arried them the last two apples yesterday. Prince Rupert
knew me in the distance and whinnied before Peter saw me. Now I'll send
Aunt Lydia to you, dearest, while I see about the weaving. Mammy Riah has
almost finished my linsey dress." She kissed her again and went out to
where the looms were working in one of the detached wings.

The summer went by slowly. The famished army fell back inch by inch, and at
Uplands the battle grew more desperate with the days. Without horses it was
impossible to plant the crops and on the open turnpike swept by bands of
raiders as by armies, it was no less impossible to keep the little that was
planted. Betty, standing at her window in the early mornings, would glance
despairingly over the wasted fields and the quiet little cabins, where the
negroes were stirring about their work. Those little cabins, forming a
crescent against the green hill, caused her an anxiety before which her own
daily suffering was of less account. When the time came that was fast
approaching, and the secret places were emptied of their last supplies,
where could those faithful people turn in their distress? The question
stabbed her like a sword each morning before she put on her bonnet of
plaited straw and ran out to make her first round of the farm. Behind her
cheerful smile there was always the grim fear growing sharper every hour.

Then on a golden summer afternoon, when the larder had been swept by a band
of raiders, she became suddenly aware that there was nothing in the house
for her mother's supper, and, with the army pistol in her hand, set out
across the fields for Chericoke. As she walked over the sunny meadows, the
shadow that was always lifted in Mrs. Ambler's presence fell heavily upon
her face and she choked back a rising sob. What would the end be? she asked
herself in sudden anguish, or was this the end?

Reaching Chericoke she found Mrs. Lightfoot and Aunt Rhody drying sliced
sweet potatoes on boards along the garden fence, where the sunflowers and
hollyhocks flaunted in the face of want.

"I've just gotten a new recipe for coffee, child," the old lady began in
mild excitement. "Last year I made it entirely of sweet potatoes, but Mrs.
Blake tells me that she mixes rye and a few roasted chestnuts. Mr.
Lightfoot took supper with her a week ago, and he actually congratulated
her upon still keeping her real old Mocha. Be sure to try it."

"Indeed I shall--the very next time Hosea gets any sweet pot