Fainter, yet fainter grew his voice, at length dying away altogether.

She heard her name breathed softly, just as he used to speak it when she, a little maid, was nestling in his arms, and he wished to a.s.sure himself of her being asleep.

"Yes," she whispered.

"My baby, 't is growing dark, blackly dark, little one. Ye'd better get to bed."

She made no answer--she could not, but listened breathlessly.

"My baby--my baby Dot. G.o.d keep my baby!"

The words were scarcely spoken, but came like long sighs, to mingle and die away with the night wind moaning outside the window. And it was as if the surf caught them, and repeated them to the watching stars.

"G.o.d--keep--my--baby!"

The room was still--still as the great loving heart under her cheek.

And the tide was on the ebb.

CHAPTER XXVII

The summer days found Glover's regiment stationed, a portion at Cambridge, and the remainder on the high grounds of Roxbury, where were also all the other Ma.s.sachusetts troops, as well as some of those from Connecticut.

John Devereux, being on duty at Cambridge, had approved of his wife accepting Mistress Knollys' invitation to stop with her in Dorchester.

Her brother-in-law had been killed at Bunker Hill, and his devoted wife, broken-hearted, died soon thereafter, thus leaving Mistress Knollys entirely alone.

Mary insisted upon Dorothy accompanying her, for the girl had become greatly changed since her father's death, and Mary, as well as Aunt Lettice, deemed it wise to try the diverting effect of new scenes and a.s.sociations. Then, too, Dorothy had always been a prime favorite with Mistress Knollys, and returned sincerely the good lady's motherly affection.

Thus it was that Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha were left alone at the Devereux farm, whose flocks and stores had already been much depleted by generous contributions sent up to the patriot army about Boston.

Mary saw her husband at rare intervals, when it was possible for him to s.n.a.t.c.h a few hours from his post of duty; but Hugh never came.

Mary could readily divine the reason for this, and so could Mistress Knollys, albeit the subject was never mentioned between them: for soon after their arrival, Mary, with Dorothy's consent, had told her of all that related to the young Englishman.

At first the old lady was filled with righteous indignation. But when she came to understand and realize how it was with Dorothy's own feelings, she accepted the result with the philosophy that was a part of her sweet nature,--even smiling to herself when she thought of the young man's rare audacity.

She had, despite her white hairs, a spice of romance yet left in her heart. And perhaps the memory of her own elopement, in the face of her parents' prohibition, went far toward softening her feeling in favor of the daring offender.

But she shook her head sadly as she thought of her own boy, the secret of whose heart she had long suspected, although he had not given her his confidence; and her eyes moistened as she realized the downfall of the cherished castle she had been building for him, with this girl--of her own choosing--for his wife.

Late one September day, Johnnie Strings brought word to Dorothy that Aunt Penine lay at death's door, and was craving to see her.

It was decided that she had better accede to her aunt's request, and that Mary should go with her; and so, in pursuance of arrangements made by the pedler, they started on horseback the following morning, with that wary individual as escort, and rode directly to a certain tavern just inside the American lines, and known as "The Gray Horse Inn,"

where they procured a conveyance to carry them the remainder of the journey.

Strings himself did not deem it wise to venture nearer than this to Boston, as he was expected to hold himself in readiness at the inn to receive some papers to be delivered to the Commander-in-Chief at Cambridge.

It was late in the afternoon when the two girls, after having seen Aunt Penine and made peace with her, hurried down the street toward the place where their carriage was awaiting them.

The day was gray, with clouds gathering slowly, when they had set out on foot from this point for their visit to Aunt Penine, their driver having considered it better that he should wait for them near the house of an acquaintance, whose true sentiments were known to only a few of his countrymen. And now, as they returned, a strong east-wind was making mournful soughings in the trees, and a downpour of rain seemed imminent from the solidly ma.s.sed clouds overhead.

As they came down the steps of the house, Mary noticed a man across the street, lounging under the elms, as though awaiting some one. His tall figure was well wrapped in a riding-cloak, whose folds he held in a way to conceal his lower features, while his hat, slouched over his forehead, made it still more difficult to obtain a clear view of his face.

