Again Janice, with her eyes on the ground, said, "Yes."

"I must do the king's work, and when 't is done I return to

England and resume my true position, and ye will never again

hear of me--unless--" The man paused, with his eyes fixed

on the downcast face of the girl.

"Unless?" asked Janice, when the silence became more

embarrassing than to speak.

"Unless ye--unless ye give me the hope that by first returning

here--as your father has asked me to do--that I

may--may perhaps carry ye away with me. Ah, Miss Janice,

't is an outrage to keep such beauty hidden in the wilds of

America, when it might be the glory of the court and the toast

of the town."

Again a silence ensued, fairly agonising to the bewildered

and embarrassed girl, which lengthened, it seemed to her, into

hours, as she vainly sought for some words that she might

speak.

"Please let go my hand," she begged finally.

"Not till you give me a yea or nay.

"But I can't--I don't--" began Janice, and then as footsteps

were heard, she cried, "Oh, let me go! Here comes

Charles."

"May I come back?" demanded Evatt.

"Yes," assented the girl, desperately.

"And ye promise to be secret?"

"I promise," cried Janice, and to her relief recovered her

hand, just as Charles entered the garden.

Like many another of her sex, however, she found that to

gain physical and temporary freedom she had only enslaved

herself the more, for after breakfast Evatt availed himself of a

moment's interest of Mrs. Meredith's in the ordering down of

his saddle-bags, and of the squire's in the horse, to say to Janice,

aside:--

"I gave ye back your hand, Janice, but remember 't is mine,"

and before the girl could frame a denial, he was beside Mr.

Meredith at the stirrup, and, ere many minutes, had ridden

away, leaving behind him a very much flattered, puzzled, and

miserable demoiselle.

VIII

SEVERAL BURNING QUESTIONS

The twenty-four hours of Evatt's visit troubled Janice

in recollection for many a day, and marked the beginning

of the most distinct change that had come to

her. The experience was in fact that which befalls

every one somewhere between the ages of twelve and thirty,

by which youth first learns to recognise that life is not mere

living, but is rather the working out of a strange problem compounded

of volition and necessity, accident and fatality. The

pledge of secrecy preyed upon her, the stranger's assumption

that she had bound herself distressed her, and the thought

that she had been the subject of tavern talk made her furious.

Yet she had promised concealment, she was powerless to write

to Evatt denying his pretension, and she could not counteract

a slander the purport of which was unknown to her. Had she

and Tibbie but been on terms, she might have gained some

relief by confiding her woes to her, but that young lady's visit

came to an end so promptly after the departure of Evatt that

restoration of good feeling was only obtained in the parting

kiss. For the first time in her life, Janice's head would keep

on thinking after it was resting on its pillow, and many a time

that enviable repository was called upon to dry her tears and

cool her burning cheeks. Never, it seemed to her, had man

or woman borne so great a burden of trouble.

The change in the girl was too great not to be noticed by

the household of Greenwood. Mrs. Meredith joyfully confided

to the Rev. Mr. McClave that she thought an "effectual

calling" had come to her daughter, and that Janice was in a

most promising condition of unhappiness. Thus encouraged,

the divine, who was a widower of forty-two, with five children

sadly needing a woman's care, only too gladly made morning

calls on the daughter of his wealthiest parishioner, and in place

of the discussions with Tibbie over romance in general, and

the bond-servant in particular, as they sewed or knitted, Janice

was forced to attend to long monologues specially prepared

for her benefit, on what to the presbyter were the truly burning

questions of justification, adoption, and sanctification. What

is more, she not only listened dutifully, but once or twice was

even moved to tears, to the enormous encouragement of Mr.

McClave. The squire, who highly resented the lost vivacity

and the new seriousness, insisted that the "girl sha'n't be made

into a long-faced, psalm-singing hypocrite;" but not daring to

oppose what his wife approved, he merely expressed his irritation

to Janice herself, teasing and fretting her scarcely less

than did Mr. McClave.

Not the least of her difficulties was her bearing toward the

bondsman. Conditions were still so primitive that the relations

between master and servant were yet on a basis that

made the distinctions between them ones of convenience rather

than convention, and thus Janice was forced to mark out a

new line of conduct. At first she adopted that of avoidance

and proud disregard of him, but his manner toward her continued

to convey such deference that the girl found her attitude

hard to maintain, and presently began to doubt if he

could be guilty of the imputation. Nor could she be wholly

blind to the fact that the groom had come to take a marked

interest in her. She noted that he made occasion for frequent

interviews, and that he dropped all pretence of speaking to

her in his affected Somerset dialect. When now she ventured

out of doors, she was almost certain to encounter him, and

rarely escaped without his speaking to her; while he often

came into the kitchen on frivolous pretexts when she was

working there, and seemed in no particular haste to depart.

Several times he was detected by Mrs. Meredith thus idling

within doors, and was sharply reproved for it. Neither to this,

nor to the squire's orders that he should put an end to his

"night-walking" and to his trips to the village, did he pay

the slightest heed.

Fownes entered the kitchen one morning in November

while Janice and Sukey were deep in the making of some

grape jelly, carrying an armful of wood; for the bond-servant

for once had willingly assumed a task that had hitherto been

Tom's. Putting the logs down in the wood-box, he stood

with back to the fire, studying Miss Meredith, as, well covered

with a big apron, with rolled up sleeves, flyaway locks, and

flushed cheeks, she pounded away in a mortar, reducing loaf

sugar to usable shape.

"Now youse clar right out of yar," said Sukey, who, though

the one servant who was fond of Charles, like all good cooks,

was subject to much ferment of mind when preserving was to

the fore. "We uns doan want no men folks clutterin' de fire."

"Ah, Sukey," besought Charles, appealingly, "there 's a

white frost this morning, and 't is bitter outside. Let me

just warm my fingers?"

Sukey promptly relented, but the chill in Fownes' fingers was

clearly not unendurable, for in a moment he came to the

table, and putting his hand over that of Janice, which held

the pestle, he said:--

"Let me do the crushing. 'T is too hard work for you."

"I wish you would," Miss Meredith somewhat breathlessly

replied. "My arms are almost ready to drop off."

"'T would set the quidnuncs discussing to which of the

Greek goddesses they belonged," remarked Fownes. Then

he was sorry he had said it, for Miss Meredith promptly

unrolled her sleeves; not because in her secret heart she did

not like the speech, but because of a consciousness that

Charles was noticing what the Greek goddesses generally

lack. A low-cut frock was almost the unvarying dress of the

ladies, there was nothing wrong in the display of an ankle,

and elbow sleeves were very much the vogue, but to bare the

arms any higher was an immodesty not permitted to those

who were then commonly termed the "bon ton."

This addition to the working staff promptly produced an

order from Sukey for Janice to assume the duty of stirring a

pot just placed over the fire, "while I 'se goes down cellar an'

cars a shelf for them jellies to set on. Keep a stirrin',

honey, so 's it won't burn," was her parting injunction.

No sooner was the cook out of hearing than Charles spoke:

"For two days," he said in a low voice, "I have tried to get

word with you. Won't you come to the stable when I am

there?"

"Are you going to crush that sugar?" asked Miss Meredith.

"Art going to come to the stable?" calmly questioned

Charles.

"Give me the pestle!" said Janice, severely.

"Because if you won't," continued the groom, "I shall

have to say what I want now."

"I prefer not to hear it," Janice announced, moving from

the fire.

"You must keep on stirring, or 't will burn, Miss Janice,"

the man reminded her, taking a mean advantage of the

situation.

Janice came back and resumed her task, but she said, "I

don't choose to listen."

'T is for thy father's sake I ask it."

"How?" demanded the girl, looking up with sudden

interest.

"I went to the village t' other night," replied the man, "to

drill--" Then he checked himself in evident disconcertion.

"Drill?" asked Janice. "What drill?"

"Let us call it quadrille, since that is not the material part,"

said Charles. "What is to the point is that after--after

doing what took me, I stayed to help in Guy Fawkes' fun on

the green."

"Well?" questioned the girl, encouragingly.

"The frolickers had some empty tar barrels and an effigy

of the Pope, and they gave him and a copy of the Boston

Port Bill each a coat of tar and leaves, and then burned

them."

"What fun!" cried Janice, ceasing to stir in her interest.

"I wish mommy would let me go. She says 't is unbecoming

in the gentility, but I don't see why being well born should

be a reason for not having as good a time as--"

"As servants?" interrupted Fownes, hotly, as if her words

stung him.

"I'm afraid, Charles," reproved Janice, assuming again a

severe manner, "that you have a very bad temper."

Perhaps the man might have retorted, but instead he let

the anger die from his face, as he fixed his eyes on the floor.

"I have, Miss Janice," he acknowledged sadly, after a

moment's pause, "and 't is the curse of my life."

"You should discipline it," advised Miss Meredith, sagely.

"When I lose my temper, I always read a chapter in the

Bible," she added, with a decidedly "holier than thou" in

her manner.

"How many times hast thou read the good book through,

Miss Janice?" asked Fownes, smiling, and Miss Meredith's

virtuous pose became suddenly an uncomfortable one to the

young lady.

"You were to tell me something about Mr. Meredith,"

she said stiffly.

