d with hesitation, "I have thought that she loves you, though her
lips have never opened on that subject."

So the blow fell. I turned away, for to save my life the words would not
come. He missed the reason of my silence.

"I understand and honour your scruples," he went on. His kindness was
like a knife.

"No, I have had none, Mr. Swain," I exclaimed. For I would not be
thought a hypocrite.

There I stopped. A light step sounded in the hall, and Patty came in
upon us. Her colour at once betrayed her understanding. To my infinite
relief her father dropped my fingers, and asked cheerily if there was
any news from the town meeting.

On the following Wednesday, with her flag flying and her sails set, the
Peggy Stewart was run ashore on Windmill Point. She rose, a sacrifice to
Liberty, in smoke to heaven, before the assembled patriots of our city.

That very night a dear friend to Liberty passed away. He failed so
suddenly that Patty had no time to call for aid, and when the mother
had been carried in, his spirit was flown. We laid him high on the hill
above the creek, in the new lot he had bought and fenced around. The
stone remains:

HERE LIETH

HENRY SWAIN, BARRISTER.
BORN MAY 13, 1730 (O.S.);
DIED OCTOBER 19, 1774.
Fidus Amicis atque Patrice.

The simple inscription, which speaks volumes to those who knew him, was
cut after the Revolution. He was buried with the honours of a statesman,
which he would have been had God spared him to serve the New Country
which was born so soon after his death.

Volume 8.

CHAPTER L. FAREWELL TO GORDON'S

I cannot bear to recall my misery of mind after Mr. Swain's death. One
hope had lightened all the years of my servitude. For, when I examined
my soul, I knew that it was for Dorothy I had laboured. And every letter
that came from Comyn telling me she was still free gave me new heart
for my work. By some mystic communion--I know not what--I felt that she
loved me yet, and despite distance and degree. I would wake of a morning
with the knowledge of it, and be silent for half the day with some
particle of a dream in my head, lingering like the burden of a song with
its train of memories.

So, in the days that followed, I scarce knew myself. For a while (I
shame to write it) I avoided that sweet woman who had made my comfort
her care, whose father had taken me when I was homeless. The good in me
c