University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

The apartment into which the travellers were introduced was
one of large dimensions, conspicuous for its huge kitchen-like fire-place
and ample chimney. The floor, consisting of broad planks,
was so much warped as, in several places, to show the ground
through the chinks. The furniture was of the rudest form and
most homely materials. Three or four rifles were suspended
against the walls, together with some trapping implements and
various skins of such wild animals of prey and game as abounded
in the woods of this region: these were associated with the antlers
of the buck, powder-horns, hunting pouches, and a few articles of
clothing,—the whole array giving to the room that air of woodland
life which denotes the habitation of a hunter, and which so
distinctly characterizes the dwellings of our frontier population.

Amongst other articles of household use was a large spinning-wheel
that was placed near the door, and beside it stood the dame
who had first challenged the visitors. She was a woman who could
scarcely be said to have reached the middle period of life, although
her wan and somewhat haggard features, and a surly, discontented
expression of face, might well induce an observer to attribute more
years to her worldly account than she had actually seen. The
presence of a rough and untidy cradle and some five or six children,
the majority of whom might be below three feet in stature, served
in some degree to explain the care-worn and joyless countenance of
the hostess. When Butler and his companion were ushered by
Lynch into her presence, she gave them no other welcome than a
slight nod of the head, and continued to ply her task at the wheel
with unremitted assiduity.

In another corner of the room sat a smart-looking young girl
who, at this moment, was employed in carding wool. She was a

sylvan Hebe, just verging upon womanhood, with a round, active,
and graceful figure, which was adorned with that zealous attention
to neatness and becoming ornament which, in every station of life,
to a certain extent, distinguishes those of the sex who are gifted
with beauty. Her cheek had the rich bloom of high health; a
full round blue eye seemed habitually to laugh with pleasure; and
the same trick of a happy temperament had stamped its mark
upon the lines of her mouth. Her accost was altogether different
from that of the mistress of the house. She arose from her work
immediately upon the entrance of the strangers, courtesied with a
modest and silent reserve, and then proceeded to gather up the
rolls of carded wool at her feet and to dispose of them in a chest
near at hand. Having done this, she left the apartment, not without
casting sundry prying glances towards the guests.

Another member of the family was an aged female: she had
perhaps seen her eightieth winter. Her attenuated frame seemed
to be hovering on the verge of dissolution: a hollow cheek, a
sunken, moist eye, and a tremulous palsied motion of the head
denoted the melancholy period of dotage; and it was apparent at a
glance that this unfortunate being had far outlived both her capacity
for enjoyment and the sympathy of her kindred. She now sat
in a low elbow-chair, with her head almost in contact with her
knees, upon the stone hearth, bending over a small fire of brushwood
which had been kindled as well for the purpose of preparing
the evening meal as for the comfort of the ancient dame herself—
the chilliness of nightfall rendering this additional warmth by no
means unpleasant. The beldam silently smoked a short pipe,
unmoved by anything that occurred in the apartment, and apparently
engrossed with the trivial care of directing the smoke, as
she puffed it from her lips, into a current that should take it up
the chimney.

Michael Lynch, who acted as landlord in the casual absence of
Wat Adair, had no other connexion with the family than that of
being joint owner, with the lord of this wild domain, of a small
saw-mill in the vicinity, the particular superintendence of which
was his especial province. He was, therefore, at particular seasons
of the year, an in-dweller at the homestead, and sufficiently in
authority to assume a partial direction in the affairs of the house.

This man now replaced his rifle upon the pegs appropriated to
receive it, and then offered Butler and Robinson chairs, as he said
to the mistress of the family:—

“Here's Horse Shoe Robinson, Mrs. Adair; and this other man
I think they call Mr. Butler. They've come for a night's lodging.
I believe Wat will be right glad to see them.”

“You are not often visited with travellers in this part of the
country,” said Butler, addressing the matron as he drew his chair
near to the fire to dry his clothes.