"After burning the Pope and the bill, 't was suggested by

some to empty the pot of tar on the fire. But objection was

made, because

"Because?" questioned Janice.

"Someone said 't would be needed shortly to properly

season green wood, and therefore must not be wasted."

"You don't think they--?" cried Janice, in alarm.

The servant nodded his head. "The feeling against the

squire is far deeper than you suspect. 'T will find vent in

some violence, I fear, unless he yield to public sentiment."

"He'll never truckle to the country licks and clouted

shoons of Brunswick," asserted Janice, proudly.

"'T will fare the worse for him. 'T is as sensible to run

counter to public opinion as 't is to cut roads over mountains."

"'T is worse still to be a coward," cried Janice, contemptuously.

"I fear, Charles, you are very mean-spirited."

Fownes shrugged his shoulders. "As a servant should be,"

he muttered bitterly.

"Even a servant can do what is right," answered the

girl.

"'T is not a question of right, 't is one of expediency," replied

the bondsman. "A year at court, Miss Janice, would

teach you that in this world 't is of monstrous importance to

know when to bow."

"What do you know of court?" exclaimed Janice.

"Very little," confessed the man. "But I know it teaches

one good lesson in life,--that of submission,--and an important

thing 't is to learn."

"I only bow to those whom I know to be my superiors,"

said Janice, with her head held very erect.

"'T is an easy way for you to avoid bowing," asserted the

groom, smiling.

Again Janice sought a change of subject by saying, "Think

you that is why we are being spied upon?"

"Spied?" questioned the bondsman.

"Last week dadda thought he saw a face one evening at the

parlour window, and two nights ago I looked up suddenly and

saw--Well, mommy said 't was only vapours, but I know I

saw something."

The servant turned his face away from Janice, and coughed.

Then he replied, "Perhaps 't was some one watching you.

Didst make no attempt to find him?"

"Dadda went to the window both times, but could see

nothing."

"He probably had time to hide behind the shrubs," surmised

Charles. "I shall set myself to watching, and I'll

warrant to catch the villain at it if he tries it again." From

the savageness with which he spoke, one would have inferred

that he was bitterly enraged at any one spying through the

parlour window on Miss Meredith's evening hours.

"I wish you would," solicited Janice. "For if it happened

again, I don't know what I should do. Mommy insisted it

was n't a ghost, and scolded me for screaming; but all the same,

it gave me a dreadful turn. I did n't go to sleep for hours."

"I am sorry it frightened you," said the servant, and then

after a moment's hesitation he continued, "'T was I, and if I

had thought for a moment to scare you--"

"You!" cried Janice. "What were you doing there?"

The man looked her in the eyes while he replied in a low

voice, "Looking at paradise, Miss Janice."

"Janice Meredith," said her mother's voice, sternly, "thou

good-for-nothing! Thou'st let the syrup burn, and the smell

is all over the house. Charles, what dost thou mean by loafing

indoors at this hour of the day? Go about thy work."

And paradise dissolved into a pot of burnt syrup.

IX

PARADISE AND ELSEWHERE

While Charles was within hearing, Mrs. Meredith

continued to scold Janice about the burnt syrup,

but this subject was ended with his exit.

"I'm ashamed that a daughter of mine should

allow a servant to be so familiar," Mrs. Meredith began anew.

"'T is a shame on us all, Janice. Hast thou no idea of what

is decent and befitting to a girl of thy station?"

"He was n't familiar," cried Janice, angrily and proudly,

"and you should know that if he had been I--he was telling

me--"

"Yes," cried her mother, "tell me what he was saying

about paradise? Dost think me a nizey, child, not to know

what men mean when they talk about paradise?"

Janice's cheeks reddened, and she replied hotly, "If men

talked to you about paradise, why should n't they talk to me?

I'm sure 't is a pleasant change after the parson's everlasting

and eternal talk of an everlasting and eternal--"

"Don't thee dare say it!" interrupted Mrs. Meredith.

"Thou fallen, sin-eaten child! Go to thy room and stay

there for the rest of the day. 'T is all of a piece that thou

shouldst disgrace us by unseemly conduct with a stable-boy.

Fine talk 't will make for the tavern."

The injustice and yet possible truth in this speech was too

much for Janice to hear, and without an attempt at reply, she

burst into a storm of tears and fled to her room.

Deprived of a listener, Mrs. Meredith sought the squire,

and very much astonished him by a prediction that, "Thy

daughter, Mr. Meredith, is going to bring disgrace on the

family."

"What's to do now?" cried the parent.

"A pretty to do, indeed," his wife assured him. "Dost

want her running off some fine night with thy groom?"

"Tush, Matilda!" responded Mr. Meredith. "'T is

impossible."

"Just what my parents said when thou camest a-courting."

"I was no redemptioner."

"'T was none the less a step-down for me," replied Mrs.

Meredith, calmly. "And I had far less levity than--"

"Nay, Matilda, she often reminds me very--"

"Lambert, I never was light! Or at least never after

I sat under Dr. Edwards and had a call. The quicker we

marry Janice to Mr. McClave, the better 't will be for

her."

"Now, pox me!" cried the squire, "if I'll give my lass to

be made the drudge of another woman's children."

"'T is the very discipline she needs," retorted the wife.

"But for my checking her a moment ago I believe she'd

have spoken disrespectfully of hell!"

"Small wonder!" muttered her husband. "Is 't not

enough to ye Presbyterians to doom one to everlasting

torment in the future life without making this life as bad?"

"'T is the way to be saved," replied Mrs. Meredith. "As

Mr. McClave said to Janice shortly since, 'Be assured that

doing the unpleasant thing is the surest road to salvation, for

tho' it should not find grace in the eyes of a righteously angry

God, yet having been done from no carnal and sinful craving

of the flesh, it cannot increase his anger towards you.' Ah,

Lambert, that man has the true gift."

"Since he's so damned set on being uncarnal," snapped

the squire, "let him go without Janice."

"And have her running off with an indentured servant, as

Anne Loughton did?"

"She'll do nothing of the kind. If ye want a husband for

the lass, let her take Phil."

"A bankrupt."

"Tush! There are acres enough to pay the old squire's

debts three times over. She'd bring Phil enough ready

money to clear it all, and 't is rich mellow land that will

double in value, give it time."

"I tell thee her head 's full of this bond-servant. The two

were in the kitchen just now, talking about paradise, and I

know not what other foolishness."

"That" said Mr. Meredith, with a grin of enjoyment,

"sounds like true Presbyterian doctrine. The Westminster

Assembly seem to have left paradise out of the creation."

"Such flippancy is shameful in one of thy years, Mr.

Meredith," said his wife, sternly, "and canst have but one

ending."

"That is all any of us can have, Patty," replied the squire,

genially.

Mrs. Meredith went to the door, but before leaving the

room, she said, still with a stern, set face, though with a break

in her voice, "Is 't not enough that my four babies are enduring

everlasting torment, but my husband and daughter must

go the same way?"

"There, there, Matilda!" cried the husband. "'T was

said in jest only and was nothing more than lip music. Come

back--" the speech ended there as a door at a distance

banged. "Now she'll have a cry all by herself," groaned the

squire. "'T is a strange thing she took it so bravely when

the road was rough, yet now, when 't is easy pulling, she lets

it fret and gall her."

Then Mr. Meredith looked into his fire, and saw another

young girl, a little more serious than Janice, perhaps, but still

gay-hearted and loved by many. He saw her making a stolen

match with himself; passed in review the long years of alienation

from her family, the struggle with poverty, and, saddest of

all, the row of little gravestones which told of the burial of the

best of her youth. He saw the day finally when, a worn, saddened

woman, she at last was in the possession of wealth, to

find in it no pleasure, yet to turn eagerly, and apparently with

comfort, to the teachings of that strange combination of fire

and logic, Jonathan Edwards. He recalled the two sermons during

Edwards's brief term as president of Nassau Hall, which

moved him so little, yet which had convinced Mrs. Meredith

that her dead babies had been doomed to eternal punishment

and had made her the stern, unyielding woman she was. The

squire was too hearty an animal, and lived too much in the

open air, to be given to introspective thought, but he shook

his head. "A strange warp and woof we weave of the skein,"

he sighed, "that sorrow for the dead should harden us to the

living." Mr. Meredith rose, went upstairs, and rapped at a

door. Getting no reply, after a repetition of the knock, he

went in.

A glance revealed what at first sight looked like a crumpled

heap of clothes upon the bed, but after more careful scrutiny

the mass was found to have a head, very much buried between

two pillows, and the due quantity of arms and legs. Walking

to the bed, the squire put his hand on the bundle.

"There, lass," he said, "'t is nought to make such a pother

about."

"Oh, dadda," moaned Janice, "I am the most unhappy

girl that ever lived."

It is needless to say after this remark that Miss Meredith's

knowledge of the world was not of the largest, and the squire,

with no very great range of experience, smiled a little as he

said--

"Then 't will not make you more miserable to wed the

parson?"

"Dadda!" exclaimed the girl, rolling over quickly, to get

a sight of his countenance. When she found him smiling, the

anxious look on the still red and tear-stained face melted

away, and she laughed merrily. "Think of the life I'd give

the good man! How I would wherrit him! He 'd have to

give up his church to have time enough to preach to me."

