And all the while that he talked, Aunt Martha sat pale and rigid in the chair beside him. Only once were her eyes moist, and that was when Don gave her the last of his uncle’s three messages; but she said nothing and merely nodded for him to continue. “Well, I guess that’s all,” said Don at last. “You know, Aunt Martha, I’d have been home long ago except for my ankle.” “I know, Donald; and I’m thankful, I hope. It might have been worse. And now let me get you something to eat. Oh, Donald, you’ll never know how glad I am to have you with me again.” It was a long while before Aunt Martha ceased to ask questions; and then it was Don’s turn. A great change, he learned, had come over the town even in the few days that he had been away from it. It was in a state of siege, cut off from the outside world, and food was scarce among the poor. There were suffering and distress; many persons, like Aunt Martha, had relatives and friends in the Continental army and thought with dread and apprehension of what might happen if the besiegers should attack. “I don’t know what’s to become of us, truly I don’t,” said Aunt Martha. “With your uncle and Glen with the army, it’s most too much to bear. Fortunately, though, we shall not lack for food; the store’s well stocked.” “And that stuff in the cellar, is it still there?” asked Don. “Yes, and it’s likely to remain.” “We might be able to sell it,” Don suggested hopefully. Then he added, “If we could only get it to the army in Cambridge!” But Aunt Martha only smiled and shook her head. “Don,” she said, “would you rather be in Cambridge, or perhaps with your cousin in Concord, than here?” “I want to be with you,” Don replied firmly and then wondered at the look of quick relief that came over his aunt’s face. The next day he learned the reason for it. General Gage had agreed to allow those families who wished to leave the town to go in safety. But Aunt Martha had not changed her mind. In spite of the supplications of her husband, whom she loved dearly, and in spite of the risks that she ran in remaining, she would not leave the little house in which she had been born and had lived most of her life. If she was stubborn, it was stubbornness of a defiant, heroic sort, and those who knew her respected her for it, though some called her a “foolish woman.” As a result of General Gage’s permission hundreds of families did leave the town--a circumstance that greatly alarmed the Tories, who believed that as long as there were women and children in the town the Continentals would not attack. So at last the general withdrew his permission, and the town settled down to wait and to watch.