the path to Dorchester Heights. The
troops swung their hats and gave a cheer when they saw their commander
ascending the hill. He lifted his hat, and thanked them for having
constructed such strong intrenchments in so short a time.

"It is the fifth of March," he said, "and I am sure you will remember
it is the anniversary of the massacre of the Sons of Liberty."

In Boston drums were beating, regiments marching; but suddenly the
wind, which had blown from the west, changed to the east; and the sea
waves were rolling up the bay, making it impossible for the Somerset,
Scarborough, Boyne, and the other ships, to spread their sails and
take position to bombard the works of the rebels; neither could
General Howe embark the troops upon the dancing boats. The clouds were
hanging low, and rain falling. Not till the wind changed and the sea
calmed could there be a battle; General Howe must wait.

Night came; the rain was still pouring. The provincials wrapped their
overcoats closely around them, kindled fires, ate their bread and
beef, told stories, sang songs, and kept ward and watch through the
dreary hours.

Morning dawned; the wind was still east, and the waves rolling in
from the sea. With gloom upon his brow, General Howe with his
telescope examined the fortifications. Could he hope to capture them?
Doubtful. Exasperating, humiliating, the reflection that Mr.
Washington was in a position to compel him to evacuate the town. Only
a few days before, he had written Lord Dartmouth he was in no danger
from the rebels; he only wished Mr. Washington would have the audacity
to make a movement against him; but now he must pack up and be off,
give up what he had held so long, and confess defeat. What would the
king say? What the people of England? He did not like to think of what
had come. But he must save the army. What of the citizens who had
maintained their loyalty to the king? Should he leave them to the
tender mercies of the exasperated provincials whose homes had been
burned? He could not do that. If Theodore Newville, Nathaniel Coffin,
or any of the thousand or more wealthy citizens were willing to remain
loyal, if they were ready to become aliens and fugitives and exiles,
he must do what he could for them.

* * * * *

"What is it, husband?" Mrs. Newville asked as Mr. Newville entered his
house, and she beheld his countenance, white, haggard, and woe-begone.

"What has happened, father?