince Uzal that she and Jerry had not somehow managed to plan this together, on their way to Newark. But all she had really dropped behind the others for was a drink of water. Now, slipping from her horse and pushing through the crowd who would have questioned her, she went down the steps to the pump place. Seeing, then, her quiet determination not to be questioned, the crowd melted away. Soon Broad Street was as sleepily still as it had been before the three newcomers had disturbed its peace.

Sally reflectively pumped herself a delicious gourdful of clear water. Seeing old Dot's head peering wistfully over the rail down at her, she held up her gourd laughingly. "Here's to ye, old horse!" she toasted gayly; and as though to aid in furnishing festivity, the sound of fife and drum came to her wondering ears.

Sally listened. Then, dropping the gourd, she ran up the steps and stared in the direction of the music; and as she gazed came once more the hated, flaunting sight of red uniforms. The British!

As though by magic, the lanes were now absolutely deserted. Not an inhabitant was to be seen! Sally, pale-cheeked from fright, gazed around her. Should she run across the lane to the corner house where the Allings lived? She decided not, for the distance of a few hundred feet looked endless to her.

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 Descending to the depths of the pump-stand once more, she stood there, wondering if she were out of the range of bullets; then, remembering old Dot, she anxiously reascended the steps. The red-coats were nearer now. Sally's calm was not increased by seeing John Alling creep forth from his house and secrete himself in a position, musket in hand, grim of face, visible to her but not visible to the approaching British infantry. So there was death to be dealt that day!

Sally watched Major Alling with fascinated eyes. She almost forgot the enemy behind her as she stared at him. How white was his face, how steady the sunburned hands as he raised his musket slowly to his shoulder. But now there was a flash, a bang, a cry! Sally whirled around in time to see one of the red-coats down the street throw up his hands, stagger, and fall.

Instantly, then, the air seemed to be full of whistling bullets. Sally, standing rooted to her place upon the steps above the pump, saw John Alling leave his position and boldly escape to the orchard behind the house.

Suddenly a voice shouted above the tumult of cries and shots: "Run, John!"

It was an aged man seated in an upper window of the Alling house. Sally recognized John Alling's grandfather. Now the enemy had reached the town center and a red-coat, looking inquiringly

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 toward his superior officer, raised his musket to direct it at the sturdy old gentleman.

"Shall I shoot the old fool?" he asked.

With more humanity than others had shown during these Newark raids, the British officer shook his head. "He's too old to do us any harm," he replied.

All at once his eyes fell upon Sally's horrified face, peering out at him from beneath the railing, and he gave a violent start. "By the grace o' Peter!" he ejaculated. "What be ye doing here, mistress?"

Sally, however, instead of answering him, ran up the rest of the steps to the street level and around the railing to where old Dot lay rolling upon the ground. The poor beast had been mortally wounded by a stray bullet!

"Oh, Dot! Oh, Dot!" moaned the girl, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to clasp the old horse's head. "Art indeed hurt so badly?"

The British officer, having recalled his men from their futile chase of Alling, turned back to Sally. Old Dot now lay motionless in the lane, and the girl was staring down at her sadly.

"This thy horse?" he asked abruptly.

Before Sally could answer, a new voice spoke sardonically. "Nay, 'tis her master's horse. But I advise ye to arrest this bond servant for loitering

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 here under suspicious circumstances and for persuading a British soldier to desert his officer and his duty," drawled Captain Stockton.

As Sally stared at him, the other officer hesitated. "Mayhap ye be right, sir," he said slowly. "Still, I do dislike to take the maid back wi' us to New York Town. Marshal Cunningham be not noted for his gentleness."

"The charge be a serious one," answered Stockton ironically. "I do advise ye to heed me, sir! I am the officer who prefers the charge."

The other, at that, snapped his fingers without more ado at two soldiers who, running up to him and saluting, stood at attention. "Escort this maid when we return to New York," he ordered, and turned upon his heel.

Poor Sally! Now she understood the real malevolence that was in that gesture with which Stockton had shaken his fist at Jerry and her the night before!

It was a long, silent trip across the swamps, across the ferries, up over Bergen Heights, and down to Paulus Hook, that Sally took that night. Her captors were not unkind to her, save once when they had halted and Sally would have slipped down from in back of the stolid red-coat she was riding with and flitted away into the shadows. The flutter of her light dress, however, caught Stockton's eye,

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 and he dragged her back, jerking her upon her horse again with a sharp reprimand to the soldier who had allowed her to escape.

