Philemon, with a sad face, took her hand.  “I’ll not make it the harder for you by protests or appeals, Janice,” he said, “for, however it may pain me, I wish to spare you.”

“Oh, don’t, please,” she sobbed.  “If you—­if you would only blame me.”

“I can’t do that,” he replied simply.  “And—­and ’t is as well, perhaps.  General Washington just sent me word that I am only to be treated as a prisoner of war, but even when I am exchanged I must henceforth be an exile, with only my sword to depend upon; so it would have been no life for you.”

“Oh, Phil, you’ll take back Greenwood and Boxely, won’t—­”

“Only to have them taken by the state?  Keep them, as I would have you, Janice, and if ever I am invalided, and the laws will let me, I’ll come back and ask you for Boxely, provided I can bear the thought of—­of—­of a life of rust.  Till then God prosper you and good-by.”

For some time after Philemon left the room the girl wept, but by degrees the sobs ended, and she became calmer.  Yet, as the tears ceased, some other emotion replaced them, for thrice, as she sat musing, her cheeks flushed without apparent reason, several times her brows wrinkled, as if some question were puzzling her; and once she started forward impulsively, some action determined, only to sink back, as if lacking courage.  Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and, apparently afraid to give herself time for consideration, she ran, rather than walked, into the garden.  Here she picked a single blossom from a rose bush, and such sprays of honeysuckle as she could find, and made them into a bunch.  Kissing the flowers as if they were the dearest thing in the world, she hurried out of the garden, and glanced about.  Seeing a soldier on the road, she hailed him and asked him whither he was going.

“Nowhere in pertickerler, miss.”

“Dost know where General Brereton is to be found?” she asked boldly, though blushing none the less for some reason.

“I just seen him down ter Colonel Dayton’s quarters.”

“Wilt favour me by taking him these flowers?” Janice requested, holding them out with one hand, while her other tendered a Spanish milled dollar, her eyes dropped groundward, as if to hide something.

“Calkerlate I might; and who’ll I say sent ’em?”

“I—­say nothing at all—­but just give him the bunch.”

“Don’t hardly worth seem carryin’,” said the soldier, glancing at the flowers with open contempt, “an’ sartin it ain’t worth no sich money ter take ’em.”  Lest she would agree with him, however, he set off with celerity.  “Like as not he’ll give me a reprimand fer troublin’ him with a gal’s nonsense,” he soliliquised, as he walked.  “Swan ef I ain’t most tempted ter throw ’em in the ditch.”

Fortunately he did not commit the breach of faith, though there were distinct qualities of shame and apology in his voice and manner, when he walked up to a group of officers sitting under a tree, and said to one of them,—­