“Perhaps the God of the widow and the fatherless will shield and bless you, my son.  Be that as it may,” she added with a heavy sigh, “conscience and His will must guide in everything.  If He says go forth to battle, what am I that I should stay you?” Although she did not dream of the truth, the Widow Jarvis was a disciplined soldier herself.  To her, faith meant unquestioning submission and obedience; she had been taught to revere a jealous and an exacting God rather than a loving one.  The heroism with which she pursued her toilsome, narrow, shadowed pathway was as sublime as it was unrecognized on her part.  After she had retired she wept sorely, not only because her eldest child was going to danger, and perhaps death, but also for the reason that her heart clung to him so weakly and selfishly, as she believed.  With a tenderness of which she was half-ashamed she filled his wallet with provisions which would add to his comfort, then, both to his surprise and her own, kissed him good-by.  He left her and the younger brood with an aching heart of which there was little outward sign, and with no loftier ambition than to do his duty; she followed him with deep, wistful eyes till he, and next the long barrel of his rifle, disappeared in an angle of the road, and then her interrupted work was resumed.

Susie Rolliffe was returning from an errand to a neighbor’s when she heard the sound of long rapid steps.

A hasty glance revealed Zeb in something like pursuit.  Her heart fluttered slightly, for he had looked so stern and sad of late that she had felt a little sorry for him in spite of herself.  But since he could “wrastle” with nothing more formidable than a stony farm, she did not wish to have anything to say to him, or meet the embarrassment of explaining a tacit estrangement.  She was glad, therefore, that her gate was so near, and passed in as if she had not recognized him.  She heard his steps become slower and pause at the gate, and then almost in shame in being guilty of too marked discourtesy, she turned to speak, but hesitated in surprise, for now she recognized his equipment as a soldier.

“Why, Mr. Jarvis, where are you going?” she exclaimed.

A dull red flamed through the bronze of his thin cheeks as he replied awkwardly, “I thought I’d take a turn in the lines around Boston.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, mischievously, “take a turn in the lines.  Then we may expect you back by corn-husking?”

He was deeply wounded, and in his embarrassment could think of no other reply than the familiar words, “’Let not him that girdeth on his harness boast himself as he that putteth it off.’”

“I can’t help hoping, Mr. Jarvis, that neither you nor others will put it off too soon—­not, at least, while King George claims to be our master.  When we’re free I can stand any amount of boasting.”

“You’ll never hear boasting from me, Miss Susie;” and then an awkward silence fell between them.