!

"What has become of Nat?" his mother asked, a few days later. "I
haven't seen him lately."

"He was too valuable a horse for me to own and I sold him to Mr.
Jefferson. I can have the privilege of buying him back," and Rodney
turned away, afraid to trust himself to say more.

The crops that fall were successful and the neighbours told the boy he
would surely make a good farmer. He worked early and late and grew
strong; whereas his mother, watching him with sad eyes, became
weaker.

When Mrs. Allison was absorbed in thought the old coloured woman would
stand looking with anxious face at her mistress. One day she said,
"Missus, yo' jes' done git well. Dat's no mo'n doin' what's right by
Marse Rodney, ah reckon."

Mrs. Allison looked up into the kindly old face of the coloured woman,
and a wan smile was on her lips as she replied, "Mam, you are a woman
of good sense, and, God willing, I will get well." From that day she
began to improve.

Angus being away, Rodney had little diversion.

His chief pastime now was target practice with the rifle. The old
Indian had chosen wisely when he purchased the rifle, and the boy
became very proficient in marksmanship. One day when he had made a
fine shot he turned and found his mother and the two servants watching
him.

"I hadn't an idea you were such a fine shot, Rodney," said his
mother.

"Scolding Squaw hasn't an equal in the whole county of Albemarle,
mother."

"Lan' sakes, an' what heathen mought she be?" asked Mam.

"She was once the rifle of a noted chief of the Wyandottes, and when
she speaks a deadly silence follows," replied the boy, laughing.

"Marse Rodney will be wantin' ter jine de riflemen, I specs," remarked
Thello.

Mam, noting her mistress' face, hastened to say, "Reckon de riflemen
done froze up in Canada las' winter. Dey won't be rantin' down in ol'
Virginny fer one right smart spell."

That year, 1776, there were no steel rails laid nor copper wires
strung to carry the news, yet it was surprising how quickly tidings of
victory and defeat spread over the country.

Charlottesville was a very small town out near the shadows of the Blue
Ridge mountains, yet its people, not many weeks after the events
occurred, had heard how Donald McDonald had led the Scotch Tories of
North Carolina against the rifles of the Whigs and how the rifles
proved more powerful than the Scottish broadswords; then had come the
joyful news that Commodore Parker and his for