Apparently the deep woe alluded to the moment before was

forgotten.

"I've no manner of doubt he'd enjoy the task," declared

the father, with evident pride. "Ah, Jan, many a man would

enter the ministry, if he might be ordained parson of ye."

"The only parson I want is a father confessor," said Janice,

sitting up and giving him a kiss.

"Then what 's this maggot your mother has got in her

head about ye and Charles and paradise?" laughed her

father.

"Indeed, dadda," protested the girl, eagerly, "mommy was

most unjust. I was to stir some syrup, and Charles came into

the kitchen and would talk to me, and as I could n't leave the

pot, I had to listen, and then--well

"I thought as much!" cried the squire, heartily, when

Janice paused. "Where the syrup is, there'll find ye the

flies. But we'll have no horse-fly buzzing about ye. My

fine gentleman shall be taught where he belongs, if it takes

the whip to do it."

"No, dadda," exclaimed Janice. "He spoke but to warn

me of danger to you. He says there 's preparation to tar

and feather you unless you--you do something."

"Foo!" sniffed the squire. "Let them snarl. I'll show

them I'm not a man to be driven by tag, long tail, and

bobby."

"But Charles--" began the girl.

"Ay, Charles," interrupted Mr. Meredith. "I've no doubt

he's one of 'em. 'T is always the latest importations take

the hottest part against the gentry."

"Nay, dadda, I think he--"

"Mark me, that's what takes the tyke to the village so

often."

"He said 't was to drill he went."

"To drill?" questioned the squire. "What meant he by

that?"

"I asked him, and he said 't was quadrille. Dost think he

meant dancing or cards?"

"'T is in keeping that he should be a dancing master or a

card-sharper," asserted Mr. Meredith. "No wonder 't is a disordered

land when 't is used as a catchall for every man not

wanted in England. We'll soon put a finish to his night-walking."

"I don't think he's a villain, dadda, and he certainly

meant kindly in warning us."

"To make favour by tale-bearing, no doubt."

"I'm sure he'd not a thought of it," declared Janice,

with an unconscious eagerness which made the squire knit

his brows.

"Ye speak warmly, child," he said. "I trust your mother

be not justified in her suspicion."

The girl, who meanwhile had sprung off the bed, drew herself

up proudly. "Mommy is altogether wrong," she replied.

"I'd never descend so low."

"I said as much," responded the squire, gleefully.

"A likely idea, indeed!" exclaimed Janice. "As if I'd

have aught to do with a groom! No, I never could shame

the family by that."

"Wilt give me your word to that, Jan?" asked the squire.

"Yes," cried the girl, and then roguishly added, "Why,

dadda, I'd as soon, yes, sooner, marry old Belza, who at

least is a prince in his own country, than see a Byllynge marry

a bond-servant."

X

A COLONIAL CHRISTMAS

For some weeks following the pledge of Janice, the life

at Greenwood became as healthily monotonous as of

yore. Both Mr. and Mrs. Meredith spoke so sharply

to both Sukey and Charles of his loitering about the

kitchen that his visits, save at meal times, entirely ceased.

The squire went further and ordered him to put an end to

his trips to the village, but the man took this command in

sullen silence, and was often absent.

One circumstance, however, very materially lessened the

possible encounters between the bond-servant and the maiden.

This was no less than the setting in of the winter snows, which

put a termination to all the girl's outdoor life, excepting the

attendance at the double church services on Sundays, which

Mrs. Meredith never permitted to be neglected. From the

window Janice sometimes saw the groom playing in the drifts

with Clarion, but that was almost the extent of her knowledge

of his doings. It is to be confessed that she eagerly longed

to join them or, at least, to have a like sport with the dog.

Eighteenth-century etiquette, however, neither countenanced

such conduct in the quality, nor, in fact, clothed them for it.

A point worth noting at this time was connected with one

window of the parlour. Each afternoon as night shut down, it

was Peg's duty to close all the blinds, for colonial windows not

being of the tightest, every additional barricade to Boreas was

welcome, and this the servant did with exemplary care. But

every evening after tea, Janice always walked to a particular

window and, opening the shutter, looked out for a moment, as

if to see what the night promised, before she took her seat at

her tambour frame or sewing. Sometimes one of her parents

called attention to the fact that she had not quite closed the

shutters again, and she always remedied the oversight at once.

Otherwise she never looked at the window during the whole

evening, glance where she might. Presumably she still remembered

the fright her putative ghost had occasioned her,

and chose not to run the chance of another sight of him.

Almost invariably, however, in the morning she blew on the

frost upon the window of her own room and having rubbed

clear a spot, looked below, much as if she suspected ghosts

could leave tracks in the snow. In her behalf it is only fair

to say that the girls of that generation were so shut in as far

as regarded society or knowledge of men that they let their

imaginations question and wander in a manner difficult now

to conceive. At certain ages the two sexes are very much

interested in each other, and if this interest is not satisfied

objectively, it will be subjectively.

Snow, if a jailer, was likewise a defence, and apparently

cooled for a time the heat of the little community against the

squire. Even the Rev. Mr. McClave's flame of love and love

of flame were modified by the depth of the drifts he must

struggle through, in order to discourse on eternal torment

while gazing at earthly paradise. Janice became convinced

that the powers of darkness no longer had singled her out as

their particular prey, and in the peaceful isolation of the winter

her woes, when she thought of them, underwent a change

of grammatical tense which suggested that they had become

things of the past.

One of her tormenting factors was not to be so treated.

Philemon alone made nothing of the change of season, riding

the nine miles between his home and Greenwood by daylight

or by moonlight, as if his feeling for the girl not merely

warmed but lighted the devious path between the drifts. Yet

it was not to make love he came; for he sat a silent, awkward

figure when once within doors, speaking readily enough in

response to the elders, but practically inarticulate whenever

called upon to reply to Janice. Her bland unconsciousness

was a barrier far worse than the snow; and never dreaming

that he was momentarily declaring his love for her in a

manner far stronger than words, he believed her wholly ignorant

of what he felt, and stayed for hours at a time, longing

helplessly for a turn of events which should make it possible

for him to speak.

Philemon was thus engaged or disengaged one December

morning when Peg entered the parlour where the family were

sitting as close to the fire as the intense glow of the hickory

embers would allow, and handing Janice a letter with an air

of some importance, remarked, "Charles he ask me give you

dat." Then, colonial servants being prone to familiarity, and

negro slaves doubly so, Peg rested her weight on one foot,

and waited to learn what this unusual event might portend.

All present instantly fixed their eyes upon Janice, but had

they not done so it is probable that she would have coloured

much as she did, for the girl was enough interested and

enough frightened to be quite unconscious of the eyes upon

her.

"A letter for thee, lass!" exclaimed the squire. "Let 's

have the bowels of it."

The necessity for that very thing was what made the occurrence

so alarming to Janice, for her woman's intuition had at

once suggested, the moment she had seen the bold hand-writing

of the superscription, that it could be from none other

than Evatt, and she had as quickly surmised that her father

and mother would insist upon sight of the missive. Unaware

of what it might contain, she sat with red cheeks, not daring

to break the seal.

"Hast got the jingle brains, child?" asked her mother,

sharply, "that thou dost nothing but stare at it?"

Janice laid the letter in her lap, saying, "'T will wait till I

finish this row." It was certainly a hard fate which forced her

to delay the opening of the first letter she had ever received.

"'T will nothing of the sort," said her mother, reaching out

for the paper. "Art minded to read it on the sly, miss?

There shall be no letters read by stealth. Give it me."

"Oh, mommy," begged the girl, desperately, "I'll show

it to you, but--oh--let me read it first, oh, please!"

"I think 't is best not," replied her mother. "Thy anxiety

has an ill look to it, Janice."

The girl handed the letter dutifully, and with an anxious

attention watched her mother break it open, all pleasure in

the novelty of the occurrence quite overtopped by dread of

what was to come.

"What nonsense is this?" was Mrs. Meredith's anything

but encouraging exclamation. Then she read out--

"'T is unworthy of you, and of your acceptance, but 't is the

fairest gift I could think of, and the best that I could do. If

you will but put it in the frame you have, it may seem more

befitting a token of the feelings that inspired it."

Janice, unable to restrain her curiosity, rose and peered over

her mother's shoulder. From that vantage point she ejaculated,

"Oh, how beautiful she is!"

What she looked at was an unset miniature of a young girl,

with a wealth of darkest brown hair, powdered to a gray, and

a little straight nose with just a suggestion of a tilt to it, giving

the mignon face an expression of pride that the rest of the

countenance by no means aided. For the remaining features,

the mouth was still that of a child, the short upper lip projecting

markedly over the nether one, producing not so much

a pouty look as one of innocence; the eyes were brilliant

black, or at least were shadowed to look it by the long lashes,

and the black eyebrows were slender and delicately arched

upon a low forehead.

"Art a nizey, Janice," cried her mother, "not to know thine

own face?"

"Mommy!" exclaimed the girl. "Is--am I as pretty

as that?"

"'T is vastly flattered," said her mother, quickly. "I should

scarce know it."

"Nay, Matilda," dissented the squire, who was now also

gazing at the miniature. "'T is a good phiz of our lass, and

but does her justice. Who ever sent it ye, Jan?"