At Paulus Hook, Sally glanced with a gasp of dismay at the periauger, a two-masted vessel with narrow beam and lee-boards. But, almost before she knew it, they had crossed the dark, choppy stretch of water that was the Hudson River and were in New York. There she was hurried along between the soldiers and placed in the New Gaol for the night; and the next morning she was taken before Marshal Cunningham, that tyrant who had sentenced Nathan Hale to a miserable death and had deliberately torn up Hale's last letter to his sweetheart before the doomed man's face.

"Well, this the lass?" asked Cunningham, his face expressionless as he gazed over a table, behind which he sat, at Sally. The girl, glancing around, perceived that she was alone, save for Stockton, standing beside the marshal's table.

"Aye, sir!" Stockton nodded.

"The one whose master did arrest Lieutenant Lawrence?" pursued Cunningham, his little eyes glancing at Sally and then away.

"Aye, sir!"

"The lass who persuaded the young fool to forsake his duty?"

"Aye, sir!"

"Well, Captain Stockton, what punishment do

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 ye suggest?" demanded Marshal Cunningham.

The other cleared his throat. "I would suggest that the lass be held pending the release o' Lawrence by the rebels. And should they not release him, that the maid be punished for their misdeeds—and her own—and the rebels told o't," answered Stockton smoothly. "Mayhap a few months i' the Long Room might teach her not to interfere wi' a British soldier and officer i' the pursuit o' his duty. There be other means also."

"But" said Sally.

"Silence!" thundered Stockton.

"But Lieutenant Lawrence" began Sally again. She shrank back at the threatening gesture Stockton made toward her.

All this time Cunningham was staring out of the window at the stretch of green before the New Gaol, where the Sons of Liberty had erected their liberty poles as fast as he had torn them down. He scowled, suddenly remembering the wound he had suffered there, when he had vowed to make every rebel pay for it.

"And your punishment for the maid, Captain Stockton?" he asked coldly.

"That the girl be branded on the arm!"

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HE dingy room grew dim before Sally's eyes. She had the feeling of being in a dreadful nightmare. Surely she must waken presently in her own little room beneath the eaves at Master Todd's with Mary's warm, chubby body nestling against her in the big feather bed they shared. But Cunningham's harsh voice brought her back to grim realities. She opened her eyes to stare at the two men who could so callously consider such a punishment as Stockton had suggested for her.

"Captain Stockton," said Cunningham tonelessly, "ye be not practical, sir. General Howe would not permit such a course as ye ha' devised."

Stockton gnawed his fingernails for a thoughtful moment. "Ye do admit my idea be a good one, Marshal Cunningham?" he asked presently.

The other nodded morosely. "Aye, the idea be good enough. The rebels must be taught a lesson. I know that General Howe had destined young Lawrence for a promotion soon. The rebels be both daring and presumptuous in thus detaining him in their midst," he responded in a level voice.

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 "But, sir" began Sally desperately, for the third time.

"Will ye be silent, mistress!" Stockton hurled the words at her and Sally gave up her attempt to tell them that Jerry had escaped from his captors.

A pointed silence then ensued. Finally Stockton moved restlessly. "Would ye consent to the maid being placed i' the stocks?" he asked, casting a shifty side glance upon the other.

Cunningham shook his head. "Captain Stockton, it seems not feasible to exhibit the girl in any public manner. General Howe will not permit it, I tell ye!"

"What would ye suggest, then?" snarled Stockton at last, glancing maliciously at Sally, who, white-cheeked and silent, now, from sheer horror, stood gazing helplessly at Cunningham and him.

Cunningham pondered. "The rebels must be taught a lesson; but not by maltreating this maid—publicly!" he said, emphasizing the last word of his sentence in a sinister fashion that made Sally's blood run cold.

Stockton looked at him quickly. "I understand," he said then, with a cruel smile. "The rebels will be notified; but New York Town will know—nothing. Is that it, sir?"

"Exactly." Cunningham waved his hand negligently and stifled a yawn. "Ho, there, guard!"

