The women were sobbing together.  In the room above, Andy hid his head under the pillow to shut out the sound.  Never, in all his lonely life, had he suffered so keenly.  Love, pride, hope, went down before the hard words.  In that time of great deeds, when the brave were marching on to victory or death, he, poor useless cripple, was a disgrace to the mother whom he loved.

Where could he turn for comfort?  He limped to the window, to cool his fevered face.  He leaned on the sill and looked up at the stars.  They seemed unfriendly now, and yet he and they had kept many a vigil, and they had always seemed like comrades in the past.  Poor Andy could not pray; he needed the touch of human sympathy.

All at once he started.  There was one, just one who would understand.  But how could he reach her?  The women in the room below barred his exit that way.  A heavy vine clambered over the house, and its sturdy branches swayed under Andy’s window.  No one would miss him, and to climb down the vine was an easy task even for a lame boy.

Cautiously he began the descent, and in a few minutes was on the ground.  He had managed to carry his crutch under his arm, and now, panting, but triumphant, he went quickly on.  A new courage was rising within him—­a courage that often comes with despair and indifference to consequences.  No matter what happened, he would seek his only friend.

He took to the stream bed.  It was quite dry, and the bushes grew close.  No prowling Britisher would be likely to challenge him there.  Ah! if poor Sam White had been as wise.  Andy’s face grew paler as he remembered.  For a half-mile he pattered on, then the moon, rising clear and silvery, showed a little house near by the stream bed and almost hidden by vines.

Everything about the house was dark and still.  Andy paused and wondered if he had a right to disturb even his one true friend.  Noiselessly, he drew near, and went around to the back of the house.  Something startled him.

“Mother!” It was a young, sweet voice, and it came from the shadow of the little porch.

“’Tis I, Ruth!” faltered Andy.

“You, Andy!  And why!  Have you heard about our Sam!” The girl came out into the moonshine.  She was tall and strong, and her face was very pretty.

“Yes; I’ve heard, Ruth;” then, coming close, Andy poured out his misery to the girl who had been his lifelong friend and comrade.

She listened silently, once raising her finger and pointing toward the house as if to warn him against arousing the others.  When he had finished there was silence.  It was not Ruth’s way to plunge into reply.

“Come,” she whispered presently, “I am going to tell the bees.  Hans Brickman told me to-night that ’tis no fancy, but a true thing, that the bees will leave a hive if death come unless they are told by a member of the family.  The bee-folk are overwise, I know, and I mean to take no chances of their leaving.  With the British at hand, honey is not to be despised.  Come.”