st was held in
Faneuil Hall, with representatives from ninety-six towns present, at
which meeting it was resolved that "they would peril their lives and
their fortunes to defend their rights:" "That money cannot be granted
nor a standing army kept up in the province but by their own free
consent."

The storm was gathering, and ominous clouds hung low over the town of
Boston on a day soon after the meeting in Faneuil Hall, when seven
armed vessels from Halifax brought troops up the harbor to a wharf at
which they landed, and tramped by the sullen crowd of spectators with
colors flying, drums beating--as if entering a conquered city.
Naturally the inhabitants of Boston would give them no aid in securing
quarters, so they were obliged to camp on the Common, near enough to
Dorothy Quincy's home on Summer Street to annoy her by the noise of
their morning drills, and to make her realize in what peril her
lover's life would be if he became more active in public affairs at
this critical period.

If any stimulus to John Hancock's growing patriotism was needed it was
given on the tenth of June, when one of his vessels, a new sloop, the
_Liberty_, arrived in port with a cargo of Madeira wine, the duty on
which was much larger than on other wines. "The collector of the port
was so inquisitive about the cargo, that the crew locked him below
while it was swung ashore and a false bill of entry made out, after an
evasive manner into which importers had fallen of late. Naturally
enough, when the collector was released from the hold, he reported the
outrage to the commander of one of the ships which had brought troops
from Halifax, and he promptly seized the _Liberty_ and moved it under
his ship's guns to prevent its recapture by Bostonians." This was one
of the first acts of violence in the days preceding the struggle for
Independence in Massachusetts.

While John Hancock was so fully occupied with public matters, he yet
found time to see his Dolly frequently, and her sorrow was his when in
1769 Mrs. Quincy died, and Dorothy, after having had her protecting
love and care for twenty-two years, was left motherless. The young
girl was no coward, and her brave acceptance of the sorrow won her
lover even more completely than before, while his Aunt Lydia, who had
become deeply attached to pretty Dorothy, and was eager to have her
adopted son's romance end happily, lavished much care and affection on
the girl and insisted that she visit he