“We have enough of them, such as they are,” replied the
woman; “and it's a dangerous thing, when there's so many
helpless women at home, to be opening the door to all sorts of
persons.”

“You, at least, run no risk in offering shelter to us this evening,”
returned Butler; “we are strangers to the quarrel that prevails
in your district.”

“People puts on so many pretences,” said the woman, “that
there's no knowing them.”

“You have a fine troop of boys and girls,” continued Butler,
patting the head of one of the boys who had summoned courage
to approach him, after various shy reconnoitrings of his person.
“Your settlement will require enlargement before long.”

“There is more children than is needful,” replied the hostess;
“they are troublesome brats; but poor people generally have the
luck that way.”

“Does your husband ever serve with the army, madam?” asked
Butler.

The woman stopped spinning for a moment, and turning her
face towards Butler with a scowl, muttered,

“How does that matter concern you?”

“Pardon me,” replied Butler; “I was recommended to Mr.
Adair as a friend, and supposed I might approach his house without
suspicion.”

“Wat Adair is a fool,” said the wife; “who is never content
but when he has other people thrusting their spoons into his
mess.”

“Wat's a wiser man than his wife,” interrupted Robinson
bluntly, “and takes good care that no man thrusts his spoon into

his mess without paying for it. You know Wat and me knows
each other of old, Mrs. Adair; and devil a ha'penny did Wat
ever lose by good manners yet.”

“And who are you to talk, forsooth, Horse Shoe Robinson!”
exclaimed the ill-favored dame, tartly. “Who are you to talk of
Wat Adair? If he knows you he knows no good of you, I'm
sure? I warrant you have come here on honest business now—
you and your tramping friend. What do you do up here in the
woods, when there is work enough for hearty men below? No
good, I will undertake. It is such as you, Horse Shoe Robinson,
and your drinking, rioting, broadsword cronies that has given
us all our troubles here. You know Wat Adair!”

“A little consideration, good woman! Not so fast; you run
yourself out of breath,” said Robinson mildly, interrupting this flood
of objurgation. “Why, you are as spiteful as a hen with a fresh
brood! Remember, Wat and me are old friends. Wat has
been at my house both before the war and since, and I have been
here—all in friendship you know. And many's the buck I
have helped Wat to fetch down. What's the use of tantrums?
If we had been thieves, Mrs. Adair, you couldn't have
sarved us worse. Why, it's onreasonable in you to fly in a man's
face so.”

“I'll vouch for Horse Shoe Robinson, Mrs. Peggy Adair,” said
Lynch. “You oughtn't to think harm of him; and you know
it isn't long since we heard Wat talk of him, and say he would
like to see him once more!”

“Well, it's my way,” replied the hostess, soothed down into a
placid mood by this joint expostulation. “We have had cause to
be suspicious, and I own I am suspicious. But, Horse Shoe
Robinson, I can't say I have anything against you; you and
your friend may be welcome for me.”

“Heyday!” exclaimed the old crone from the chimney corner.
“Who is talking about Horse Shoe Robinson? Is this Horse
Shoe? Come here, good man,” she said, beckoning with her
finger to the sergeant. “Come close and let me look at you.
Galbraith Robinson, as I am a sinner! All the way from the
Waxhaws. Who'd 'a thought to find you here amongst the
Tories? Such a racketing whig as you! Heyday!”

“Whisht, granny!” said Robinson almost in a whisper. “Don't
call names.”

“We are all Tories here,” said the old woman, heedless of the
sergeant's caution, “ever since last Thursday, when the handsome
English officer was here to see Watty, and to count out his gold
like pebble-stones.”

“Grandmother, you talk nonsense,” said the wife.

“Old Mistress Crosby,” interposed Robinson, “is as knowing as
she ever was. It's a mark of sense to be able to tell the day of the
week when a man changes his coat. But, granny, you oughtn't
to talk of Wat's seeing an English officer in his house.”