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text: The Diary of a Pilgrimage/Adverts

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 he called. When the soldier who had accompanied Sally hither reëntered the room to stand at ramrodlike attention, the marshal addressed him. "Remove this maid to the Long Room," he ordered, "and return here for further instructions."

Sally closed her eyes again, shuddering. She had heard of the Long Room, so called from its dimensions. It was an apartment set aside in one of the New York prisons—the Bridewell—for female culprits. The prison itself was a new one, built but a few years before, in 1775, because of overcrowded conditions in the New Gaol; and being unfurnished in many respects, especially as to windows through which the winter's cold could sweep, it had caused much suffering to those unfortunates who had been confined there. The Bridewell was a small stone structure; and like the New Gaol, it faced the Fields, that stretch of land noted before the war as a common outdoor gathering place for the citizens of New York. The Long Room was partitioned across its center, the rear half being reserved for Negro women and the front half for white; but except for the occasional patriot, like Sally, who was confined in it by underhanded means, the prisoners were of the lowest class, criminal rather than political, and woe to the person of refinement who was detained among them! No wonder poor Sally tried now to thrust away the repulsive pictures her active mind immediately conjured up before her!

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 Her guard poked her in the side with the butt of his musket. "Forward!" he ordered roughly.

Sally faced the door and moved forward upon leaden feet. Her eyes were open and set and staring. But halfway across the room the heavy door into the hall was thrust violently open and a soldier stepped inside. "General Howe!" he bawled, and stood aside, petrified into immobility after he had presented arms.

The two men behind the table barely had time to exchange guilty glances when a fine-looking man in full-dress uniform, followed by a gay party of ladies and gentlemen, swept across the threshold. Sally, meeting the former face to face, stopped automatically until he had stepped around her, then continued upon her unseeing way to the door. Both Stockton and Cunningham saluted; and the marshal, assuming an air of delighted surprise, moved to meet his superior.

"How now. Marshal Cunningham!" greeted Howe, his keen glance taking in every detail of the scene. He stepped behind the table into Cunningham's place and nodded sharply. "Halt the maid!" he snapped.

The guard touched Sally upon the shoulder and she stopped.

"Ye were engaged wi' this girl?" asked the British general.

"She is a Newark maid, a servant i' a rebel fam-

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 ily, and brought to New York Town, sir, on the charge"

General Howe held up his hand, and Cunningham subsided into silence. Howe turned to the group of visitors standing in the corner, who were looking on with curious eyes. "Ye wished to visit the New Gaol and the Bridewell," said Howe smilingly to them. "Observe how they exist and how we conduct our business. Bring the girl before me!" He turned commandingly to Stockton.

Stockton, saluting, hesitated only for the fraction of a second, and then, moving forward, he placed his hand upon Sally's arm. Shuddering a little, she turned slowly around and fixed her vacant gaze upon him. "General Howe would speak wi' ye!" he told her politely; then he added beneath his breath: "Beware!"

Sally, however, looked at him uncomprehendingly as, obedient to his touch, she returned to her place before the table. There, slender and drooping, she stood with her hopeless eyes fixed upon the floor. Stockton saluted again and moved over to stand beside Cunningham, who was gazing on the proceedings with a cynical smile. The others present, silent and interested, watched.

"What are the charges lodged against the prisoner?" asked Howe. He interrupted himself by motioning to one of the ladies, a beautiful woman in the laces and satins of a belle, to come forward

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 from the group and stand beside him. "Ye were especially interested, Lady Holden," he said, smiling at her gallantly, as she responded. "I wish ye to have full opportunity to witness our justice."

Lady Holden! Through her daze of misery and fright the name came to the prisoner like a thunderbolt. Sally raised her eyes, and as she did so, a gentleman disengaged himself also from the group of visitors and came forward. "I protest, my wife cannot ha' all the honor thus, sir!" he observed jokingly. But Lady Holden, with a dainty gesture of her white hand, hushed him, and the business of the Court proceeded.

When General Howe had been made acquainted with the charges brought against Sally, he frowned. "How do ye identify this girl?" he asked Stockton curtly.

"By her hair, sir. She hath auburn hair, as ye can see, an she remove the bonnet she doth wear!" answered Stockton promptly, with an air of candour.

"Remove your bonnet!" said General Howe to Sally.