"Look at that man over there," she said nervously, clutching Dorothy's arm.

"Yes, I see," Dorothy replied with no show of interest, as they started down the street. "What of him?"

She was paying little heed to anything about her, for the meeting with Aunt Penine had aroused to new and acute paining the sense of her own great loss.

This, thanks to the diversion afforded by her new surroundings, had begun to be a little dulled; for when one is young it is no easy matter for any sorrow, however heavy, to utterly crush out all the light and hope.

Then, too, it had seemed to Dorothy a most marvellous thing to see Aunt Penine so softened and repentant. And this of itself served to increase the homesick longing the very sight of her had brought to the girl,--a craving for the happy days of the dear old home, when a united family gathered under its roof, with no war-clouds darkening their hearts.

"I am sure he is the same man I noticed walking after us when we came; and if so, why has he been standing there all this time?"

Mary now spoke excitedly, and as though alarmed, glancing now and then over her shoulder at the cause of her fears.

"He is probably attending to his own affairs, and giving no thought to ours," Dorothy answered, without looking in the stranger's direction.

"If not, what then? It will be daylight for two hours to come, and in five minutes we will be where the man is waiting for us."

Mary said nothing more, but ventured to steal a parting glance as they turned the corner of the street; and she was much disconcerted to see the man still appearing to follow them.

They soon reached their destination and found the vehicle waiting. A minute more and they were seated, the driver gathered the reins, and his horses set off at a pace bespeaking their impatience to return to their stalls at the Gray Horse Inn.

The rain held back until they drew up in front of the entrance. Indeed it seemed as if the storm had waited for the girls to reach shelter, for no sooner were they inside the house than it let go with a sudden burst, doubtless setting in for an "all-nighter," as Johnnie Strings averred when he met them at the door.

It was impossible for them to continue their journey on horseback that night, and the landlord refused to send the carriage to Dorchester, by reason of all his horses being needed early the following morning to carry some supplies to the outposts. And so, yielding to the inevitable, Mary and Dorothy decided to pa.s.s the night at the inn, letting Johnnie Strings, who cared nothing for the storm, go on and explain matters to Mistress Knollys.

The Gray Horse Inn was an old building, whose precise age none could tell. The street whereon it stood was little more than a lane, leading off the main thoroughfare to Boston; and a person outside could easily glance through the lower windows, when these were unshuttered, as no shrubbery veiled them. Inside it was cheery and well-kept, and its rambling style of construction afforded accommodation for a surprising number of guests.

Back of the building extended a cornfield, which ended in a tract of woodland, while upon its townward side was a st.u.r.dy growth of oak and nut trees, encircling the cornfield, and running quite to the line of the woods beyond.

Mistress Trask, the landlady, gave the two girls a small parlor, communicating with a sleeping-room; and here their supper was served.

As the buxom dame brought in the well-filled tray, a loud, aggressive voice came through the open door, evidently from the taproom, where a fire blazing on the hearth--although the night was barely cold--tempted the wayfarers to congregate.

"An' I tell ye," said the unseen speaker, "that Boston is the heart an'

mouth o' the colonies. The wind that blows from Boston will set every weatherc.o.c.k from New Hampshire to Georgia."

A silence followed, suggestive of no one caring to dispute the a.s.sertion.

Mistress Trask, noting Mary's expression of annoyance and her glance toward the door, made haste to close it. Then she explained, as she began setting the food upon the table: "That's only farmer Gilbert.

He's a decent enough body when sober, but once he gets a bit o' liquor under his waistcoat, it seems to fly straight to his brains and addle 'em. And then he do seem fairly grieving for a fisticuff with all creation."

"I surely trust he will make no such disturbance while we are in the house," Mary said uneasily.

"Never ye have any fear, dearie," replied the good woman. She was an old acquaintance of Johnnie Strings, and he had duly impressed her as to the high standing of the guests he left in her charge.