"I suppose 't was Mr. Evatt," confessed Janice.

"Let's have sight of the wrapper," said the father. "Nay,

Jan. This has been in no post-rider's bag or 't would bear the

marks."

"Peg, tell Charles to come here," ordered Mrs. Meredith,

and after a five minutes spent by the group in various surmises,

the bond-servant, followed by the still attentive Peg,

entered the room.

"Didst find this letter at the tavern?" demanded the squire.

The groom looked at the wrapper held out to him, and

replied, "Mayhaps."

"And what took ye there against my orders?"

Charles shrugged his shoulders, and then smiled. "Ask

Hennion," he said.

"What means he, Phil?" questioned the squire.

"Now you've been an' told the whole thing," exclaimed

Philemon, looking very much alarmed.

"Not I," replied the servant. "'T is for you to tell it,

man, if 't is to be told."

"Have done with such mingle-mangle talk," ordered Mr.

Meredith, fretfully. "Is 't not enough to have French gibberish

in the world, without--"

"Charles," interrupted Mrs. Meredith, "who gave thee

this letter?"

"Ask Miss Meredith," Fownes responded, again smiling.

"It must be Mr. Evatt," said Janice. Then as the bond-servant

turned sharply and looked at her, she became conscious

that she was colouring. "I wish there was no such

thing as a blush," she moaned to herself,--a wish in which no

one seeing Miss Meredith would have joined.

"'T was not from Mr. Evatt," denied the servant.

Without time for thought, Janice blurted out, "Then 't is

from you?" and the groom nodded his head.

"What nonsense is this?" cried Mr. Meredith. "Dost

mean to say 't is from ye? Whence came the picture?"

"I was the limner," replied Charles.

"What clanker have we here?" exclaimed the squire.

"'T is no lie, Mr. Meredith," answered the servant. "In

England I've drawn many a face, and 't was even said in jest

that I might be a poor devil of an artist if ever I quitted the

ser--quitted service."

"And where got ye the colours?"

"When I went to Princeton with the shoats I found Mr.

Peale painting Dr. Witherspoon, and he gave me the paints

and the ivory."

"Ye'll say I suppose too that ye wrote this," demanded

the squire, indicating the letter.

"I'll not deny it."

"Though ye could not sign the covenant?"

Fownes once more shrugged his shoulders. "'T is a fool

would sign a bond," he asserted.

"Better a fool than a knave," retorted Mr. Meredith, angered

by Charles' manner. "Janice, give the rogue back

the letter and picture. No daughter of Lambert Meredith

accepts gifts from her father's bond-servants."

The man flushed, while evidently struggling to control his

temper, and Janice, both in pity for him, as well as in desire

for possession of the picture, for gifts were rare indeed in

those days, begged--

"Oh, dadda, mayn't I keep it?"

"Mr. Meredith," said Charles, speaking with evident repression,

"the present was given only with the respect--"

he hesitated as if for words and then continued--"the respect

a slave might owe his--his better. Surely on this day it

should be accepted in the same spirit."

"What day mean ye?" asked Mr. Meredith.

The servant glanced at each face with surprise on his own.

When he read a question in all, he asked in turn, "Hast forgotten

't is Christmas?"

Mrs. Meredith, who was still holding the portrait, dropped

it on the floor, as if it were in some manner dangerous.

"Christmas!" she cried. "Janice, don't thee dare touch

the--"

"Oh, mommy, please," beseeched the girl.

"Take it away, Charles," ordered Mrs. Meredith. "And

never let me hear of thy being the devil's deputy again.

We'll have no papish mummery at Greenwood."

The servant sullenly stooped, picked up the slip of ivory

without a word, and turned to leave the room. But as he

reached the door, Philemon found tongue.

"I'll trade that 'ere for the fowlin'-piece you set such

store by," he offered.

The bondsman turned in the doorway and spoke bitterly.

"This is to be got for no mess of pottage, if it is scorned," he

said.

"I don't scorn--" began Janice, but her father broke in there.

"Give it me, fellow!" ordered the squire. "No bond-servant

shall have my daughter's portrait."

An angry look came into the man's eyes as he faced his

master. "Come and take it, then," he challenged savagely,

moving a step forward,--an action which for some reason

impelled the squire to take a step backward.

"Oh, dadda, don't," cried Janice, anxiously. "Charles,

you would n't!"

Fownes turned to her, with the threat gone from his

face and attitude. "There's my devil's temper again, Miss

Janice," said he, in explanation and apology.

"Please go away," implored the girl, and the man went to

the door. As he turned to close it, Janice said, "'T was very

pretty, and--and--thank you, just the same."

The formalism of bygone generations was no doubt conducive

to respectful manners, but not to confidential relations,

and her parents knew so little of their daughter's nature as

never to dream that they had occasioned the first suggestion

of tenderness for the opposite sex the young girl's heart had

ever felt. And love's flame is superior to physical law in that,

the less ventilation it has, the more fiercely it burns.

XI

"'T IS AN ILL WIND THAT BLOWS NOBODY GOOD"

The next ripple in the Greenwood life was due to

more material circumstances, being inaugurated by

the receipt of the Governor's writ, convening the

Assembly of New Jersey. A trivial movement of

a petty pawn on the chess-board of general politics, it nevertheless

was of distinct importance in several respects to the

Meredith family. Apparently the call meant only a few weeks'

attendance of the squire's at Burlington, in the performance

of legislative duties, and Janice's going with him to make a

return visit to the Drinkers at Trenton. These, however, were

the simplest aspects of the summons, and action by the citizens

of Middlesex County quickly injected a more serious

element into the programme.

The earliest evidence of this was the summoning by the

Committee of Observation and Correspondence of a gathering

to "instruct" the county representatives how they should vote

on the question as to indorsing or disapproving the measures

of the recent Congress. The notice of the meeting was read

aloud by the Rev. Mr. McClave before his morning sermon

one Sunday, and then he preached long and warmly from 2

Timothy, ii. 25,--"Instructing those that oppose themselves,"

--the purport of his argument being the duty of the

whole community to join hands in resisting the enemies of

the land. The preacher knew he was directly antagonising

the views of his wealthiest parishioner and the father of his

would-be wife, but that fact only served to make him speak

the more forcefully and fervently. However hard and stern

the old Presbyterian faith was, its upholders had the merit of

knowing what they believed, and of stating that belief without

flinch or waver.

As he sat and listened, not a little of the squire's old Madeira

found its way into his face, and no sooner were the family

seated in the sleigh than the wine seemed to find expression

in his tongue as well.

"'T is the last time I set foot in your church, Mrs. Meredith,"

he declared, loudly enough to make it evident that he

desired those filing out of the doors to hear. "Never before

have I--"

"Hold thy tongue, Lambert!" interrupted Mrs. Meredith,

in a low voice. "Dost think to make a scene on the Sabbath?"

"Then let your parson hold his," retorted Mr. Meredith,

but like a well-trained husband, in so low a voice as to be

inaudible to all but the occupants of the sleigh. "Ge wug,

Joggles! What is the land coming to, when such doctrines

are preached in the pulpits; when those in authority are told

't is their duty to do what the riff-raff think best? As well let

their brats and bunters tell us what to do. They'll not force

me to attend their meeting, nor to yield a jot."

In fulfilment of his assertion, the squire sat quietly at home

on the afternoon that the popular opinion of the county

sought to voice itself, nodding his head over a volume of

"Hale's Compleat Body of Husbandry." But as night drew

near he was roused from his nap by the riding up of Squire

Hennion and Philemon. Let it be confessed that, despite Mr.

Meredith's contempt for what he styled the "mobocracy,"

his first question concerned the meeting.

"A pooty mess yer've made of it, Meredith," growled Mr.

Hennion.

"I!" cried the squire, indignantly. "'T is naught I had to

do with it."

"An' 't is thet 'ere keepin' away dun the harm," scolded

the elder Hennion. "Swamp it, yer let the hotheads control!

Had all like yer but attended, they 'd never hev bin

able to carry some of them 'ere resolushuns. On mor'n one

resolve a single vote would hev bin a negative."

"Pooh!" sneered the squire. "Sit down and warm thy

feet while thee cools thy head, man. Ye'll not get me to

believe that one vote only was needed to prevent 'em indorsing

the Congress association."

"Sartin they approved the Congress doins, nemine contradicente,

as they wuz baound ter do since all aginst kep away,

but--"

"Dost mean to say ye voted for it?" demanded Mr.

Meredith.

Squire Hennion's long, shrewd face slightly broadened as

he smiled. "I wuz jest stepped over ter the ordinary ter git

a nipperkin of ale when thet ere vote wuz took."

"Who let the hotheads control, then?" jerked out Mr.

Meredith.

"'T ain't no sort of use ter hev my neebours set agin me."

"And ye'll vote at Burlington as they tell ye?" fumed the

squire.

"I'm rayther fearsome my rheumatiz will keep me ter hum

this winter weather. I've had some mortal bad twinges naow

an' agin."

"Now damn me!" swore the squire, rising and pacing the

room with angry strides. "And ye come here to blame me

for neglecting a chance to check 'em."