“Golden guineas, honey!” continued the drivelling old woman.
“All good gold! And a proud clinking they make in Watty's
homespun pocket. A countryman's old leather bag, Galbraith
Robinson, doesn't often scrape acquaintance with the image of the
king's head—ha, ha, ha! It makes me laugh to think of it!
Ha, ha, ha! Watty's nose cocked up so high too! Who but he,
the proud gander! Strutting like quality. Well, well, pride will
have a fall, some day, that's the Lord's truth. Both pockets full!”
she continued, muttering broken sentences and laughing so violently
that the tears ran down her cheeks.

“If you call Wat Adair your friend,” interrupted the wife sullenly,
and addressing Robinson, “you will show your sense by
keeping away from this foolish old woman. She is continually
raving with some nonsense that she dreams of nights. You ought
to see that she is only half witted. It's sinful to encourage her
talking. Grandmother, you had better go to your bed.”

“Come this way, deary,” said the beldam, addressing an infant
that toddled across the floor near to her seat, at the same time
extending her shrivelled arm to receive it. “Come to the old
body, pretty darling!”

“No,” lisped the child with an angry scream, and instantly
made its way towards the door.

“Then do you come to me, Peggy,” she said, looking up at her
granddaughter, the mistress of the family, who was still busy with
her wheel. “Wipe my old eye with your handkerchief. Don't
you see I have laughed my eyes dim at Watty and his gold?
And fill my pipe again, Peggy.”

Instead of obeying this command, the mother left her spinning,
and ran with some precipitation towards the door to catch up the
child, who had staggered to the very verge of the sill, where it
paused in imminent peril of falling headlong down the step; and
having rescued it from its danger, she returned with the infant in
her arms to a chair, where, without scruple at the presence of her
visitors, she uncovered her bosom and administered to her offspring
that rich and simple bounty which nature has so lavishly
provided for the sustenance of our first and tenderest days of
helplessness.

“Well-a-day, I see how it is!” muttered the grandmother in an
accent of reproof, “that's the way of the world. Love is like a
running river, it goes downwards, but doesn't come back to the
spring. The poor old granny in the chimney corner is a withered
tree up the stream, and the youngest born is a pretty flower on the
bank below. Love leaves the old tree and goes to the flower. It
went from me to Peggy's mother, and so downwards and downwards,
but it never will come back again. The old granny's room
is more wanted than her company; she ought to be nailed up in
her coffin and put to sleep down, down in the cold ground. Well,
well! But Watty's a proud wretch, that's for certain!”

In this strain the aged dame continued to pour forth a stream
of garrulity exhibiting a mixture of the silly dreamings of dotage,
with a curious remainder of the scraps and saws of former experience—a
strange compound of futile drivelling and shrewd and
quick sagacity.

During the period of the foregoing dialogue, preparations were
making for supper. These were conducted principally under the
superintendence of our Hebe, who, my reader will recollect, some
time since escaped from the room, and who, as Butler learned, in
the course of the evening, was a niece of Adair's wife and bore the
kindly name of Mary Musgrove. The part which she took in the
concerns of the family was in accordance with the simple manners
of the time, and such as might be expected from her relationship.
She was now seen arranging a broad table, and directing the
domestics in the disposition of sundry dishes of venison, bacon, and
corn bread, with such other items of fare as belonged to the
sequestered and forest-bound region in which Adair resided.

Mary was frequently caught directing her regards towards
Butler, whose face was handsome enough to have rendered such a
thing quite natural from a young girl: but she seemed to be moved
by more than ordinary interest, as the closeness of her scrutiny
almost implied a suspicion in her mind of his disguise. In truth
there was some incongruity between his manners and the peasant
dress he wore, which an eye like Mary's might have detected, notwithstanding
the plainness of demeanor which Butler studied to
assume.

“We have nothing but corn bread in the house,” said Mary in
a low tone to her kinswoman, “perhaps the gentlemen (here she
directed her eye, for the fiftieth time, to Butler) expected to get
wheat. Had I not better pull some roasting-ears from the garden and
prepare them? they will not be amiss with our milk and butter.”

