n her lap. He never had kissed
Rachel, but he would now, and gave her a hearty smack. He saw an
unusual brightness in her eyes and a richer bloom upon her cheek as he
stepped into the wagon.

"I'll get something nice for her," he said to himself as he rode away.

Besides the other articles in the wagon, there was a bag of wool,
sheared from his own flock. Years before his father had given him a
cosset lamb, and now he was the owner of a dozen sheep. Yes, he would
get something for her.

The morning air was fresh and pure. He whistled a tune and watched the
wild pigeons flying in great flocks here and there, and the red-winged
blackbirds sweeping past him from their roosting in the alders along
the meadow brook to the stubble field where the wheat had been
harvested. Gray squirrels were barking in the woods, and their cousins
the reds, less shy, were scurrying along the fence rails and up the
chestnut-trees to send the prickly burrs to the ground. The first
tinge of autumn was on the elms and maples. Jenny had been to market
so many times she could be trusted to take the right road, and he
could lie upon his sack of wool and enjoy the changing landscape.

Mrs. Stark was blowing the horn for dinner at John Stark's tavern in
Derryfield when Jenny came to a standstill by the stable door.[1]
Robert put her in the stall, washed his face and hands in the basin on
the bench by the bar-room door, and was ready for dinner. Captain
Stark shook hands with him. Robert beheld a tall, broad-shouldered
man, with a high forehead, bright blue eyes, and pleasant countenance,
but with lines in his cheek indicating that he could be very firm and
resolute. This was he under whom his father served at Ticonderoga and
Crown Point.

[Footnote 1: John Stark, tavern-keeper in Derryfield, was the renowned
Indian fighter and captain of the corps of Rifle Rangers in the war
with France. (See Biography by Jared Sparks.) The tavern is still
standing in the suburbs of the city of Manchester, N. H.]

"So you are the son of Josh Walden, eh? Well, you have your father's
eyes, nose, and mouth. If you have got the grit he had at Ti, I'll bet
on you."

Many times Robert had heard his father tell the story of the Rifle
Rangers, the service they performed, the hardships they endured, and
the bravery and coolness of John Stark in battle.

Through the afternoon the mare trotted on, halting at sunset at Jacob
Abbott's stable in Andover.

It was noon th