Now upon a certain July night Janie McNeal and Andy were sitting at their humble meal.  The door of the cottage stood open, and the song of evening birds made tender the quiet scene.  Suddenly hurried, yet stealthy, steps startled them.  Was it friend or foe?

“’Tis from a secret path, mother,” whispered Andy, catching his crutch.  He knew the way the king’s men came and went, and he knew the paths hidden to all but those who dwelt among them.  His trained ear was never deceived.

“’Tis a neighbor,” he murmured; “he comes down the stream bed.”

Sure enough, a moment later Parson White’s wife ran in.  Her face was haggard, and her hands outstretched imploringly.  With keen appreciation of what might be coming, Janie McNeal put her in a chair, and stood guard over her like a gaunt sentinel.

“To bed, Andy, child,” she commanded; “’tis late and you are pale.  To bed!”

Andy took the crutch, and, without a word, limped to the tiny room in the loft above.  Boy-like, he was consumed with curiosity.  He knew that the speakers, unless they whispered, could be overheard, so he lay down upon his hard bed and listened.  And poor Margaret White did not whisper.  Once alone with her friend, she poured out her agony and horror.

“My Sam,” she moaned, “he is dead!”

Janie and the listener above started.  For three years Sam White, the erring son of the good parson, had been a wanderer from his father’s home.  How, then, had he died, and where?  The news was startling, indeed.

“Margaret, tell me all!” The firm voice calmed the grief-stricken mother.

“He was coming home to get our blessing.  He heard his country’s call, when his ears were deaf to all others, and it aroused his better nature.  He would not join the ranks until he had our blessing and forgiveness.  Poor lad! he was coming down the pass last night, not knowing that it was sentineled by the enemy.  He did not answer to the command to halt, and they shot him!  Shot him like a dog, giving him no time for explanation or prayer.  Oh! my boy! my boy!”

Never while he lived would Andy forget that tone of bitter agony.

“He’s dead!  My boy for whom I have watched and waited.  Dead! ere he could offer his brave young life on his country’s altar.  Oh! woe is me, woe is me!”

For a moment there was silence, then Janie’s voice rang out so that Andy could hear every word.

“As God hears me, Margaret, I would gladly give my ain useless lad, if by so doing, yours might be reclaimed from death.  Your sorrow is one for which there is no comfort.  To have a son to give; to have him snatched away before the country claimed him!  Aye, woman, your load is, indeed, a heavy one.  To think of Andy alive, and your strong man-child lying dead!  The ways of God are beyond finding out.  It grieves me sore, Margaret, that it does.  It seems a useless sacrifice, God forgive me for saying it!”