“Bless you, my dear,” said Butler, thrown completely off his
guard, and showing more gallantry than belonged to the station
he affected. “Give yourself no trouble on my account; we can
eat anything. I delight in corn cakes, and will do ample justice to
this savory venison. Pray do not concern yourself for us.”

“It is easy as running to the garden,” said Mary in a sweet and
almost laughing tone.

“That's further, my dear,” replied Butler, “than I choose you
should run at this time of night. It is dark, my pretty girl.”

“Gracious!” returned Mary with natural emotion, “do you
think I am afraid to go as far as the garden in the dark! We
have no witches or fairies in our hills to hurt us: and if we had, I
know how to keep them away.”

“And how might that be?”

“By saying my prayers, sir. My father taught me, before my
head was as high as the back of this chair, a good many prayers:
and he told me they would protect me from all sorts of harm, if I
only said them in right earnest. And I hear many old people,
who ought to know, say the same thing.”

“Your father taught you well and wisely,” replied Butler;
“prayer will guard us against many ills, and chiefly against ourselves.
But against the harm that others may do us, we should
not forget that prudence is also a good safeguard. It is always
well to avoid a dangerous path.”

“But, for all that,” said the maiden smiling, “I am not afraid to
go as far as the garden.”

“If you mean to get the corn,” interrupted Mistress Adair, in no
very kindly tone, “you had as well go without all this talk. I
warrant if you listen to every man who thinks it worth while to
jabber in your ear, you will find harm enough, without going far
to seek it.”

“I thought it was only civil to speak when I was spoken to,”
replied Mary, with an air of mortification. “But I will be gone
this moment:” and with these words the girl went forth upon her
errand.

A moment only elapsed when the door was abruptly thrown
open, and the tall and swarthy figure of Wat Adair strode into
the room. The glare of the blazing faggots of pine which had
been thrown on the fire to light up the apartment, fell broadly
over his person, and flung a black and uncouth shadow across the
floor and upon the opposite wall; thus magnifying his proportions
and imparting a picturesque character to his outward man. A
thin, dark, weather-beaten countenance, animated by a bright and
restless eye, expressed cunning rather than hardihood, and seemed
habitually to alternate between the manifestations of waggish
vivacity and distrust. The person of this individual might be said,
from its want of symmetry and from a certain slovenly and
ungraceful stoop in the head and shoulders, to have been
protracted, rather than tall. It better deserved the description of
sinewy than muscular, and communicated the idea of toughness in
a greater degree than strength. His arms and legs were long; and
the habit of keeping the knee bent as he walked, suggested a
remote resemblance in his gait to that of a panther and other animals
of the same species; it seemed to be adapted to a sudden leap
or spring.

His dress was a coarse and short hunting-shirt of dingy green,
trimmed with a profusion of fringe, and sufficiently open at the
collar to disclose his long and gaunt neck: a black leather belt
supported a hunting knife and wallet; whilst a pair of rude deer-skin
moccasins and a cap manufactured from the skin of some wild
animal, and now deprived of its hair by long use, supplied the
indispensable gear to either extremity of his person.

Adair's first care was to bestow in their proper places his rifle
and powder-horn; then to disburden himself of a number of
squirrels which were strung carelessly over his person, and, finally,
to throw himself into a chair that occupied one side of the fire-place.
The light for a moment blinded him, and it was not until
he shaded his brow with his hand and looked across the hearth,
that he became aware of the presence of the strangers. His first
gaze was directed to Butler, to whom he addressed the common
interrogatory, “Travelling in these parts, sir?” and, before time was
afforded for a reply to this accost, his eye recognised the sergeant,
upon which, starting from his seat, he made up to our sturdy friend,
and slapping him familiarly on the back, uttered a chuckling
laugh, as he exclaimed:

“Why, Galbraith, is it you, man? To be sure it is! What
wind has blown you up here? Have you been running from red
coats, or are you hunting of Tories, or are you looking for beeves?
Who have you got with you here?”