Raising a trembling hand, the girl untied her bonnet strings and jerked the ugly thing from her head. As she did so, her thick mop of curls came tumbling down around her face, and a little murmur of admiration swept through the room. Even Howe's face, for he was ever susceptible to feminine beauty, was softened as he regarded her.

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 Sally, however, was not looking at him. Her eyes, wide, staring, were fixed upon Lady Holden's face as that gentlewoman stared back at her. All at once the lady reeled and would have fallen but for her husband's outflung hand.

"The heat!" he murmured hastily; and stooping, he caught up his wife's slight figure in his arms and left the room.

General Howe, quite upset, brought the proceedings to an abrupt close. "The maid is discharged for lack o' evidence," he said sternly. "Set her free!" And he left the room, followed by his guests.

Free! Sally, upon the somber threshold of the New Gaol, stood undecided for a moment, staring across the Fields. Far down the street she could see the procession of sedan chairs in which General Howe and his party were being conveyed home. She wondered vaguely in which one sat Lady Holden, felt again that thrill of inexplicable and overwhelming intimacy which had swept over her when her eyes had met the lady's, and she started down the street instinctively in the direction taken by the sedan chairs. She had no plan for returning to Newark, as yet. Her thoughts were still in a tumult, and she hurried along Broadway blindly.

But as Sally proceeded down the wide lane that was filled with an afternoon throng, her steps slowed to a saunter. The sedan chairs, carried by

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 swift slaves, had long since disappeared; and now, interested and excited, Sally became engrossed in the busy street scenes all about her.

Broadway was then, as now, the principal thoroughfare in New York. But then wealth had erected beautiful residences along each side of it, and it was not until she came to the ruins of Trinity Church, burned the year before, that a blank space occurred in the blocks which the girl trod.

Each fine home had its stone stoop built before its entrance. Here were gathered the ladies of the household, ostensibly out to enjoy the air, really to bow prettily to the British officers who passed by. There were few carriages, many sedan chairs, and now and then an officer on horseback dashed up or down the street. No signs here of lack or hardship of warfare! Sally, remembering the homespun gowns, the busy hands at home incessantly knitting stockings for the soldiers, looked in amazement at the gay satins and silks of the New York ladies.

But now, as she walked along, she became aware, disagreeably, of someone at her side. Even before she had glanced up, she knew that she would see the furtive face, the cruel eyes of Stockton. She stopped angrily and, regardless of passers-by, faced him with hostile words. "Why do ye follow me?" she demanded. "General Howe ordered that I be set free. I call not this freedom—to be followed thus!"

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 Seizing her elbow with iron fingers, Stockton forced her to walk on beside him, so that to the average gaze they might have been like any other strolling couple, out sauntering for pleasure.

"See ye aught o' friends?" whispered Stockton threateningly. "Be silent, or it will be the worse for ye, mistress!"

Sally, staring about her despairingly, looked in vain for a friendly face. No one paid the least attention to her. Hard faces, careless faces, selfish faces—each seemed busy with its own petty concerns, and the girl tramped on beside Stockton, not daring to call for help.

So they passed down Broadway and turned east toward the river at last. Here the houses were not quite so elegant. Side streets of more modest residences opened off from the thoroughfare Stockton had chosen. But here, too, were groups of ladies surrounded by the red uniforms of British officers. One lady, seated alone and knitting comfortably, attracted Sally's attention as they went by her stoop. Something familiar about the kind, plain, sensible face, the stout figure, called out to the girl. Then, suddenly, she remembered. The lady was Mistress Van Houten, and here the house where Sally had tarried before going out to the Mountain settlement with Parson Chapman more than three years ago.

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 Sally stopped, and Stockton had to stop, too. But before he could grasp her intention, the girl had broken away from him, and, darting back with a little cry, she ran up the steps of Mistress Van Houten's stoop, to throw herself down upon her knees before that astonished lady.

"Save me, madam!" choked Sally. "This man be persecuting me!"

Stockton took off his hat and, bowing low, approached with an oily smile. "The lass be demented, madam," he said, waving a sorrowful hand, supposing that Sally had appealed to a stranger for help. "I be taking her to my sister's. 'Tis a very sad case! Come, we must go, my dear!"

He reckoned, however, without the lady's shrewd Dutch mind and her very excellent memory. As he put out his hand to take Sally's arm. Mistress Van Houten stared at him with cold eyes and rose suddenly to her feet.

