owed that he must have had: but he kept them to himself. And
far other and lighter subjects occupied our minds as he and I started
for a walk out the Bowery lane one balmy Sunday morning in April, the
twenty-third day of the month.

Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, Fanny, and Tom, had gone to church. Philip
and I boasted of too much philosophical reading to be churchgoers, and
I had let my mother walk off to Trinity with a neighbour. As for
Margaret, she stayed home because she was now her own mistress and had
a novel to read, out of the last parcel received from London. We left
her on the rear veranda, amidst the honeysuckle vines that climbed the
trellis-work.

"I've been counting the weeks," she said to Phil, as we were about to
set forth. "Only seven more Sundays." And she stopped him to adjust
the ribbon of his queue more to her taste. "Aren't you glad?"

"Yes; and a thousand times so because it makes you happy, my dear,"
said he.

She kissed him, and let him go. "Don't walk too far, dear!" she called
after us.

We looked back from the gateway, and saw that she had come to the end
of the veranda to see us from the garden. We doffed our hats, and Phil
threw her a kiss; which she returned, and then waved her hand after
us, softly smiling. Philip lingered a moment, smiling back, to get
this last view of her ere he closed the gate.

We had just passed the common, at the Northern end of the town, when
we heard a clatter of galloping hoofs in the Bowery lane before us.
Looking up the vista of road shaded by trees in fresh leafage, we saw
a rider coming toward us at a very severe pace. As he approached, the
horse stumbled; and the man on its back, fearing it might sink from
exhaustion, drew up and gave it a moment in which to recover itself.
He evidently wished to make a decent entrance into the town. He was in
a great panting and perspiration, like his trembling steed, which was
covered with foam; and his clothes were disturbed and soiled with
travel. He took off his cocked felt hat to fan himself.

"You ride fast, for Sunday, friend," said Phil pleasantly. "Any
trouble?"

"Trouble for some folks, I guess," was the reply, spoken with a Yankee
drawl and twang. "I'm bringing news from Massachusetts." He slapped
the great pocket of his plain coat, calling attention to its
well-filled condition as with square papers. "Letters from the
Committee of Safety."

"Why, has anything happened at Boston?" asked Phil, quickly.