“Wat, it don't consarn you to know what brought us here—it
is only your business to do the best you can for us whilst we are
here,” replied the sergeant. “This here gentleman is Mr. Butler, a
friend of mine that wants to get across into Georgia; and trouble
enough we've had to find our way this far, Wat Adair. You've
got such an uproarious country, and such a cursed set of quarrelsome
devils in it, that a peaceable man is clean out of fashion
amongst you. We are as wet as muskrats in swimming the river,
and as hungry as wolves in winter.”

“And happy,” said Butler, “to be at last under the roof of a
friend.”

“Well, I am glad to see you both,” replied Wat. “What put
it in my head, Galbraith, I am sure I can't tell, but I was thinking
about you this very day; said I to myself, I should just like to see
Horse Shoe Robinson, the onconceivable, superfluous, roaring devil!
Haw, haw, haw!”

“You were ashamed of your own company, Wat, and wanted
to see a decent man once more,” replied Horse Shoe, echoing the
laugh.

“Mary Musgrove, bustle, girl,” said the woodman, as the maiden
entered the room with her arms loaded with ears of Indian corn;

“bustle, mink! here are two runaways with stomachs like millstones
to grind your corn. Horse Shoe, get up from that chist,
man; I can give you a little drop of liquor, if you will let me
rummage there for it. Marcus, boy, go bring us in a jug of cool
water. Wife, I'm 'stonished you didn't think of giving our friends
something to drink afore.”

“I am sure I don't pretend to know friend from foe,” returned
the dame; “and it is a bad way to find that out by giving them
liquor.”

When the boy returned with the water, and the host had helped
his guests to a part of the contents of a flask which had been extracted
from the chest, Butler took occasion to commend the
alacrity of the young servitor.

“This is one of your children, I suppose?”

“A sort of a pet cub,” replied the woodman; “just a small
specimen of my fetching up: trees squirrels like a dog—got the
nose of a hound—can track a raccoon in the dark—and the most
meddlesome imp about fire-arms you ever see. Here t' other day
got my rifle and shot away half the hair from his sister's head;
but I reckon I skinned him for it! You can answer for that, Marcus,
you shaver, eh?”

“I expect you did,” answered the boy pertly, “but I don't mind
a whipping when I've got room to dodge.”

“Do you know, Mr. Butler, how I come to call that boy Marcus?”
said Adair.

“It is one of your family names, perhaps.”

“Not a bit. There's nare another boy nor man in this whole
country round has such a name—nor woman, neither. It's a totally
oncommon name. I called him after that there Frenchman
that's come out here to help General Washington—Marcus Lafayette;
and I think it sounds mighty well.”

Butler laughed, as he replied, “That was a soldierly thought of
yours. I think you must call your next Baron, after our old Prussian
friend De Kalb.”

“Do you hear that, wife?” exclaimed Wat. “Keep that in
your head, if it will hold there a twelvemonth. No occasion to
wait longer, haw! haw! haw!”

“Wat talks like a natural born fool,” retorted the wife. “We

have no friends nor enemies on any side. The boy was called
Marcus because Watty was headstrong, and not because we cared
any more for one general nor another. I dare say there is faults
enough on both sides, if the truth was told; and I can't see what
people in the woods have to do with all this jarring about liberty
and such nonsense.”

“Hold your tongue!” said Wat. “Boil your kettle, and give
us none of your tinkling brass, as the Bible calls it. You see,
Horse Shoe, there's such ridings and burnings, and shooting and
murder about here, that these women are scared out of the little
wits God has given them; and upon that account we are obliged
sometimes to play a little double, just to keep out of harm's way.
But I am sure I wish no ill to the Continental army.”

