Grandfather Bradin kissed his little girl, though he was almost afraid to believe the good news. Three years Bernard Carrick had been following the fortunes of war and many a dark day had intervened. "Oh, that won't end the war. There's Charleston and New York. But Cornwallis! I must go out and find where the news came from." "Grandad don't believe it!" There was still a look of doubt in her eyes. Bradin laughed. "I d' know as he'd believe it if he saw the articles of peace signed. He'll stick to King George till he's laid in his coffin. There, I've finished mending the steps and I'll slip on my coat and go." "I couldn't go with you?" wistfully. "No, dear. I'll run all about and get the surest news. I s'pose it came to the Fort, but maybe by the South road." He took the child's hand and they went into the house. The streets were all astir. Grandfather stood by the window looking out, but he turned and smiled and suddenly broke out in his native French. His face then had the prettiness of enthusiastic old age. "We'll shake hands on it," said Bradin. "I'm going out to see. There couldn't be a better word." The autumnal air was chilly and he wrapped his old friese cloak around him. "Mother's awake now," said Mrs. Bradin. "You may go in and see her." The door was wide open now. It was as large as the living room, but divided by a curtain swung across, now pushed aside partly. There was a bed in each corner. A light stand by the head of the bed, a chest of drawers, a brass bound trunk and two chairs completed the furnishing of this part. The yellow walls gave it a sort of cheerful, almost sunshiny look, and the curtain at the window with its hand-made lace was snowy white. The painted floor had a rug through the centre that had come from some foreign loom. The bedstead had high slender carved posts, but was without a canopy. A woman still young and comely as to feature lay there. She was thin, which made the eyes seem larger and darker. The brown hair had a certain duskiness and was a curly fringe about the forehead. She smiled up at the little girl, who leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "You are better, mother dear," she said as she seated herself with a little spring on the side of the bed. "But you said so yesterday. When will it be real, so you can get up and go out?" and a touch of perplexity crossed the child's face. "Gra'mere thinks I may sit up a little while this afternoon. I had no fever yesterday nor last night." "Oh, mother, I was to tell you that Cornwallis has--it's a long word that has slipped out of my mind. Nelly Mullin said her husband would come home and my father. Kirsty Boyle rang two bells----" "Oh, what was it? Go and ask grandfather, child," and the mother half rose in her eagerness. "It was 'sur-ren-dered' with his army. Father has gone to see. And then the war will end."