"Begone, sir! I know ye do not speak the truth!" she answered sternly. "I know this child's history and exactly where she belongs. Go into the house, Sally! I ha' bid you begone, sir! Why do ye still tarry? 'Tis a low pursuit for an officer o' His Majesty's army to stoop to! But quite worthy an ally o' Cunningham, as I do now recognize ye to be!"

Tis rather dangerous to air one's opinion o'

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 Marshal Cunningham, madam," returned Stockton threateningly.

"Aye?" responded the lady in a sarcastic voice. "Mayhap the fact o' friendship wi' Lord Howe and General Clinton might offset the danger, sir!"

Stockton started. He knew that friendships existed between the British commanders and certain New York families; and staring fiercely into the lady's calm eyes, he now decided to play the game safely. So, with another sweep of his hat, he bowed low. "Madam, your pardon an I ha' offended ye!" he craved with a surliness he tried in vain to change into suavity. "I will leave the maid, then, i' your charge for a while, an ye desire."

"I do so desire," answered Mistress Van Houten decidedly. She stood awaiting Stockton's departure, then, with such an obvious show of patience that he was forced to bow again and reluctantly turn away. Mistress Van Houten watched him until she was convinced that he meant no treachery for the nonce.

Sally, meanwhile, standing bashfully in the center of the long, narrow parlor, was looking about her with reminiscent eyes. It was a plain, cheerful room like its mistress, bright with chintz hangings and chintz-covered furniture and gay wall paper with scenes of waterfalls and castles and friendly forests upon it. The fragrance of pansies and heliotrope came from boxes in the open windows, while

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 in an adjoining room a green-and-red cockatoo squawked upon his perch, making a vivid splash of color in the late afternoon sunshine.

It was the cockatoo that she remembered the most distinctly, perhaps, for it had been the cockatoo which had engrossed the little frightened maid's attention those three long years ago when the poverty and death of Grannie Haggerty had set her drifting in the cruel world until, out of the torrid waters of neglect. Parson Chapman had lifted her to this haven that was his friend's home, before removing her to his own home in New Jersey.

Now Sally felt the same trust and liking for Mistress Van Houten that had enveloped her before, when that lady entered her parlor hurriedly and seated herself in a wing chair. She motioned Sally to draw near and, while the girl told her story, kept uttering little clucking cries of pity and horror. When the tale was ended, she closed her eyes and pondered, while Sally watched her anxiously. Suddenly Mistress Van Houten's eyes flew open, and she fixed them keenly upon the girl's wistful face.

Tis plain to be seen, Sally, that Parson Chapman did make a mistake when he placed ye in Mistress Todd's family. It can be seen that she hath no patience wi' ye, and dear knows," a smile spread over the lady's face, "dear knows a girl o' your age doth take much patience!"

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 "I see not why," began Sally, rather nettled.

Mistress Van Houten held up her hand humorously. "Spare me, I prithee!" she said in a good-natured voice. "Enough when I say 'tis so, my lass. Mayhap the lady is not to be over-envied, either! However, it be now our concern to get ye back safely to New Jersey once more!"

Rising from her chair, she passed out of a rear door into a little narrow hallway; and going to the top of the basement stairs, she called to someone below: "Cudje! Cudje!"

"Yas'm, Missy! Ah'm jes' cleanin' the brasses like yo' done tole me to!"

"Let the brasses wait, now, Cudje, and come upstairs. I wish ye!"

"Yas'm!"

Returning to the parlor. Mistress Van Houten placed her stout, middle-aged figure once more in her wing chair and awaited her Negro slave's appearance. Soon his shuffling step sounded upon the stairs, and a few moments later he was standing in front of her, showing the whites of his eyes as he rolled them curiously in Sally's direction. Sally, gazing at him in return, beheld an old colored man of uncertain years, clad in the knee breeches and the waistcoat of his dead master, for Mistress Van Houten was of thrifty Dutch extraction and saw no reason for purchasing lackey's uniform when she had a whole chestful of clothes upstairs. The only

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 drawback was that Master Van Houten had been both tall and broad, while Cudje was neither, so that now the master's waistcoat flopped somewhere about Cudje's legs. The colored man's enormous dignity overcame this slight defect, however, and he now stood waiting for his mistress to speak.