“If we thought you did, Wat,” replied Robinson, “we would
have slept on the hill to-night, rather than set foot across the sill
of your door. Howsever, let's say nothing about that; I told Mr.
Butler that you would give us the best you had, and so you
will. I have known Wat Adair, Mr. Butler, a good many years.
We used to call him Wat with the double hand. Show us your
fist here, Wat. Look at that, sir! it's as broad as a shovel!”

“Cutting of trees,” said the woodman, as he spread his large
horny-knuckled hand upon the supper table, “and handling of
logs, will make any man's paw broad, and mine wa'n't small at
first.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” ejaculated the sergeant, “you ha'n't forgot
Dick Rowley over here on Congaree, Wat,—Walloping Dick, as
they nicknamed him—and the scrimmage you had with him when
he sot to laughing at you because they accused you for being light-fingered,
and your letting him see that you had a heavy hand, by
giving him the full weight of it upon his ear that almost drove him
through the window of the bar-room at the Cross Roads? You
ha'n't forgot that—and his drawing his knife on you?”

“To be sure I ha'n't. That fellow was about as superfluous a
piece of wicked flesh as I say—as a man would meet on a summer's
day journey. But for all that, Horse Shoe, he wa'n't going
to supererogate me, without getting as good as he sent. When I
come across one of your merry fellows that's for playing cantraps
on a man, it's my rule to make them pay the piper; and that's a

pretty good rule, Horse Shoe, all the world through. But come,
here is supper; draw up, Mr. Butler.”

Mary Musgrove having completed the arrangement of the board
whilst this conversation was in progress, the family now sat down
to their repast. It was observable, during the meal, that Mary
was very attentive in the discharge of the offices of the table, and
especially when they were required by Butler. There was a
modest and natural courtesy in her demeanor that attracted the
notice of our soldier, and enhanced the kindly impression which
the artless girl had made upon him; and it was, accordingly, with
a feeling composed, in one degree, of curiosity to learn more of
her character, and, in another, of that sort of tenderness which an
open-hearted man is apt to entertain towards an ingenuous and
pretty female, that he took occasion after supper, when Mary had
seated herself on the threshold of the porch, to fall into conversation
with her.

“You do not live here, I think I have gathered, but are only on
a visit?” was the remark addressed to the maiden.

“No, sir; it is thirty good long miles by the shortest road, from
this to my father's house. Mistress Adair is my mother's sister,
and that makes her my aunt, you know, sir.”

“And your father's name?”

“Allen Musgrove. He has a mill, sir, on the Ennoree.”

“You are the miller's daughter, then. Well, that's a pretty
title. I suppose they call you so?”

“The men sometimes call me,” replied Mary, rising to her feet,
and leaning carelessly against one of the upright timbers that supported
the porch, “the miller's pretty daughter, but the women
call me plain Mary Musgrove.”

“Faith, my dear, the men come nearer to the truth than the
women.”

“They say not,” replied the maiden, “I have heard, and sometimes
I have read in good books—at least, they called them good
books—that you mustn't believe the men.”

“And why should you not?”

“I don't well know why not,” returned the girl doubtingly;
“but I am young, and maybe I shall find it out by and by.”

“God forbid,” said Butler, “that you should ever gain that experience!

But there are many toils spread for the feet of innocence
in this world, and it is well to have a discreet eye and good
friends.”

“I am seventeen, sir,” replied Mary, “come next month; and
though I have travelled backwards and forwards from here to
Ennoree, and once to Camden, which, you know, sir, is a good deal
of this world to see, I never knew anybody that thought harm of
me. But I don't dispute there are men to be afraid of, and some
that nobody could like. And yet I think a good man can be told
by his face.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes. My father is a good man, and every one says you may
see it in his looks.”

“I should like to know your father,” said Butler.

“I am sure he would be glad to know you, sir.”

“Now, my pretty miller's daughter, why do you think so?”

“Because you are a gentleman,” replied the girl, courtesying,
“for all your homespun clothes.”

“Ha! pray how have you found that out?”

