Andy followed, wondering, but biding Ruth’s time.  She was a strange girl in all her ways.

Without speaking, the two went through the little garden and paused before the row of neat hives.  Then Ruth bent before the first.

“Sam’s dead!” she whispered, “but do not fear.  We need you, so do not leave the hive.”  From hive to hive she went, quite seriously repeating the sentence in soft murmurings.  Andy stood and looked, the moonlight showing him pale and intent.  At last the deed was done, and Ruth came back to him and laid her firm, brown hand upon his shoulder.  She was a trifle taller than he, so she bent to speak.

“Not even your mother knows you as I do, Andy,” she said.  “She thinks a lame leg can cripple a brave soul; but it cannot!  Why, even being a girl could not keep me back if I saw my chance, and I tell you, Andy, your lameness may serve you well.  I have been thinking of that.  I do not believe God ever wastes anything.  He can use lame boys and—­even girls.  Sam was not wasted.  The call made him brave and good.  He was coming home a new creature just because he had heard.  When I saw him lying dead, shot by those lurking cowards, something grew in me here,”—­she touched her breast.  “I have not shed one tear, but I loved him as well as the others.  Somehow I knew that since he had been called, it was because he had a work to do, and since he is gone I mean to be ready to do his work.  Andy, I am as strong as a boy, but—­” here her eyes sought his—­“I am a girl for all that, but you and I together, Andy, can do Sam’s work!” The young voice shook with excitement.

“I, Ruth?  Ah! do not shame me.”  Andy’s eyes fell before the shining face.

“Shame you, Andy?  I shame you—­I who have loved you next best to Sam!  Come.  Father has gone to bed, there will be time before mother returns.  I want you to see Sam.”

With bated breath the two entered the living-room of the cottage.  The place had been made sacred to the young hero who was so early called to his rest.  Flowers everywhere, and among them Sam lay smiling placidly at his easily won laurels.

For the first time Andy gazed upon the face of death.  The gentle dignity and peace of the once wild boy awed and thrilled the onlooker.  He was dressed in his Continental uniform that was unsoiled by battle’s breath, albeit, an ugly hole in the breast showed where the gallant blood had flowed forth.

“It’s—­it’s wonderful!” gasped Andy.

“But we’re not going to let him be wasted, are we Andy?” There was a cruel break in the girl’s voice.  “We’ll do his work, won’t we?  We’ll show the Britishers how we can repay, won’t we, Andy?”

“Yes,” breathed the boy, unable to turn his eyes from the noble, boyish face, that was lighted by the gleam of the one lamp; “we’ll show them!”

“See, Andy” (Ruth had gone to a corner cup-board and brought forth a three-cornered cap), “this is Sam’s; I found it in the bushes.  Mother says I may have it.”  She placed it upon Andy’s head.  “It just fits!” she exclaimed.  “If the time comes, Andy, you shall wear the cap.  It will be proof that I trust you.  You will help if you can, won’t you?  Promise” Andy.”