t
an end."

"May be, Miss Caxton, you may think to-morrow mornin' that it would have
been just as well to wait till the night was gone before you said
that--when you see the British Capin hanging by the neck in his fine
regimentals, and hear that his guard were the men that did it--as I know
they've sworn to do--you may think after all they an't so mean
speritted."

"Miss Dunham! if they'll do that, I'll unsay every word I've said, and
proud enough I would be to call one of 'em my son-in-law--but now do
tell me all about it--she's asleep you see," glancing at Mary Sinclair,
"and there an't nobody to hear."

"Why, there an't much to tell. You see the Major wouldn't give way any
how at all about this here man--so, as they didn't want to fight _him_,
they agreed that some of the real true blues who an't afeard of nothin',
should seem to help the Major and persuade him to keep the man here till
late in the night, and that they would guard him--but they were to take
care to have the key of his room, and when the Major goes there he'll
find it empty, or at best only a bloody corpse there. They'll hang him
if they can get him out of the window without too much noise, but if
there's any danger of his waking the Major with his screeching, they'll
stop his voice quick enough."

Any further conversation between these discreet watchers was prevented
by a sudden movement on the part of Mary Sinclair. Springing from her
bed she was hastening to the door when her steps were arrested.

"Dear me, Miss Mary! where are you going? Now do lie down again, my dear
young lady!--be patient--it's the Lord's will, you know." Such were the
remonstrances of her officious attendants, while, one on either side,
they strove to lead her back again, but Mary persisted.

"I must go to my father, Mrs. Dunham, pray let me go, Mrs. Caxton, I
must speak to my father."

"Well, then, my good young lady, just put your wrapping gown around you
first, and put your feet in these slippers."

Mary complied silently, and then was suffered to proceed. Rapidly she
flew to her father's room--it was unoccupied, and a glance at his bed
showed her that it had not been disturbed. Mary was at no loss to
conjecture where she should find her father--but as she approached
_that_ room her steps grew slower, lighter--she was treading on holy
ground. With difficulty she nerved herself to turn the latch of the
door, and in an awed whisper she entreated her father to come