“You talk differently from our people, sir. Your words or your
voice, I can't rightly tell which, are softer than I have been used to
hear. And you don't look, and walk, and behave as if homespun
had been all you ever wore.”

“And is that all?”

“You stop to consider, as if you were studying what would
please other people; and you do not step so heavy, sir; and you
do not swear; and you do not seem to like to give trouble. I
can't think, sir, that you have been always used to such as are
hereabouts. And then there's another reason, sir,” added the
maiden, almost in a whisper.

“What is that?” asked Butler, smiling.

“Why, sir, when you stooped down to pick up your fork, that
fell from the table, I saw a blue ribbon round your neck, and a
beautiful gold picture hanging to it. None but gentlemen of
quality carry such things about them: and as there is so much
contriving and bloody doings going on about here, I was sure you
wasn't what you seemed.”

“For heaven's sake, my dear,” exclaimed Butler, startled by

the disclosure of the maiden's suspicion, which was so naturally
accounted for, “keep this to yourself, and the time may come
when I shall be able to reward your fidelity. If you have any
good will towards me, as I hope you have, tell nobody what you
have seen.”

“Never fear me, sir,” returned the maid. “I wouldn't let on
to any one in the house for the world. I am for General Washington
and the Congress, which is more than I think the people
here are.”

“Indeed!” muttered Butler, thoughtfully, and scarce above his
breath. “What side does your father take, Mary?”

“My father is an old man, sir. And he reads his Bible, and
every night, before we go to bed, he prays aloud before us all, I
mean all that belong to his house, for quiet once more and peace.
His petition is that there may be an end of strife, and that the
sword and spear may be turned into the pruning-hook and
ploughshare—you know the words, sir, perhaps, for they are in
the good book, and so he doesn't take any side. But then, the
English officers are not far off, and they take his house and use it
as they please, so that he has no mind of his own. And almost
all the people round us are Tories, and we are afraid of our lives
if we do not say whatever they say.”

“Alas! that's the misfortune of many more than your father's
household. But how comes it that you are a friend of General
Washington?”

“Oh, sir, I think he is our friend; and then he is a good man.
And I have a better reason still to be on his side,” added the
maiden tremulously, with her head averted.

“What reason, my good girl?”

“John Ramsay, sir.”

“Indeed! a very cogent reason, I doubt not, my pretty maid
of the mill. And how does this reason operate?”

“We have a liking, sir,” she replied bashfully, but with innocent
frankness; “he is for Washington, and we are to be married
when the war is over.”

“Truly, that is a most excellent reason! Who is John Ramsay?”

“He is a trooper, sir, and out with General Sumpter. We

don't see him often now, for he is afraid to come home, excepting
when the Tories are away.”

“These Tories are very troublesome, Mary,” said Butler,
laughing; “they annoy us all, on our side of the question. But
love John Ramsay, my dear, and don't be ashamed of it, for I'll
warrant he is a brave fellow, and deserves a pretty girl with a
true heart, for his love to his country.”

“That he does!” replied Mary, “for his greatest fault is that
he ventures too much. If you should see him, sir, I would like
you just to drop him a hint that he ought to take more care of
himself. He would mind it from you, but he puts me off with a
laugh when I tell him so.”

“If I have the schooling of him, he shall be more cautious, for
your sake. But the current of true love never did run smooth,
Mary; remember that.”

“I must go into the house, my aunt Peggy calls me,” interrupted
the maiden. “I will keep the secret, sir,” she added, as
she retired from the porch to the household service where her
presence was demanded.

“Simple, innocent, and confiding girl,” ejaculated Butler, as he
now strolled forth under the starlit canopy of night; “how are
you contrasted with the rough and savage natures around you!
I wear but a thin disguise, when this unpractised country girl is
able so soon to penetrate it. And this miniature, too! Oh,
Mildred! that the very talisman I bear about me to guard me
from evil, should betray me! Well, this discovery admonishes
me that I should wear that image nearer to my heart. There,”
he continued, as he buttoned his waistcoat across his breast; “lie
closer and more concealed. I doubt this double-faced woodman,
and almost believe in the seeming frivolous dotings of the crone
at his fireside. Now, God defend us from treachery and ambuscade!”

