THE BULB OF THE CRIMSON TULIP

PART I

The village of Newark lay dusty and dozing in the hot sunshine of an early summer day. In the church steeple the bell rang out three of the afternoon.

The broad highway was almost deserted, save for a flock of waddling ducks crossing toward the wayside brook, and an old man, with silvery-gray locks neatly tied in a queue, who leaned upon a garden gate and watched his opposite neighbor.

She was a little slip of a lass in a brown stuff dress and plain cap, kneeling, trowel in hand, beside a bed of tulips which glowed scarlet and yellow and white in the bright sunshine. Slowly, and with great care, she raised a beautiful crimson blossom from the mold and transplanted it to a flowerpot. Then, rising with the posy clasped in her arm, Margaret came down to the gateway and looked anxiously up the broad street of the Jersey town.

Grandpapa Davis nodded and smiled at her standing there, an erect, graceful little figure, with a look of thoughtful care upon her face. The shadows of the newly-leaved trees blotched and flickered upon the highway. Beyond lay the military green, with its long rows of elms arching over a pathway; and out of their shadowy distance appeared a gleam of scarlet, which proved to be a tall soldier walking slowly along, flour

ishing his riding-whip. Grandpapa Davis and the little maid exchanged glances. His was one of deep anxiety; hers of questioning fear.

Both thought instantly of the evening before, when the roadway glimmered in faint starlight, and a wounded rider crept up in the fragrant May darkness to the cottage gate. There he was assisted from the horse by women's hands and disappeared within the cottage, bowered in its budding vines. Grandpapa recalled Margaret, standing in the candlelight of his kitchen, telling him her brother's story. The anxiety of a woman replaced the pretty roguish joking she was wont to exchange with him.

Mahlon Ross had ridden from Elizabethtown with a cipher of importance from Maxwell of that place to General Washington, lying at Morristown. While crossing the Salt Meadows his horse had thrown him; and he was able to go forward only to his home, where he arrived fainting in his saddle.

"Whom shall we trust to carry the papers onward?" Margaret had asked the old man.

"Ford Halsey of the mill," he answered promptly. "He is in York Town on business and will be back by the coach to-morrow noon. Ford rides like the wind and knows every byway as well as an Indian."

As Margaret watched the coming British soldier, she anxiously scanned the highway beyond him in the direction of the Halsey's mill, whither her mother had

ridden to interview Ford. No welcome figures of horse and rider appeared in the sunny loneliness of the broad highway. A robin whistled in the tree-top, the soldier lounged slowly along, and drowsy silence reigned.

Her grandmother's gentle old face, framed in its cap and kerchief, appeared above the blue half door. "Margaret!" she called softly.

Margaret turned hastily.

"Dear heart," said the old woman, "it has just struck three. What keeps thy mother?"

The little maid shook her head.

"Old Dobs sleeps and dreams with mother on his back," she said. "Oh, I would that he felt my birching! If his lazy hoofs kept time to my heart-beats he would be here. Grandmother, is Mahlon safe, lying in the stable loft? I see a redcoat yonder."

"Tut!" cried the old woman, sharply. "Even the spring wind has ears in days like these! Be mindful of what thou sayest, my child!"

Then, seeing the flower, she exclaimed, "What art thou doing, lass? Why hast thou potted a tulip today?"

""Twas promised to Cicely Halsey for this afternoon. 'Tis her birthday, and she admires this tulip. It is most beautiful of color. I thought later to ride to the mill to give it to her."

Her glance strayed from the to the soldier crossing the road.

blossom in her arms Then with a thought

kindling in her face, she gave her grandmother a swift look and fled, without another word, around the corner of the house. Setting the tulip on the bench seat of the rear porch, she went on to the barn, where her sick brother lay concealed, and returned almost immediately with something clasped under her kerchief.

One pull, and the tulip came out of the pot, the mold scattering over the porch seat. Catching up a knife, she parted the bulb in halves and hollowed out the centers. In the bottom of the pot she placed a packet of paper drawn from her bosom, and within the hollowed bulb she hid the strip of precious cipher. With hands that lost no time, she repotted the cherished flower, cleared away the traces of her work, and stood looking down upon it regretfully.

"If any redcoat must have Mahlon's papers, I would rather it were thee," she said, stroking a satin petal of her tulip. "I did so hate to wound thee, I who nursed thee from a sprout!" And with a little childish quiver of the lips, she stooped and kissed the flower before entering the house.

The grandmother sat knitting.

"I like not that redcoat soldier sniffing our lilac bushes so closely," said Margaret. "I would mother were returned! But I have thought of a way to get the papers to Ford under the very nose of the redcoat, if need be-which God grant not! I fear there are other soldiers of his kind in the village."

The old lady sighed and shook her head.

"War

breeds old thoughts in young minds. 'Tis ill to judge the errand of a man by the color of his coat, lass. For the papers, I'll trust thy wit."

Margaret flitted restlessly from table to dresser. A small chicken, under her skilled fingers, was soon bubbling in the pot. A head of lettuce lay crisply piled on a dish, and out of the oven she drew a freshly baked loaf. With her back to the doorway, she did not see a shadow fall across the sanded brick, as the redcoat soldier, leaning his arms on the ledge of the half door, looked keenly about the little kitchen.

"Lass!" cried his hearty voice, thick with the Yorkshire accent, "thou seemest too busy even so much as to hear soldier boots crunching thy dooryard gravel -though I tried most manfully to steal a march on thee, I confess."

Margaret turned and faced him steadfastly, while the grandmother's knitting dropped to her lap at the first sound of his voice. Neither spoke. "Hast thou a well?" he continued. "I'm fain to drink! This road tramping is churlish business. And ye have churlish folk in this town. Faith, I've no opinion of their eyes and ears! General Knyphausen would better have sent one of his own Hessians instead of us; he had learned fully as much."

"Thou art from Yorkshire," said Grandmother Ross, mildly. "Since thou art thirsty, wouldst thou