"I duz," responded Hennion. "If I go ter Assembly,

't won't prevent theer votin' fer what they wants. But if yer

had attended thet 'ere meetin', we could hev stopped them

from votin' ter git up a militia company an' ter buy twenty

barrels--"

"Dost mean to say they voted rebellion?" roared Mr.

Meredith, halting in his angry stride.

"It duz hev a squint toward it, theer ain't no denyin'.

But I reckon it wuz baound ter come, vote ay or vote nay.

Fer nigh three months all the young fellers hev been drillin'

pooty reg'lar."

"Oh!" spoke up Janice. "Then that 's what Charles

meant when he said 't was drill took him to the village."

"What?" demanded the squire. "My bond-servant?"

"Ay. 'T is he duz the trainin', so Phil tells me."

Mr. Meredith opened the door into the hall, and bawled,

"Peg!" Without waiting to give the maid time to answer

the summons he roared the name again, and continued to

fairly bellow it until the appearance of the girl, whom he then

ordered to "find Charles and send him here." Slightly relieved,

he stamped back to the fire, muttering to himself in

his ire.

A pause for a moment ensued, and then the elder Hennion

spoke: "Waal, Meredith, hev yer rumpus with yer servant,

but fust off let me say the say ez me and Phil come fer."

"And what 's that?"

"I rayther guess yer know areddy," continued the father,

while the son's face became of the colour of the hickory

embers. "My boy 's in a mighty stew about yer gal, but he

can't git the pluck ter tell her; so seem' he needed some help

an since I'd come ez far ez Brunswick, says I we'll make one

ride of it, an' over we comes ter tell yer fair an' open what

he's hangin' araound fer."

Another red face was hurriedly concealed by its owner

stooping over her tambour-frame, and Janice stitched away as

if nothing else were worth a second thought. It may be

noted, however, that, as a preliminary to further work the next

morning, a number of stitches had to be removed.

"Ho, ho!" laughed the squire, heartily, and slapping Phil

on the shoulder. "A shy bird, but a sly bird, eh? Oh, no!

Mr. Fox thought the old dogs did n 't know that he wanted

little Miss Duck."

Already in an agony of embarrassment, this speech reduced

Phil to still more desperate straits. He could look at his

father only in a kind of dumb appeal, and that individual,

seeing his son 's helplessness, spoke again.

"I'd hev left the youngsters ter snook araound till they wuz

able ter fix things by themselves," Mr. Hennion explained.

"But the times is gittin' so troublous thet I want ter see Phil

sottled, an' not rampin' araound as young fellers will when

they hain't got nuthin' ter keep them hum nights. An' so I

reckon thet if it ever is ter be, the sooner the better. Yer

gal won't be the wus off, hevin' three men ter look aout fer

her, if it duz come on ter blow."

"Well said!" answered the squire. "What say ye,

Matilda?"

"Oh, dadda," came an appeal from the tambour-frame,

"I don't want to marry. I want to stay at home with--"

"Be quiet, child," spoke up her mother, "and keep thine

opinion to thyself till asked. We know best what is for thy

good."

"He, he, he!" snickered the elder Hennion. "Gals hain't

changed much since I wuz a-courtin'. They allus make aout

ter be desprit set agin the fellers an' mortal daown on marryin',

but, lordy me! if the men held off the hussies 'ud do

the chasm'."

"Thee knows, Lambert," remarked his better half, "that I

think Janice would get more discipline and greater godliness

in--"

"I tell ye he sha'n't have her," broke in the squire. "No

man who preaches against me shall have my daughter; no,

not if 't were Saint Paul himself."

"For her eventual good I--"

"Damn her eventual--"

"I fear 't will come to that."

"Well, well, Patty, perhaps it will," acceded the squire.

"But since 't is settled already by foreordination, let the lass

have a good time before it comes. Wouldst rather marry the

parson than Phil, Janice?"

"I don 't want to marry any one," cried the girl, beginning

to sob.

"A stiff-necked child thou art," said her mother, sternly.

"Dost hear me?"

"Yes, mommy," responded a woful voice.

"And dost intend to be obedient?"

"Yes, mommy," sobbed the girl.

"Then if thee'll not give her to the parson, Lambert, 't is

best that she marry Philemon. She needs a husband to rule

and chasten her."

"Then 't is a bargain, Hennion," said Mr. Meredith, offering

a hand each to father and son.

"Yer see, Phil, it 's ez I told yer," cried the elder.

"Naow hev dun with yer stand-offishness an' buss the gal.

Thet 'ere is the way ter please them."

Philemon faltered, glancing from one to another, for Janice

was bent low over her work and was obviously weeping,--

facts by no means likely to give courage to one who needed

that element as much as did the suitor.

"A noodle!" sniggered Mr. Hennion. "'T ain't ter be

wondered at thet she don't take ter yer. The jades always

snotter first off but they 'd snivel worse if they wuz left

spinsters--eh, squire?"

Thus encouraged, Phil shambled across the room and put

his hand on the shoulder of the girl. At the first touch Janice

gave a cry of desperation, and springing to her feet she fled

toward the hall, her eyes still so full of tears that she did not

see that something more than the door intervened to prevent

her escape. In consequence she came violently in contact with

Charles, and though to all appearance he caught her in his

arms only to save her from falling, Janice, even in her despair,

was conscious that there was more than mere physical support.

To the girl it seemed as if an ally had risen to her need, and

that the moment's tender clasp of his arms was a pledge of

aid to a sore-stricken fugitive.

"How now!" cried the squire. "Hast been listening,

fellow?"

"I did not like to interrupt," said Charles, drily.

"I sent for ye, because I'm told ye've been inciting rebellion

against the king."

The man smiled. "'T is little inciting they need," he

answered.

"Is 't true that ye've been drilling them?" demanded the

squire.

"Ask Phil Hennion," replied the servant.

"What mean ye?"

"If 't is wrong for me to drill, is 't not wrong for him to be

drilled?"

"How?" once more roared the squire. "Dost mean to

say that Phil has been drilling along with the other villains?"

"Naow, naow, Meredith," spoke up the elder Hennion.

"Boys will be boys, yer know, an'--"

"That's enough," cried the father. "I'll have no man at

Greenwood who takes arms against our good king. Is there

no loyalty left in the land?"

"Naow look here, Meredith," Mr. Hennion argued. "Theer

ain't no occasion fer such consarned highty-tighty airs. Yer

can't keep boys from bein' high-sperited. What 's more--"

"High-spirited!" snapped the squire. "Is that the name

ye give rebellion, Justice Hennion?"

"Thet 'ere is jest what I wuz a-comin' ter, Meredith,"

went on his fellow-justice. "Fust off I wuz hot agin his

consarnin' himself, an' tried ter hold him back, but, lordy

me! young blood duz love fightin', an' with all the young

fellows possest, an' all the gals admirin', I might ez well a-tried

ter hold a young steer. So, says I, 't is the hand of Providence,

fer no man kin tell ez what 's ahead of us. There

ain't no good takin' risks, an' so I'll side in with the one side,

an' let Phil side in with t' other, an' then whatsomever comes,

't will make no differ ter us. Naow, ef the gal kin come it

over Phil ter quit trainin', all well an' good, an'--"

"I'll tell ye what I think of ye," cried Mr. Meredith.

"That ye're a precious knave, and Phil 's a precious fool,

and I want no more of either of ye at Greenwood."

"Now, squire," began Phil, "'t ain't--"

"Don't attempt to argue!" roared Mr. Meredith. "I say

the thing is ended. Get out of my house, the pair of ye!"

and with this parting remark, the speaker flung from the

room, and a moment later the door of his office banged with

such force that the whole house shook. Both the elder and

younger Hennion stayed for some time, and each made an

attempt to see the squire, but he refused obstinately to have

aught to do with them, and they were finally forced to ride

away.

Though many men were anxiously watching the gathering

storm, a girl of sixteen laid her head on her pillow that night,

deeply thankful that British regiments were mustering at

Boston, and that America, accepting this as an answer to her

appeal, was quietly making ready to argue the dispute with

something more potent than petitions and associations.

XII

A BABE IN THE WOOD

The following morning the squire went to the stable,

and after soundly rating Charles for his share in

the belligerent preparation of Brunswick, ordered

him, under penalty of a flogging, to cease not only

from exercising the would-be soldiers, but from all absences

from the estate "without my order or permission." The man

took the tirade as usual with an evident contempt more irritating

than less passive action, speaking for the first time when

at the end of the monologue the master demanded:--

"Speak out, fellow, and say if ye intend to do as ye are

ordered, for if not, over ye go with me this morning to the

sitting of the justices."

"I'm not the man to take a whipping, that I warn you,"

was the response.

"Ye dare threaten, do ye?" cried the master. "Saddle

Jumper and Daisy, and have 'em at the door after breakfast.

One rascal shall be quickly taught what rebellion ends in."

Fuming, the squire went to his morning meal, at which he

announced his intention to ride to Brunswick and the purport

of the trip.

"Oh, dadda, he--please don't!" begged Janice.

"And why not, child?" demanded her mother.

"Because he--oh! he is n't like most bondsmen and--"

"What did I tell thee, Lambert?" said Mrs. Meredith.

