go too. I shall seek no further in this town. My question seems like saying, 'Dilly, Dilly, Dilly, come and be killed.' Whither ridest thou, little hostess-north or south? If north, I beg to go with thee. My horse is tethered back of the church."

"I go north, sir," said Margaret, her eyes resting on the flower, which drooped now on the soldier's broad breast as he still retained it in his arms.

"North? That is well. Wilt thou point out the turn to the Bloomfield road?" And he followed her down the garden pathway.

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Gladly," said Margaret, as she mounted nimbly to Old Dobs' back. ""Tis only a bit beyond the mill road. Sir, I can carry my tulip now.”

"Thou wilt not have a redcoat cavalier to bear it for thee, eh?" he said, laughing, as he delivered the precious pot into her outstretched hand.

Margaret grasped it, a wave of intense relief following the tension of uncertainty of the last few minutes. She pulled Dobs' bridle with a lighter heart, when a loud whinny in the little stable beyond suddenly broke the stillness.

The soldier turned his head and listened. In the swift action lay so shrewd a suspicion that the little heart beating behind the flowerpot stood almost still; but the serene look in Margaret's eyes never wavered.

"I fear we shall soon have a shower," she said, calmly meeting the soldier's gaze. "Dapple is whinnying, for he feels the thunder. Come, Dobs, thou must do thine errand briskly, if thou wouldst not have a wet skin."

She nodded to her mother and grandmother, and the soldier took a gallant leave of them; then together they disappeared up the road in a cloud of sifting golden dust.

roan (rōn): a horse having a brown color spotted with gray or white.— grist: grain or corn to be carried to the mill.-scru'tiny: a careful examination.-teth'ered: tied or fastened with a long rope or chain.-tension: strain.-shrewd: clever, wise.

THE BULB OF THE CRIMSON TULIP

PART III

The busy hoppers of the old mill hummed and sung in the afternoon stillness. Cicely Halsey had moved her flax wheel into the little arbor back in the mill garden, whence she could overlook the stable yard and Ford, who was sitting in a doorway, booted and spurred.

Suddenly up the road came Margaret riding Old Dobs, who was taking long, surprised strides, such as stirred in his dull brain certain memories of his youth. With flushed cheeks and shining eyes, Margaret ran up the garden path and, bursting into the little arbor, flung the tulip upon the table.

"Where is Ford?" she cried. Cicely? Will he ride?"

"Will he ride,

"Will he ride?" said Cicely, in astonishment. "He has been booted and spurred this half hour and waits but the papers. Did not thy mother tell

thee?"

Margaret shook her head and then, without a word, wrenched the tulip from the pot.

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"Why, now!" exclaimed Cicely. "What art thou doing? That is my crimson tulip thou art tumbling from the pot! Is that the way—"

But Margaret was running stableward with the stalkless bulb and a packet in her hands, leaving Cicely

speechless with dismay, surveying the dying flower and the heap of dirt.

Ford, on receiving the papers, simply looked inside the bulb and, with a shrewd, intelligent nod to Margaret, slipped it into his pocket, mounted his horse, and rode away. Margaret swung the barred gate behind him and turned, to find Cicely at her elbow. A long, distant roll of thunder sounded in the west. A sudden gust of wind swept the garden and puffed fragrantly into Margaret's face. She turned quickly to Cicely.

"Thank God, Ford is gone!" she cried. "The English evidently have learned that a messenger was sent with important news to Morristown. More than likely they also know of Mahlon's hurt. A redcoat, looking, as I feared, for his hiding-place, came to the house this afternoon. I thought he would search the place, and so I hid the papers in thy flower, knowing I could get Grandpapa Davis to ride with them to thee, if worst came to worst.

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Now I fear their return to take my brother prisoner. They will if they find him. Nay, do not look so frightened, Cicely. I saved the papers, and I must save Mahlon. I saw a look in the soldier's eyes when Dapple whinnied! The very roan he was so keen to find! Thou seest I must hasten home, dear."

Dobs, wounded and puzzled at his mistress' heartless urging of his lazy old legs, almost galloped to the

home door, and the thunder rolled and muttered. A grayness had quenched the afternoon light, and the hush that preludes the storm lay over house and garden as Margaret entered the kitchen.

"Ford is well on the way, and the papers with him," she said, in answer to her mother's anguished glance. "The soldier did not ride off with the tulip. But I fear he will return. We must hide Mahlon in Grandpapa Davis' old sugar house, across the huckleberry swamp, and tie Dapple in the clearing. Rain or not, ill or not, Mahlon must go."

With the first big drops of the rain, the little train set out across the fields; and as it poured down faster and faster, all traces of Dapple's hoofs were washed from the dusty pathway they had taken. In an hour the sick lad was under cover, and the shower had passed.

The garden lay sweet and damp and dripping in the evening twilight; and Margaret was stooping to raise and bind back some storm-beaten sprays of a rosebush, when five redcoat horsemen drew rein at the gate.

Margaret dropped her hammer in the mold. Inside the doorway the grandmother never ceased her knitting, and upon the porch appeared the dame's quiet figure. The soldier of the afternoon came up the path, with his companions following him. In her first keen glance at him, Margaret saw how entirely