sacrifice to
the new cause.

Janie McNeal held it against the good God that she, His faithful
servant, must be denied the glorious opportunity of giving her best and
all, as other mothers were doing, that the land of the free might be
wrested from cruel tyranny.

To be sure, Andy was but sixteen. That mattered little to Janie; young
as he was, she could have held him in readiness, as did Hannah of old,
until the time claimed him--but his lameness made it impossible. Among
all the deeds of courage, he must stand forever apart!

Poor Janie could not conceive of a bravery beyond physical strength. In
her disappointment she looked upon pale Andy, and she saw--she hated to
acknowledge it--but she saw only cowardice written upon every line of
the shrinking features! The patient blue eyes avoided her pitying
glance. The sensitive mouth twitched as the boy listened to her
oft-repeated laments. Janie had never seen those eyes grow steely and
keen; she had never seen the lips draw into firm lines, or the slim form
stiffen as the boy listened to the doings of the king's soldiers. When
the neighbors came with thrilling tales of daring done by some loved
one, Janie made some excuse for sending the boy upon an errand or to
bed; the contrast was too bitter.

And Andy, sensitive and keen from suffering, saw through it all and
shrank, not from fear or cowardice, but unselfish love, away from the
stir and excitement and his mother's sigh of humiliation. He lived his
life much alone; misunderstood, but silently brave. His chance would
come. Andy never once doubted that, and the chance would find him ready.

And so he waited while the summer of 1776 waxed hotter and hotter, and
the king's men, drunken with success after the battle of Long Island,
pressed their advantage and impudence further, as they waited to see
what the "old fox," meaning Washington, meant to do next. What his
intentions were, no one, not even his own men, seemed to know; he kept
them and himself well out of sight, and the anxious people watched and
wondered and grew restless under the strain.

Now upon a certain July night Janie McNeal and Andy were sitting at
their humble meal. The door of the cottage stood open, and the song of
evening birds made tender the quiet scene. Suddenly hurried, yet
stealthy, steps startled them. Was it friend or foe?

"'Tis from a secret path, mother," whispered Andy, catching his crutch.
He knew the way the king's men came and went