"Cudje," Mistress Van Houten looked up at him appealingly, "canst think o' any way to get little Mistress Sally here, back to Newark?"

Cudje turned in the girl's direction and bowed beamingly. "Ef it ain't H'l Missy Sally! Ah done declare to ma's ef when Ah come in dis hyar room dat's who it was, but"

"But she hath grown a bit since Parson Chapman brought her here, eh, Cudje?" interrupted his mistress tolerantly.

"Yas'm!" Cudje's white teeth showed in another grin.

"Well, canst think o' any way for her to return?" Mistress Van Houten turned to explain to Sally, who, seated upon the edge of her chair, was watching them anxiously: "Cudje does most o' my marketing at the docks and comes into contact wi' many Jersey farmers. I thought he might know o' someone."

"I do. Missy," said Cudje simply. "Mas'r Crane do be returning early i' the mawnin' to Newark on his boat. Ef li'l Missy likes to go that way"

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 He paused and looked inquiringly at Sally, who nodded slowly.

"The very thing!" exclaimed her hostess. "Run ye and make arrangements, Cudje. But, mind ye—a shilling, no more! Tell Master Crane only a shilling!" When the aged darky had hurriedly departed, she turned complacently to Sally. "I knew Cudje could help us. He hath been such a comfort since Hans departed this life!"

The next morning found Sally wending her way toward the dock where Cudje told her lay Master Crane's little schooner. The old darky, who escorted her, was garrulous, as usual; but the young girl was silent and downcast. Scarcely admitting it to herself, she had been hoping against hope almost up to the last moment of being bidden farewell by Mistress Van Houten that, after hearing her pathetic tale, the wealthy, childless widow might offer to relieve the Todds of their unwelcome burden. Life in the quiet, orderly city house might have been very pleasant, thought Sally wistfully, tramping along in the gray dawn. She would have missed the companionship of little Mary, of course; but perhaps Mistress Van Houten would have allowed the child to come in for a visit. Sally pictured showing the wide-eyed little girl the sights and wonders of New York Town and going home afterward to have goodies in the pleasant room of the green-and-red cockatoo.

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 Sally's heart sank. Home! That was what she had never known in all her life! Grannie Haggerty's poor, bare room might have been home had the old woman shown more than the grudging care she had bestowed upon the little unwelcome waif brought to her by her son. The farmhouse at the foot of the Newark Mountains might have been home to Sally had Mistress Todd welcomed her a little more heartily to it three years ago! As it was, the girl felt, and truly, that she had never shared anyone's home. And now, lonely and desolate, she was being shunted back to a place where no one really wanted her. She would not admit that she had been watching every moment since leaving the New Gaol yesterday afternoon for Jerry's smiling face, that she hated to go back to New Jersey because it probably no longer contained him!

Cudje broke into Sally's sad little reverie with a cheerful chuckle. "Thar she be. Missy—Mas'r Crane's boat! Hi, thar, Mas'r Crane!"

A tall, broad-shouldered man looked up, and, perceiving him, Sally's heart sank. It was Jeremiah Crane, one of the rabid Tories of New Jersey. His welcoming smile also died away into a dour look as he recognized the girl in turn, and he looked threateningly at Cudje.

"Ye gave me to understand 'twas one o' Mistress Van Houten's own family who desired to go to Newark," he said in an ugly tone.

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 "So 'tis, Mas'r," answered Cudje ingratiatingly.

"How so?" demanded the other with a frown. "I know this lass—she belongs i' that rebel Todd's family at the Mountain."

"She's been a-visitin' Mistress Van Houten, a gues' dere, which be all de same as part o' the fambly," interrupted Cudje. "See here, Mas'r Crane, you-all doan' like ma tryin' t' get a passenger fo' yo' schoonah, jes' say so! Ah hab plenty othah people Ah kin go fo' passage and fo' marketin'!"

At this, Master Crane suddenly realized that he was speaking to a representative of one of his best customers, for Mistress Van Houten both loved to eat and loved to entertain her friends. His manner underwent an abrupt change. "Oh, of course, Cudje, of course," he said, with pseudo heartiness. "I was but surprised, for I thought 'twould be Mistress Van Houten herself, mayhap!"

