“Is he to have his portion?” I asked.  Indeed, the thought of the responsibility of Tom Swain overwhelmed me.

“Yes, he is to have it,” cried Mr. Swain, with a violence to bring on a fit of coughing.  “Were I to leave it in trust for a time, he would have it mortgaged within a year.  He is to have his portion, but not a penny additional.”

He lay for a long time breathing deeply, I watching him.  Then, as he reached out and took my hand, I knew by some instinct what was to come.  I summoned all my self-command to meet his eye.  I knew that the malicious and unthinking gossip of the town had reached him, and that he had received it in the simple faith of his hopes.

“One thing more, my lad,” he said, “the dearest wish of all—­that you will marry Patty.  She is a good girl, Richard.  And I have thought,” he added with hesitation, “I have thought that she loves you, though her lips have never opened on that subject.”

So the blow fell.  I turned away, for to save my life the words would not come.  He missed the reason of my silence.

“I understand and honour your scruples,” he went on.  His kindness was like a knife.

“No, I have had none, Mr. Swain,” I exclaimed.  For I would not be thought a hypocrite.

There I stopped.  A light step sounded in the hall, and Patty came in upon us.  Her colour at once betrayed her understanding.  To my infinite relief her father dropped my fingers, and asked cheerily if there was any news from the town meeting.

On the following Wednesday, with her flag flying and her sails set, the Peggy Stewart was run ashore on Windmill Point.  She rose, a sacrifice to Liberty, in smoke to heaven, before the assembled patriots of our city.

That very night a dear friend to Liberty passed away.  He failed so suddenly that Patty had no time to call for aid, and when the mother had been carried in, his spirit was flown.  We laid him high on the hill above the creek, in the new lot he had bought and fenced around.  The stone remains: 

Here LIETH

Henry swain, barrister. 
Born may 13, 1730 (O.S.);
Died October 19, 1774. 
Fidus Amicis atque Patrice.

The simple inscription, which speaks volumes to those who knew him, was cut after the Revolution.  He was buried with the honours of a statesman, which he would have been had God spared him to serve the New Country which was born so soon after his death.

RICHARD CARVEL

By Winston Churchill

Volume 8.

L. Farewell to Gordon’s
LI.  How an Idle Prophecy came to pass
LII.  How the Gardener’s Son fought the Serapis
LIII.  In which I make Some Discoveries
LIV.  More Discoveries. 
LV.  The Love of a Maid for a Man
LVI.  How Good came out of Evil
LVII.  I come to my Own again