The days following became filled with one longing for Andy.  The longing for Washington’s messenger.  Unless he came soon, the boy feared that he would be too late.  During his own recent explorations beyond the lines, he heard much that warned him that the British were planning something of grave importance.

Andy had told his mother and Ruth nothing of Washington’s anticipated messenger.  They knew merely that Andy had ferried the great General across the river—­was that not enough?  Had they known for what the boy was eagerly watching, they could not have done their own daily tasks.

“He has an eager, watchful air,” Janie confided to Ruth.  “I am thinking the lad expects the General to pass this way again.  Lightning and such happenings do not strike twice in the same spot.”

Ruth smiled gently.  “I do not think Andy walks as lame as he did,” she mused, watching the boy disappearing down a woody path.

“He is always on the go,” Janie broke in.  “He practices walking without his crutch more than I think wise; but one can do little with men-folk!” Janie tossed her head proudly.  Andy was a growing delight to her.

“It may do him good,” Ruth added; “he looks stronger and—­and gladder.”

“He has gone beyond me,” the mother sighed.  “I—­I begin to know, lass, the happy feeling a mother has when her heart aches with loneliness and—­and pride!  What ails you, lass?” For Ruth had started and given a short cry.

“Why—­why—­” laughed the girl, “I am thinking my eyes are playing me false.  I was watching Andy up the path, and I saw him as clear as I see you this minute—­and then he was gone!”

“Do not get flighty, Ruth.”  Janie came close, however, and peered up the path.  “You and Andy will drive me daft.  The path is a straight, clean one; had Andy been on it, he would still be in sight.  I’m thinking he turned before he came to the brook bed.  You did not notice, but your thoughts kept agoing on.”

“Perhaps,” nodded Ruth, but Janie knew she was unconvinced.

On her way home soon after, Ruth began to ponder.  Once clear of Janie’s observant eye, the girl turned back through the shrubbery, and ran to the spot where she had last seen Andy.  All was as silent as a breathless summer day could make it.  There was no side-path; no broken bushes.

“He was here,” breathed the girl, “and he disappeared like a flash!”

Then she knelt down and tried to trace footprints in the mossy earth.  “Ah!” she smiled, for there was a crushed space at the edge of a brambly cluster of bushes.  She quietly drew aside the branches, and a look of wonder grew in the bright eyes.  So cunningly concealed, that even her native-bred keenness might never have espied it, lay a path, and among the bushes, Andy’s crutch!  Should she follow?  In the old days Ruth would not have paused.  But these were not play-days; Andy might be upon grave business.  Reverently she drew back, and replaced the disorder she had caused among the parted leaves.  Suddenly a step startled her.  She turned sharply.  Up the path came a British soldier, whistling a gay tune and eyeing her boldly.