"Nonsense, Matilda," snorted the squire. "The lass gave

me her word for 't--"

"Word!" ejaculated the wife. "What 's a word or anything

else when--Since thee 's sent Phil off, the quicker thee

comes to my mind, and gives her to the parson, the better."

"What mean ye by objecting to this fellow being flogged,

Jan?" asked the father.

Poor Janice, torn between the two difficulties, subsided, and

meekly responded, "I--Well, I don't like to have things

whipped, dadda. But if Charles deserves it, of course he--

he--'t is right."

"There!" said Mr. Meredith, "ye see the lass has the

sense of it."

The subject was dropped, but after breakfast, as the crunch

of the horse's feet sounded, Janice left the spinet for a

moment to look out of the window, and it was a very doleful

and pitiful face she took back to her task five minutes

later.

When master and man drew rein in front of the Brunswick

Court-house, it was obvious to the least heedful that something

unusual was astir. Although the snow lay deep in front of the

building and a keen nip was in the air, the larger part of the

male population of the village was gathered on the green.

Despite the chill, some sat upon the steps of the building,

others bestowed themselves on the stocks in front of it, and

still more stood about in groups, stamping their feet or swinging

their arms, clearly too chilled to assume more restful

attitudes, yet not willing to desert to the more comfortable

firesides within doors.

Ordering the bond-servant to hitch the two horses in the

meeting-house shed and then to come to the court-room, the

squire made his way between the loafers on the steps, and

attempted to open the door, only to discover that the padlock

was still fast in the staple.

"How now, Mr. Constable?" he exclaimed, turning, and

thus for the first time becoming conscious that every eye was

upon him. "What means this?"

The constable, who was one of those seated on the stocks,

removed a straw from between his lips, spat at the pillory post,

much as if he were shooting at a mark, and remarked, "I

calkerlate yer waan't at the meetin', squire?"

"Not I," averred Mr. Meredith.

"Yer see," explained the constable, "they voted that there

should n't be no more of the king's law till we wuz more

sartin of the king's justice, an' that any feller as opposed that

ere resolution wuz ter be held an enemy ter his country an'

treated as such. That ain't the persition I'm ambeetious ter

hold, an' so I did n't open the court-house."

"What?" gasped Mr. Meredith. "Are ye all crazy?"

"Mebbe we be," spoke up one of the listeners, "but we ain't

so crazy by a long sight as him as issued that." The speaker

pointed at the king's proclamation, and then, either to prove

his contempt for the symbol of monarchy, or else to show the

constable how much better shot he was, he neatly squirted a

mouthful of tobacco juice full upon the royal arms.

"And where are the other justices?" demanded the squire,

looking about as if in search of assistance.

"The old squire an' the paason wuz at the meetin', an' I

guess they knew it 'ud only be wastin' time to attend this

pertiklar sittin' of the court."

"Belza take them!" cried the squire. "They're a pair of

cotswold lions, and I'll tell it them to their faces," he added,

alluding to a humorous expression of the day for a sheep.

"Here I have a rebellious servant, and I'd like to know how

I'm to get warrant to flog him, if there is to be no court.

Dost mean to have no law in the land?"

"I guess," retorted Bagby, "that if the king won't regard the

law, he can't expect the rest of us to, noways. What 's sauce

for the goose is sauce for the gander, and if there ever was a

gander it's him,"--a mot which produced a hearty laugh from

the crowd.

"As justice of the peace I order ye to open this door,

constable," called the squire.

The constable pulled out a bunch of keys and tossed it in

the snow, saying, "'T ain't fer me to say there sha'n't be no

sittin' of the court, an' if yer so set on tryin', why, try."

The squire deliberately went down two steps to get the keys,

but the remaining six he took at one tumble, having received

a push from one of the loafers back of him which sent his

heavy body sprawling in the snow, his whip, hat, and, worst of

all, his wig, flying in different directions. In a moment he

had risen, cleared the snow from his mouth and eyes, and

recovered his scattered articles, but it was not so easy to

recover his dignity, and this was made the more difficult by

the discovery that the bunch of keys had disappeared.

"Who took those keys?" he roared as soon as he could

articulate, but the only reply the question produced was

laughter.

"Don't you wherrit yourself about those keys, squire," advised

Bagby. "They 're safe stowed where they won't cause

no more trouble. And since that is done with, we'd like to

settle another little matter with you that we was going to

come over to Greenwood about to-day, but seeing as you 're

here, I don't see no reason why it should n't be attended to

now."

"What's that?" snapped the squire.

"The meeting kind of thought things looked squawlish

ahead, and that it would be best to be fixed for it, so I offered

a resolution that the town buy twenty half-barrels of grain,

and that--"

"Grain!" exclaimed the squire. "What in the 'nation

can ye want with grain?"

"As we are all friends here, I'll tell you confidential sort,

that we put it thataways, so as the resolutions need n't read

too fiery, when they was published in the 'Gazette.' But the

folks all knew as the grain was to be a black grain, that 's not

very good eating."

"Why, this is treason!" cried Mr. Meredith. "Gunpowder!

That 's--"

"Yes. Gunpowder," continued the spokesman, quite as

much to the now concentrated crowd as to the questioner.

"We reckon the time 's coming when we'll want it swingeing

bad. And the meeting seemed to think the same way, for they

voted that resolution right off, and appointed me and Phil Hennion

and Mr. Wetman a committee to raise a levy to buy it."

"Think ye a town meeting can lay a tax levy?" contemptuously

demanded Mr. Meredith. "None but the--"

"'T is n't to be nothing but a voluntary contribution," interrupted

Bagby, grinning broadly, "and no man 's expected to

give more than his proportion, as settled by his last rates."

"An' no man 's expected ter give less, nuther," said a voice

back in the crowd.

"So if you've nine pounds seven and four with you, squire,"

went on Bagby, "'t will save you a special trip over to pay it."

"I'll see ye all damned first!" retorted the squire, warmly.

"Why don't ye knock me down and take my purse, and have

done with it?"

"'T would be the sensible thing with such a tarnal cross

tyke," shouted some one.

"Everything fair and orderly is the way we work," continued

the committee man. "But we want that nine pounds

odd, and 't will be odd if we don't get it."

"You'll not get it from me," asserted the squire, turning to

walk away.

As he did so, half a dozen hands were laid upon his arms

from behind, and he was held so firmly that he could not

move.

"Shall we give him a black coat, Joe?" asked some one.

"No," negatived Bagby. "Let 's see if being a 'babe in

the wood' won't be enough to bring him to reason.

The slang term for occupants of the stocks was quite suggestive

enough to produce instant result. The squire was

dragged back till his legs were tripped from under him by the

frame, the bunch of keys, which suddenly reappeared, served

to unlock the upper board, and before the victim quite realised

what had transpired he was safely fastened in the ignominious

instrument. Regrettable as it is to record, Mr. Meredith began

to curse in a manner highly creditable to his knowledge

of Anglo-Saxon, but quite the reverse of his moral nature.

So long as the squire continued to express his rage and to

threaten the bystanders with various penalties, the crowd stood

about in obvious enjoyment, but anger that only excites amusement

in others very quickly burns itself out, and in this particular

case the chill of the snow on which the squire was

sitting was an additional cause for a rapid cooling. Within

two minutes his vocabulary had exhausted itself and he relapsed

into silence. The fun being over, the crowd began to

scatter, the older ones betaking themselves indoors while the

youngsters waylaid Charles, as he came from hitching the

horses, and suggested a drill.

The bondsman shook his head and walked to the squire.

"Any orders, Mr. Meredith?" he asked.

"Get an axe and smash this--thing to pieces."

"They would not let me," replied the man, shrugging his

shoulders. "Hadst best do as they want, sir. You can't

fight the whole county."

"I'll never yield," fumed the master.

Charles again shrugged his shoulders, and walking back to

the group, said, "Get your firelocks."

In five minutes forty men were in line on the green, and as

the greatest landholder of the county sat in the stocks, in a

break-neck attitude, with a chill growing in fingers and toes,

he was forced to watch a rude and disorderly attempt at company

drill, superintended by his own servant. It was a clumsy,

wayward mass of men, and frequent revolts from orders occurred,

which called forth sharp words from the drill-master.

These in turn produced retorts or jokes from the ranks that

spoke ill for the discipline, and a foreign officer, taking the

superficial aspect, would have laughed to think that such a

system could make soldiers. Further observation and thought

would have checked his amused contempt, for certain conditions

there were which made these men formidable. Angry

as they became at Fownes, not one left the ranks, though presence

was purely voluntary, and scarce one of them, ill armed

though he might be, but was able to kill a squirrel or quail at

thirty paces.

When the drill had terminated, a result due largely to the

smell of cooking which began to steal from the houses facing

the green, Charles drew Bagby aside, and after a moment's

talk, the two, followed by most of the others, crossed to the

squire.

"Mr. Meredith," said Charles, "I've passed my word to

Bagby that you'll pay your share if he'll but release you, and

that you won't try to prosecute him. Wilt back up my pledge?"

The prisoner, though blue and faint with cold, shook his

head obstinately.

"There! I told you how it would be," sneered Bagby.

"But I tell you he'll be frosted in another hour. 'T will be

nothing short of murder, man."

"Then let him contribute his share," insisted Bagby.

