“But a Britisher!” moaned the boy, smoothing his hair, “a Britisher for Janie and Andy McNeal!  I might forgive him for all else—­for mother’s sake, but not that, not that!”

“Andy, lad, is it you?” Andy started.  His mother was coming up the stairs!

“Yes, mother.”  She stood before him now.  The coarse cotton gown that was familiar to Andy’s boyhood was gone.  A dull, bluish linen with white cuffs and collar had replaced it, and above the becoming dress shone the face of a new Janie.

A jealous pang struck Andy’s heart, and he shivered in spite of himself.

“I thought I heard you, lad.  You are safe?”

“Quite safe, mother.”

“But sair tired?” she dropped into the Scotch unconsciously.

“Not overtired.  I did my errand well.”

“And now, Andy, what next?”

“Nothing.  Since I cannot follow and fight, I must bide at home and wait.  Does any one come here for help from the patriot army we must be ready, mother.”

“Aye, surely, lad.  You know where my heart lies!”

“But, mother, the—­the person below.  He is—­a deserter if he is found here.  What then?  And surely not even he must keep us from doing our duty.”

“Lad” (Janie came close), “I cannot hope to have you understand.  When love comes your way, Andy, it will plead for me.  All these years—­I have been a starved and forsaken woman, and it has changed me.  We all go astray, Andy, and—­and your father.  Oh! call him that, son, for my sake.  Your father has dealt sorely with me and you, but he has come back.  He was hunting us long before he found us.  He wants to mend the past.  Andy, as we hope for mercy from the good God, let us be merciful.”

“But a Britisher, mother.  An enemy to our cause.  Oh, mother!”

“Andy, lad, come!” She put out her hand pleadingly, and Andy followed.  There was a candle burning in the guest-room, and by its modest gleam sat the man who, when Andy had seen him last, was proclaiming his own son to be the rebel who had presumably struck one of the king’s men in the cave.  Very pale was the man now, and the bruise on the forehead shone plain even in the dim light.  He looked up at Andy in a curious, interested way, and half extended his hand.

“You do not care to take the hand of a Britisher, I see.”  The white face relaxed in a faint smile.  Andy went nearer.

“For my mother’s sake I can take my—­my father’s hand, though it all seems mighty queer.”

“I want you to know,” said the man, “that I would not have told my head officer who you were that day, but I was so alarmed at the likeness you bore my mother that I was unaware of what I was doing.  It was horrible to realize as I was beginning to do then, that I was probably speaking to my own—­son.”

“It was more horrible to think that my own father had been struck by a blow dealt in my defense.  You must have thought that, too.”