So passed that winter, the darkest of my life.  One soft spring day, when the birds were twittering amid new-born leaves, and the hyacinths and tulips in Patty’s garden were coming to their glory, Master Tom rode leisurely down the drive at Gordon’s Pride.  That was a Saturday, the 29th of April, 1775.  The news which had flown southward, night and day alike, was in no hurry to run off his tongue; he had been lolling on the porch for half an hour before he told us of the bloodshed between the minute-men of Massachusetts and the British regulars, of the rout of Percy’s panting redcoats from Concord to Boston.  Tom added, with the brutal nonchalance which characterized his dealings with his mother and sister, that he was on his way to Philadelphia to join a company.

The poor invalid was carried up the stairs in a faint by Banks and Romney.  Patty, with pale face and lips compressed, ran to fetch the hartshorn.  But Master Tom remained undisturbed.

“I suppose you are going, Richard,” he remarked affably.  For he treated me with more consideration than his family.  “We shall ride together,” said he.

“We ride different ways, and to different destinations,” I replied dryly.  “I go to serve my country, and you to fight against it.”

“I think the King is right,” he answered sullenly.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” I remarked, and rose.  “Then you have studied the question since last I saw you.”

“No, by G-d!” he cried, “and I never will.  I do not want to know your d—­d principles—­or grievances, or whatever they are.  We were living an easy life, in the plenty of money, and nothing to complain of.  You take it all away, with your cursed cant—­”

I left him railing and swearing.  And that was the last I saw of Tom Swain.  When I returned from a final survey of the plantation; and a talk with Percy Singleton, he had ridden North again.

I found Patty alone in the parlour.  Her work (one of my own stockings she was darning) lay idle in her lap, and in her eyes were the unshed tears which are the greatest suffering of women.  I sat down beside her and called her name.  She did not seem to hear me.

“Patty!”

She started.  And my courage ebbed.

“Are you going to the war—­to leave us, Richard?” she faltered.

“I fear there is no choice, Patty,” I answered, striving hard to keep my own voice steady.  “But you will be well looked after.  Ivie Rawlinson is to be trusted, and Mr. Bordley has promised to keep an eye upon you.”

She took up the darning mechanically.

“I shall not speak a word to keep you, Richard.  He would have wished it,” she said softly.  “And every strong arm in the colonies will be needed.  We shall think of you, and pray for you daily.”

I cast about for a cheerful reply.

“I think when they discover how determined we are, they will revoke their measures in a hurry.  Before you know it, Patty, I shall be back again making the rounds in my broad rim, and reading to you out of Captain Cook.”