"'T is unfair to force a man on a principle."

"Look here," growled Bagby. "We are getting tired of

your everlasting hectoring and attempting to run everything.

Just because you know something of the manual don't make

you boss of the earth."

The bondsman glanced at the squire, and urged, "Come,

Mr. Meredith, you 'd better do it. Think how anxious Mrs.

Meredith and--will be, aside from you probably taking a

death cold, or losing a hand or foot."

At last the squire nodded his head, and without more ado

Bagby stooped and unlocked the log. Mr. Meredith was so

cramped that Charles had to almost lift him to his feet, and

then give him a shoulder into the public room of the tavern,

where he helped him into a chair before the fire. Then the

servant called to the publican:--

"A jorum of sling for Mr. Meredith, and put an extra pepper

in it."

"That sounds pretty good," said Bagby. "Just make that

order for the crowd, and the squire'll pay for it."

While the favourite drink of the period was sizzling in the

fire, Mr. Meredith recovered enough to pull out his purse and

pay up the debatable levy. A moment later the steaming

drink was poured into glasses, and Bagby said:--

"Now, squire, do the thing up handsome by drinking to the

toast of liberty."

"I'll set you a better toast than that," offered the bondsman.

"'T ain't possible," cried one of the crowd.

The servant raised his glass and with an ironical smile

said:--

"Here 's to liberty and fair play, gentlemen."

"That 's a toast we can all drink," responded Bagby, "just

as often as some one'll pay for the liquor."

XIII

THE WORLD IN MINIATURE

The exposure of the squire brought on a sharp attack

of the gout which confined him to the house for

nigh a month. Incidentally it is to be noted that

his temper during this period was not confined,

and when Philemon appeared one morning he was met with a

reception that drove him away without a chance to plead his

cause. Mrs. Meredith and Janice were compelled to listen to

many descriptions as to what punitive measures their particular

lord of creation intended to set in motion against the villagers

when he should attend the Assembly, or when King George

had reduced the land to its old-time order.

One piece of good fortune the attack brought its victim was

its putting him in bed on the particular day selected for the

committee of the town meeting to inform the squire as to the

instruction voted by that gathering for his conduct in the

Assembly. In default of an interview, they merely left an

attested copy of the resolution, and had to rest satisfied, without

knowing in what way their representative received it. Mrs.

Meredith, Janice, and Peg did not remain in any such doubt.

Another unfortunate upon whom the vials of his wrath were

poured out was the parson, who came a-calling one afternoon.

News that he was in the parlour was sufficient to bring Mr.

Meredith downstairs prematurely, where he enacted a high scene,

berating the caller, and finally ordering him from the house.

A relapse followed upon the exertion and outburst, but even

gout had its limitations, and finally the patient was sufficiently

convalescent for preparations to begin for the journey to

Trenton and Burlington.

It did not take Janice long one morning to pack her little

leather-covered and brass-nail studded trunk, and, this done,

her conduct became not a little peculiar. After dinner she spent

some time in spinet practice, and then rising announced to the

elders that she must pack for the morrow's journey. Her

absence thus explained, she left the room, only to steal through

the kitchen, and catch Sukey's shawl from its hook in the passage

to the wood-shed. Regardless of slippers and snow, she

then sped toward the concealing hedge, and behind its friendly

protection walked quickly to the stable. The door was rolled

back enough to let the girl pass in quietly, and when she had

done so, she glanced about in search of something. For an

instant a look of disappointment appeared on her face, but the

next moment, as a faint sound of scratching broke upon her ear,

she stole softly to the feed and harness room, and peeked in.

The groom was sitting on a nail barrel, in front of the meal-bin,

the cover of which was closed and was thus made to

serve for a desk. On this were several sheets of what was

then called pro patria paper, or foolscap, and most of these

were very much bescribbled. An ink-horn and a sand-box

completed the outfit, except for a quill in the hands of the bond-servant,

which had given rise to the sound the girl had heard.

Now, however, it was not writing, for the man was chewing

the feather end with a look of deep thought on his face.

"O Clarion," he sighed, as the girl's glance was momentarily

occupied with the taking in of these details, "why canst

thou not give me a word to rhyme with morn? 'T will not

come, and here 't is the thirteenth."

A low growl from Clarion, sounding like anything more

than the desired rhyme, made the servant glance up, and the

moment he saw the figure of some one, he rose, hastily bunched

together the sheets of paper, and holding them in his hand

cried, "Who 's that?" in a voice expressing both embarrassment

and anger. Then as his eyes dwelt on the intruder, he

continued in an altered tone, "I ask your pardon, Miss Janice;

I thought 't was one of the servants. They are everlastingly

spying on me. Can I serve you?" he added, rolling the

papers up and stuffing them into his belt.

Janice's eyes sought the floor, as she hesitatingly said, "I

--I came to--to ask a favour of you."

"'T is but for you to name," replied the man, eagerly.

"Will you let me--I want--I should like Tibbie to see

the--the picture of me, and I wondered if--if you would

let me take it to Trenton--I'll bring it back, you know,

and--"

"Ah, Miss Janice," exclaimed the servant, as the girl halted,

"if you 'd but take it as a gift, 't would pleasure me so!"

While he spoke, without pretence of concealment he unbuttoned

the top button of his shirt and taking hold of a string

about his neck pulled forth a small wooden case, obviously

of pocket-knife manufacture. Snapping the cord, he offered

its pendant to Janice.

"I--I would keep it, Charles," replied Janice, "but you

know mommy told me--"

"And what right has she to prevent you?" broke in Charles,

warmly. "It does her no wrong, nor can it harm you to keep

it. What right have they to tyrannise over you? 'T is all

of a piece with their forcing you to marry that awkward, ignorant

put. Here, take it." The groom seized her hand, put

the case in her palm, closed her fingers over, and held them

thus, as if striving to make her accept the gift.

"Oh, Charles," cried the girl, very much flustered, "you

should n't ask--"

"Ah, Miss Janice," he begged, "won't you keep it?

They need never know."

"But I only wanted to show it to Tibbie," explained the

girl, "to ask her if mommy was right when she said 't was

monstrous flattered."

"'T is an impossibility," responded the man, earnestly,

though he was unable to keep from slightly smiling at the

unconscious naivete of the question. "I would she could see

it in a more befitting frame, to set it off. If thou 't but let me,

I'd put it in the other setting. Then 't would show to proper

advantage."

"Would it take long?"

"A five minutes only."

The girl threw open the shawl, and thrusting her hand

under her neckerchief into the V-cut of her bodice, produced

the miniature.

The servant recoiled a step as she held it out to him.

Then snatching rather than taking the trinket from her hand,

he said, "That is no place for this."

"Why not?" asked Janice.

"Because she is unfit to rest there," cried the man. He

pulled out a knife, and with the blade pried up the rim, and

shook free the protective glass and slip of ivory. "Now

't is purged of all wrong," he said, touching the setting to his

lips. "I would it were for me to keep, for 't has lain near

your heart, and 't is still warm with happiness."

The speech and act so embarrassed Janice that she hurriedly

said, "I really must n't stay. I've been too long as 't is,

and--"

"'T will take but a moment," the servant assured her

hastily. "Wilt please give me t' other one?" Throwing the

miniature he had taken from the frame on the floor, he set

about removing that of Janice from its wooden casing and

fitting it to its new setting.

"Don't," cried Janice, in alarm, stooping to pick up the slip

of ivory. "'T is not owing to you that 't was n't spoiled," she

added indignantly, after a glance at it.

"Small loss if 't were!" responded the man, bitterly.

"Promise me, Miss Janice, that you'll not henceforth carry

it in your bosom?"

"'T is a monstrous strange thing to ask."

"I tell thee she's not fit to rest near a pure heart."

"How know you that?"

"How know I?" cried the man, in amazement. "Why--"

There he stopped and knit his brows.

"I knew thou wert deceiving us when thee said 't was not

thine," charged the girl.

"Nay, Miss Janice, 't was the truth I told you, though

a quibble, I own. The miniature never was mine, tho' 't was

once in my possession."

"Then how came you by it?"

"I took it by force from--never mind whom." The old bitter

look was on the man's face, and anger burned in his eyes.

"You stole it!" cried the girl, drawing away from him.

"Not I," denied the man. "'T was taken from one who

had less right to 't than I."

"You knew her?" questioned the girl.

"Ay," cried the man, with a kind of desperation. "I

should think I did!"

"And--and you--you loved her?" she asked with a

hesitancy which might mean that she was in doubt whether

to ask the question, or perhaps that she rather hoped her

surmise would prove wrong.

The young fellow halted in his work of trimming the ivory

to fit the frame, and for a moment he stood, apparently looking

down at his half-completed job, as it lay on the top of

the meal-box. Then suddenly he put his hand to his throat

as if he were choking, and the next instant he leaned forward,

and, burying his face in his arms, as they rested on the

whilom desk, he struggled to stifle the sobs that shook his

frame.

"Oh, I did n't mean to pain you!" she cried in an agony

of guilt and alarm.

Charles rose upright, and dashing his shirt sleeve across his

eyes, he turned to the girl. "'T is over, Miss Janice," he

asserted, "and a great baby I was to give way to 't."