Robinson, at this moment, being on his way to the stable, was
met by Butler, who half whispered, “Good sergeant, keep your
eyes about you, and, mark me, do not omit to take our weapons
to our chamber. I have reasons for this caution. I would not
trust these people too far.”

“Wat dare not play us a trick, major,” replied the sergeant.

“He knows I would shake the life out of his carcase if I saw him
take one step of a traitor. Besides, in this here war time, it's a part
of my discipline to be always ready for stolen marches. As you
say, major, we will stack arms where we sleep. There is no trust
in this dubious country that isn't something the surer with powder
and ball to back it.”

With this intimation the sergeant continued his walk, and
Butler, retiring to the family group, seated himself near the
fire.

Wat Adair and his crony, Michael Lynch, had each lighted a
pipe, and were now in close conference under the cover of their
own smoke, amidst the combined din of romping children and of
the noisy spinning-wheel of the wife, which gave life and occupation
to the apartment.

“How far do you expect to travel to-morrow?” asked the host,
as Butler drew a chair near him.

“That will depend very much,” replied Butler, “upon the
advice you may give us.”

“You wish to get across here into Georgia?” continued Wat.

“By the route least liable to molestation,” added the major.

“Let me see, Michael, Grindall's Ford is the best point to make:
then there's Christie's, about three miles beyont.”

“Just so,” replied Lynch; “that will make about twenty-seven
and three are thirty miles: an easy day's journey.”

“In that case,” said Adair, “if you know the road—doesn't
Horse Shoe know it, sir?”

“I rather think not,” answered Butler.

“Well, it's a little tangled, to be sure; but if you will wait in
the morning until I look at my wolf trap, which is only a step off,
I will go with you part of the way, just to see you through one
or two cross paths: after that all is clear enough. You will
have a long day before you, and, with good horses, not much
to do.”

“Are we likely to meet parties on the road?” asked Butler.

“Oh, Lord, sir, no chance of it,” replied the woodman; “everything
is drawing so to a head down below at Camden 'twixt
Cornwallis and Gates, that we have hardly anything but old
women left to keep the country free of Indians.”

“And how have you escaped the levy?” inquired the major.

“He, he, he!” chuckled our host; “there's a trick in that.
They call me a man of doubtful principles, and neither side are
willing to own me,” he added, with a tone that seemed to indicate
a sense of his own cleverness. “But, bless you, sir, if I chose to
speak out, there wouldn't be much doubt in the case. Would
there, Michael?”

“Not if you was to be plain in declaring your sentiments,”
answered Lynch, sedately puffing out a huge cloud of smoke.

“Betwixt you and me, sir,” continued Wat, putting his hand up
to his mouth, and winking an eye at Butler, “the thing's clear
enough. But these are ticklish times, Mr. Butler, and the wise
man keepeth his own counsel, as the Scripture says. You understand
me, I dare say.”

“Perhaps, I do,” returned Butler. And here the conversation
dropped, Wat and his companion gravely pouring forth volumes
of tobacco-fumes in silence, until the sergeant, having made his
visit to the stable, now re-entered the room.

“Wat,” said Robinson, “show us where we are to sleep. Mr.
Butler, to my thinking, it's time to be turning in.”

Then throwing his rifle upon one arm, and Butler's holsters
over the other, the sergeant waited in the middle of the floor until
Mary Musgrove, at the order of Adair, took a candle in her hand,
and beckoned our travellers to follow her out at the door. The
maiden conducted her charge along the porch to the opposite end
of the cabin, where she pointed out their chamber. After bidding
their pretty conductress “good night,” our travellers prepared
themselves for that repose which their wearied frames did not long
seek in vain.