"Aye, sir," answered Cudje affably. He turned to Sally and took off the ridiculously large hat which had been his late master's. "Good luck, li'l' Missy," he said simply. His kind brown eyes followed the young girl when she went up the schooner's gangplank, and he sighed. He, too, had been hoping that his mistress might think to offer Sally a home; but apparently the thought had not occurred to her; and so the dull house was not to retain the gleam of sunshine that was Sally's hair, nor the lilting melody that was her happy laughter.

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 As for Sally, she stood in the stern of the little schooner a few moments later, when its sails captured the morning breeze that sent it dancing out from shore, and gazed back at Cudje, waving to her in friendly farewell from the dock. Responding, her glance shifted carelessly to a group of passengers being discharged from a craft made fast to the dock behind the Negro. There were some British soldiers and a few prisoners walking in their midst, with their hands tied behind their backs. The girl started. Was one of those prisoners Master Todd?

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ALLY could not be sure she had seen Master Todd, however, and, even as she stared, the space increased between ship and dock, so that, all too soon only the flaunting red of the soldiers' uniforms could be distinguished; and then even the color of the uniforms merged into the background, and Sally, sighing, turned away.

But, in spite of herself, her spirits rose as the small schooner, propelled by a friendly breeze, slipped through green water. She cried out in delight at the picture the wooded hills of Staten Island made in the clear morning light, at the lovely New Jersey shore, at the white sea gulls wheeling and circling overhead. It was enough to be young, after all, thought the girl exultantly! What matter how dreary the past, how dark and foreboding the future. Here she was with the salt tang of the sea blowing to her nostrils, a little caressing wind lifting the curls upon her neck!

Master Crane busied himself sullenly about the deck of his boat and did not come near Sally at all through the trip. When they were made fast at the

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 Newark dock in the early afternoon, he merely nodded to her to go ashore, which she was glad enough to do. Toryism and cruelty were too closely associated in her mind for her not to have been upon her guard all morning.

Hungry and tired, she tramped slowly up the lane from the river, and sometime later she was peering in at the kitchen door of the Rising Sun Tavern.

Mistress Banks, the host's wife, was in charge of the many pots and kettles swung upon a huge crane in the great fireplace, and an odor of cooking onions and roasting meat greeted the newcomer as she paused shyly. Mistress Banks gave a nervous start at sight of the girl's shadow thrown suddenly across the sanded floor; but her face cleared at actual sight of Sally.

"Why, come ye in, my dear," she bade Sally kindly, "Mind the meat, Sam!" She turned to the little Negro boy, who bent to his task of turning the spit before the fire, after staring at Sally. "Hast but come to Newark?" went on the tavern hostess with an inquiring look. "Martha!" she lifted her voice imperatively. "Art ever returning to the kitchen? I cannot attend these pots forever!"

A buxom Negro woman came waddling in from the tap room in answer. "Ah was jes' servin' Captain Camp," she explained, giggling. "I done heah him tell some othah men dat His Excellency had

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 give him a cannon to 'fend Newark wi' when de red-coats make their 'tack again. No mo' bein' unprepared like day befo' yestiddy! Captain Camp done told 'em a girl was carried off to New Yawk Town, too, by de red-coats. Ain't that dreadful! You, Sam, tend to yo' bizness—you heah me?—else dat meat ain't goin' tas' lak nuffin at all!" And she turned upon her son, who had been staring up at her pop-eyed, with a threatening elbow.

"Never mind Sam," bade her mistress impatiently. "Come ye here to the fire and attend to your own business, Martha! Now, Sally, let us go out and cool off!" Sighing, Mistress Banks led the way to a bench outside the kitchen door, and, seating herself there, patted it invitingly. "Sit down and tell me news o' my good friend, Molly Todd! Long hath it been since I saw her! One would think we were forty i'stead o' four miles from the Mountain! But what news o' all the settlement? Have the British raids extended inland at all? And how be Samuel Todd and little Mary and the baby?" Her torrent of questions ceasing, Mistress Banks fixed inquiring eyes upon Sally's face.

"Indeed," the girl burst out, seating herself upon the edge of the bench, "I was going to ask ye!"

The older woman stared. "What mean ye?"

"I mean that I am that girl Martha did but now tell ye of! For, the other day, when the red-coats came to Newark, they did take me back wi' them

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