ines in the dimness, there was
given to him the picture of Uncle John, lying helpless amid and upon the
nubbins that had been piled over his strong box.

"Why, Uncle John, are you dead?" asked Joe, climbing over to his side.

"Is the house afire?" was the response.

"House afire? No! The confounded red-coats up and put it out."

"I thought they was going to let me burn to death up here!" groaned
Uncle John.

"Can I help you up?" and Joe proffered two strong hands, rather black
with toil and smoke.

"No, no! You can't help me. If the house isn't afire, I'll stand it till
the fellows are gone, and then, Joe you fetch the doctor as quick as you
can."

"YOU can't get a doctor for love nor money this night, Uncle John.
There's too much work to be done in Lexington and Concord to-night for
wounded and dying men; and there'll be more of 'em too afore a single
red-coat sees Boston again. They'll be hunted down every step of the
way. They've killed Captain Davis, from Acton."

"You don't say so!"

"Yes, they have, and--"

"I say, Joe Devins, go down and do-do something. There's my niece,
a-feeding the murderers! I'll disown her. She shan't have a penny of my
pounds, she shan't!"

Both Joe and Uncle John were compelled to remain in inaction, while
below, the weary little woman acted the kind hostess to His Majesty's
troops.

But now the feast was spent, and the soldiers were summoned to begin
their painful march. Assembled on the green, all was ready, when Major
Pitcairn, remembering the little woman who had ministered to his wants,
returned to the house to say farewell.

'Twas but a step to her door, and but a moment since he had left it,
but he found her crying; crying with joy, in the very chair where he had
found her at prayers in the morning.

"I would like to say good-by," he said; "you've been very kind to me
to-day."

With a quick dash or two of the dotted white apron (spotless no longer)
to her eye, she arose. Major Pitcairn extended his hand, but she folded
her own closely together, and said:

"I wish you a pleasant journey back to Boston, sir."

"Will you not shake hands with me before I go?"

"I can feed the enemy of my country, but shake hands with him, NEVER!"

For the first time that day, the little woman's love of country seemed
to rise triumphant within her, and drown every impulse to selfishness;
or was it the nearness to safety that she felt? Human conduct is the
result of so many moti