"I can understand, and I don't think 't was babyish," said

Janice, her heart wrung with sympathy for him. "She is so

lovely!"

The man's lips quivered again, despite of his struggle to

control himself. "That she is," he groaned. "And I--I

loved her--My God! how I loved her! I thought her an

angel from heaven; she was everything in life to me. When

I fled from London, it seemed as if my heart was--was dead

for ever."

"She was untrue?" asked Janice, with a deep sigh.

The servant's face darkened. "So untrue--Ah! 'T is

not to be spoken. The two of them!"

"You challenged and killed him!" surmised Janice, excitedly.

"And that's why you came to America."

The groom shook his head sadly. "Not that, Miss Janice.

They robbed me of both honour and revenge. I was powerless

to punish either--except by--Bah! I've done with them

for ever."

"Foh mussy's sakes, chile," came Sukey's voice, "what

youse dam' hyar? Run quick, honey, foh your mah is 'quirin'

foh youse."

"Oh, Luddy!" cried the girl, reaching out for the miniature.

"'T is not done, but I'll see to 't that you get it this evening,"

exclaimed Charles.

The girl turned and fled toward the house, closely followed

by Sukey.

"Peg she come to de kitchen foh youse," the cook explained;

"an' 'cause I dun see youse go out de back do', I

specks whar youse gwine, an' I sens her back to say dat young

missus helpin' ole Sukey, an' be in pretty quick, an' so dey

never know."

"Oh, Sukey, you're a dear!"

"But, missy dear, doan youse do nuthin' foolish 'bout dat

fellah, 'cause I 'se helped youse. Doan youse--"

"Of course I won't," asserted the girl. "I could n't,

Sukey. You know I couldn't."

"Dat 's right, honey. Ole Sukey knows she can trust

youse. Now run right along, chile."

"What have you been doing, Janice?" asked her mother, as

the girl entered the parlour.

"I've been in the kitchen with Sukey, mommy," replied

Janice. And if there was wrong in the quibble, both father

and mother were equally to blame with the girl, for "Ole

Sukey" was actually better able to enter into her feelings and

thoughts than either of them; and where obedience is enforced

from authority and not from sympathy and confidence,

there will be secret deceit, if not open revolt.

Left to himself, the bondsman finished trimming the ivory

to a proper size, and neatly fitted it into the frame. Then he

spread the papers out, and in some haste, for the winter's day

was fast waning, he resumed his scribbling, varied by intervals

of pen-chewing and knitting of brows. Finally he gave a sigh

of relief, and taking a blank sheet he copied in a bold hand-writing

what was written on the paper he had last toiled over.

Then picking up the miniature, he touched it to his lips.

"She was sent to give me faith again in women," he said, as

he folded the miniature into the paper.

"Well, old man," he remarked, as he passed from the stable,

to the dog, who had followed in his footsteps, and sought to

attract his attention by fawning upon him, "has blindman's

holiday come at last? Wait till I bestow this, and get a bite

from Sukey to put in my pocket, and we'll be off for a look at

the rabbits. 'T is a poor sport, but 't will do till something

better comes. Oh for a war!"

The bondsman passed into the kitchen, and made his plea

to Sukey for a supper he could take away with him. The

request was granted, and while the cook went to the larder to

get him something, Charles stepped into the hall and listening

intently he stole upstairs and tapped gently on a door. Getting

no reply, he opened it, and tiptoeing hastily to the dressing-stand,

he tucked the packet under the powder-box. A

minute later he was back in the kitchen, and erelong was

stamping through the snow, whistling cheerfully, which the

hound echoed by yelps of excited delight.

Janice was unusually thoughtful all through supper, and

little less so afterwards. She was sent to her room earlier than

usual, that she might make up in advance for the early start

of the journey, and she did not dally with her disrobing, the

room being almost arctic in its coldness. But after she had

put on the short night-rail that was the bed-gown of the period,

the girl paused for a moment in front of her mirror, even

though she shivered as she did so.

"I really thought 't was for me he cared," she said. "But

she is so much more beautiful that--" Janice tucked the flyaway

locks into the snug-fitting nightcap, which together with

the bed-curtains formed the protections from the drafts inevitable

to leaky windows and big chimneys, and having thus

done her best to make herself ugly, she blew out her candle,

and as she crept into bed, she remarked, "'T was very foolish

of me."

XIV

A QUESTION CONCERNING THALIA

All was animation at Greenwood the next morning,

while yet it was dark, and as Janice dressed by

candle-light, she trembled from something more

than the icy chill of the room. The girl had been

twice in her life to New York, once each to Newark and to

Burlington, and though her visits to Trenton were of greater

number, the event was none the less too rare an occurrence

not to excite her. Her mother had to order her sharply to

finish what was on her plate at breakfast, or she would scarce

have eaten.

"If thou dost not want to be frozen, lass, before we get to

Trenton," warned the squire, "do as thy mother says. Stuff

cold out of the stomach, or 't is impossible to keep the scamp

out of the blood."

"Yes, dadda," said the girl, obediently falling to once more.

After a few mouthfuls she asked, "Dadda, who was Thalia?"

"'T was a filly who won the two-year purse at the Philadelphia

races in sixty-eight," the squire informed her, between

gulps of sausage and buckwheat cakes.

"Was she very lovely?" asked Janice, in a voice of surprise.

"No. An ill-shaped mare, but with a great pace."

The girl looked thoughtful for a moment and then asked,

"Is that the only one there is?"

"Only what?" demanded her mother.

"The only Thalia?"

"'T is the only one I've heard of," said the squire.

"Thou 'rt wrong, Lambert," corrected his spouse, in wifely

fashion. "'T was one of those old heathens with horns, or

tail, or something, I forget exactly. What set thy mind on

that, child? Hast been reading some romance on the sly?"

"No, mommy," denied the girl.

"Put thy thoughts to better uses, then," ordered the mother.

"Think more of thy own sin and corruption and less of what

is light and vain."

It had been arranged that Thomas was to drive the sleigh,

the squire preferring to leave Fownes in care of the remaining

horses. It was Charles, however, who brought down the two

trunks, and after he had put them in place he suggested, "If

you'll take seat, Miss Janice, I'll tuck you well in." Spreading

a large bearskin on the seat and bottom of the sleigh, he put in

a hot soapstone, and very unnecessarily took hold of the little

slippered feet, and set them squarely upon it, as if their owner

were quite unequal to the effort. Then he folded the robe

carefully about her, and drew the second over that, allowing the

squire, it must be confessed, but a scant portion for his share.

"Thank you, Charles," murmured the girl, gratefully. "Of

course he's a bond-servant and he has a horrid beard," she

thought, "but it is nice to have some one to--to think of your

comfort. If he were only Philemon!"

The bondsman climbed into the rear of the sleigh, that he

might fold the back part of the skin over her shoulders. The

act brought his face close to the inquirer, and she turned her

head and whispered, "Who was Thalia?"

"'T was one of--"

"Charles, get out of that sleigh," ordered Mrs. Meredith,

sharply. "Learn thy place, sir. Janice, thou 'rt quite old

enough to take care of thyself. We'll have no whispering or

coddling, understand."

The bondsman sullenly obeyed, and a moment later the

sleigh started. The servant looked wistfully after it until the

sound of the bells was lost, and then, with a sigh, he went to

his work.

With all the vantage of the daylight start, it took good driving

among the drifts to get over the twenty-eight miles that lay

between Greenwood and Trenton before the universal noon

dinner, and as the sleigh drew up at the Drinkers' home on

the main street of the village, the meal was in the air if not on

the table.

For this reason the two girls had not a chance for a moment's

confidence before dinner; and though Janice was fairly

bursting with all that had happened since Tibbie's visit, the

departure of the squire for Burlington immediately the meal

was ended, and the desire of Tabitha's father and aunt to have

news of Mrs. Meredith and of the doings "up Brunswick way,"

filled in the whole afternoon till tea time--if the misnomer

can be used, for, unlike the table at Greenwood, tea was a

tabooed article in the Drinker home. One fact worth noting

about the meal was that Janice asked if any of them knew

who Thalia was.

"Ay," said Mr. Drinker, "and the less said of her the

better. She was a lewd creature that--"

"Mr. Drinker!" cried Tabitha's aunt. "Thee forgets there

are gentlewomen present. Wilt have some preserve, Janice?"

"No, I thank you," said the girl. "I'm not hungry." And

she proved it by playing with what was on her plate for the rest

of the meal.

Not till the two girls retired did they have an opportunity to

exchange confidences. The moment they were by themselves,

Tabitha demanded, "What made thee so serious to-night?"

"Oh, Tibbie," sighed Janice, dolefully," I'm very unhappy!"

"What over?"

"I--he--Charles--I'm afraid he--and yet--'T is

something he wrote, but whether in joke or--Mr. Evatt said

he insulted me at the tavern--Yet 't is so pretty that--and

mommy interrupted just--"

"What art thou talking about, Jan?" exclaimed Tibbie.

Janice even in her disjointed sentences had begun to unlace

her travelling bodice,--for with a prudence almost abnormal

this one frock was not cut low,--and she now produced from

her bosom a paper which she unfolded, and then offered to

Tibbie with a suggestion of hesitation, asking "Dost think he

meant to insult me?"