“I promise, as God hears me, Ruth.”

In the stillness the vow sounded awesome.  The two clasped hands.  All the sting was gone.  A great resolve to be ready to dare and die made Andy strong and happy.

“Good-by, Ruth.”

“Good-by, Andy, lad.”

Out into the still night the boy passed.  On the way back he saw Mrs. White, but he hid beneath a bush until she had gone by.  He reached home, found the door barred, and so painfully reached his room by the aid of the friendly vine.

CHAPTER II

A STRANGER IN THE NIGHT

That was to be a night of experiences—­the beginning, the real beginning of Andy’s life; all the rest had been preparation.  After reaching his room, he flung himself wearily upon the bed.  How long he slept he could not know, but he was suddenly aroused by a sharp knock on the outer door below stairs.  He sat up and listened.  All was still except the trickling of a near-by waterfall, which had outlived the dry weather.

For a moment Andy thought the knock was but part of a troubled dream; he waited a moment, then, to make sure, limped over to the stairway and peered down into the room below.  A candle stood on the pine table, and, at a chair near-by, knelt Janie McNeal, bowed in prayer.  She had heard the knock, but not until the lonely prayer was finished would she rise.  That was Janie’s way.

A second knock, louder than the first, sounded, and with it the woman’s solemn “Amen.”

“Be not so hasty, stranger,” she muttered, as she withdrew the bar; “learn to wait for your betters.”

The door swung back, and into the dim light of the bare room stepped a tall man in Continental dress.  His hat was in his hand, and he bowed before Janie as if she were a queen.  Andy drew back.  No such stranger had ever visited them before, and the boy gazed fascinated.

“Pardon me, my good woman,” the rich voice said; “much as I dislike disturbing you, I fear I must crave a few hours’ rest and lodging, and the service of one to row me across the river ere break of day.  I have been told that you have a son.”

Andy quivered.

“A lodging, sir, is yours and welcome,” Janie replied, motioning the stranger toward a chair and closing the door after him.  “I ever keep a bed in readiness these troubled times.  We are loyal to the cause, and I would serve where I may.  I have a son, sir, as you have heard, but, alas! not one who can be of service.  He is a cripple.  However, rest; you look sadly in need of it.  I will hasten to a neighbor’s a mile away, and seek the service you desire.”

“I regret to cause such trouble, but the need is urgent.  I sympathize with you in your son’s affliction.  It must be a sore grief to the lad to sit apart these stirring times when young blood runs hot, and the country calls so loudly.”

Soon Janie was setting food before the stranger—­good brown bread and creamy milk.  Andy saw the look of suffering on her face as she bustled about, and he understood.  He crept back to bed heavy-hearted.  Ruth was wrong; there was nothing for him to do.