“I think of you and pray for you very often,” it says.  “I hope you have not forgotten me or must I look for another to help me enjoy that happy fortune of which you have heard?  Please tell me truly.  My father has met Doctor Franklin who told of the night he spent at your home and that he thought you were a noble and promising lad.  What a pleasure it was to hear him say that!  We are much alarmed by events in America.  My mother and I stand up for Americans, but my father has changed his views since we came down the Mohawk together.  You must remember that he is a friend of the King.  I hope that you and your father will be patient and take no part in the riots and house burnings.  You have English blood in your veins and old England ought to be dear to you.  She really loves America very much, indeed, if not as much as I love you.  Can you not endure the wrongs for her sake and mine in the hope that they will soon be righted?  Whatever happens I shall not cease to love you, but the fear comes to me that, if you turn against England, I shall love in vain.  There are days when the future looks dark and I hope that your answer will break the clouds that hang over it.”

So ran a part of the letter, colored somewhat by the diplomacy of a shrewd mother, one would say who read it carefully.  The neighbors had heard of its arrival and many of them dropped in that evening, but they went home none the wiser.  After the company had gone, Jack showed the letter to his father and mother.

“My boy, it is a time to stand firm,” said his father.

“I think so, too,” the boy answered.

“Are you still in love with her?” his mother asked.

The boy blushed as he looked down into the fire and did not answer.

“She is a pretty miss,” the woman went on.  “But if you have to choose between her and liberty, what will you say?”

“I can answer for Jack,” said John Irons.  “He will say that we in America will give up father and mother and home and life and everything we hold dear for the love of liberty.”

“Of course I could not be a Tory,” Jack declared.  The boy had studiously read the books which Doctor Franklin had sent to him—­Pilgrim’s Progress, Plutarch’s Lives, and a number of the works of Daniel Defoe.  He had discussed them with his father and at the latter’s suggestion had set down his impressions.  His father had assured him that it was well done, but had said to Mrs. Irons that it showed “a remarkable rightness of mind and temper and unexpected aptitude in the art of expression.”

It is likely that the boy wrote many letters which Miss Margaret never saw before his arguments were set down in the firm, gentle and winning tone which satisfied his spirit.  Having finished his letter, at last, he read it aloud to his father and mother one evening as they sat together, by the fireside, after the rest of the family had gone to bed.  Tears of pride came to the eyes of the man and woman when the long letter was finished.