grasp and looked sulkily defiant:

"'I didn't say 'TWAS that,' he muttered. 'I said it MIGHT be, an'
p'r'aps 'twas; or it might 'a' been the deacon's old mare switchin' 'er
tail ter keep off the flies. I'm sure _I_ don't know which 'twas. But
girls are always a-squealin' at nothin'.'

"And with this parting fling at us tearful ones, Dan turned in the
direction of the barn; but I was too anxious to hear from father and
mother to let him go without a word more. 'Dan,' I whispered with my
hand on his arm, 'did you see or hear anything of OUR folks?'

"'No!' was the rather grump reply; 'after what I saw at the deacon's I
didn't want ter ventur' furder, but from there I could see 'em lightin'
fires in the village, an' I don't doubt by this time that most o' the
houses is in flames.'

"With this comforting assurance Dan went off to his bed upon the haymow,
and I crept back into the house and laid my tired head down upon Aunt
Polly's motherly lap, where, between my sobs, I managed to tell what Dan
had told me.

"Aunt Polly laid a caressing hand upon my hair: 'La, child,' said she
soothingly, 'don't you worry yourself a bit over Dan Parson's stories.
That boy was BORN to tell stories. The Britishers are bad enough,
but they ain't heathen savages, an' if the town has surrendered, as I
calc'late it has, the settlers will be treated like prisoners o' war.
There won't be no sculpin' nor burnin' o' houses--no, dear. And now,'
giving me a little reassuring pat, 'you're all tired out, an' ought
ter be asleep. I'll make up a bed on this rug with a cushion under your
head, an' my big plaid shawl over you, an' you'll sleep jest as sound as
if you was ter home in your own trundle-bed.'

"Little Sally shared my rug and shawl, and Aunt Polly, gently refusing
the ungracious civility of the old couple, who had offered her the use
of their spare bedroom, after seeing every little, tired form made as
comfortable as possible with quilts and blankets from the farmwife's
stores, laid herself down upon the floor beside us, after commending
herself and us to the God she loved and trusted, raised her head and
spoke to us once more in her sweet, hopeful, quavering old tones:

"'Good night, dears! Go to sleep and don't be a bit afraid. I shouldn't
wonder if your folks come for you in the mornin'.'

"What comfort there was in her words! And even the very little ones, who
had never been away from their mothers a night before in their lives,
stop