d fight 'em," said John
Coffin, who had shown his loyalty by accompanying General Howe to the
battle of Bunker Hill.

"And I hope you'll have a chance to put a bullet through the carcass
of Sam Adams," said Mr. Shrimpton.

It was his daughter's hand that guided him over the gang-plank to the
deck of the Queen Charlotte.

"Let me put this muffler round your neck; the air is chill and you are
shivering," said Mary, gently leading him.

With chattering teeth and curses on his lips for those whom he
regarded as authors of his misfortunes, Abel Shrimpton, led by his
daughter, descended the winding stairs to the cabin of the ship.

"Here are the rugs and shawls, mother, and here is the wolf-skin,
father, to wrap around you," said Ruth.

They were in the stifling cabin, the departing loyalists sitting as in
a daze, stupefied, stunned by the sudden calamity, wondering if it
were not a horrid dream.

To Mary Shrimpton and Ruth Newville it was no phantom, no
hallucination, but a reality, an exigency, demanding calm reflection,
wise judgment, and prompt, decisive action. They had talked it
over,--each in the other's confidence.

"You must go and I will stay; you will care for them all; I will look
after things here. This war will not last always. You will all come
back some time," said Ruth, her abiding faith rising supreme above the
agony of the parting.

"I will care for them," had been the calm reply of Mary.

"Oh, missus! I can't bear to have ye go, you's been good to me always.
I'se packed a luncheon for ye," said Phillis, kneeling upon the floor,
clasping the knees of her departing mistress, crying and sobbing.

"Oh, massa and missus, old Pomp can't tell ye how good ye've been to
him. He'll be good to Miss Ruth. He'll pray for de good Lord to bless
ye, every night, as he always has,"--the benediction of the slave
kneeling by Phillis's side.

Long and tender was the last embrace of the mother and daughter,--of
the father and his beloved child. With tears blinding her eyes, with
tottering steps, Ruth passed across the gang-plank. A sailor drew it
in, and unloosed the cable. The vessel swung with the tide from its
moorings, the jib and mainsail filled with the breeze, and glided
away. The weeping crowd upon its deck saw Ruth standing upon the
wharf, her countenance serene, pure, and peaceful, with tears upon her
face, gazing at the receding ship. Those around her beheld her steady
herself against the post which