So through the long, foggy afternoon it was Polly Callendar’s homely task to watch the oven and tend the “scarlet kettle.” But with evening came an unexpected diversion. A knock was heard at the outer door; and when old Rastus, the negro servant, had opened it, a tall young man, in provincial garb, inquired how far it was to Boston and what was the road. Learning that the distance was still considerable, he entreated hospitality, saying that having ridden since dawn, he was both tired and wet. Polly at first demurred, but in the end, moved by his plight and persuaded somewhat by his respectful manners and handsome face, she sent Rastus to stable the horse. She spread a plentiful supper before the wayfarer; and then, because his appearance pleased her, she brewed for him some of her mother’s cherished tea, and poured it into one of the delicate china teacups that had come from England. But the young man ate in silence, notwithstanding these attentions. Truth to say, he was ill at ease. He was on his way to join the minute-men, and he was bringing with him a hundred pounds that had been contributed by the “patriot committee” of his native town. He feared that in some way the redcoats had been given a hint of his mission. Mounted men had stared hard at him that day, and he had thought it wise to avoid a troop patrolling the roads. And now, despite the quality of his supper, he paused to listen anxiously whenever horses’ hoofs or voices were heard without. Polly, noticing his uneasiness and marking his blue colonial home-spun, drew her own inferences. Of a sudden the young man took note of the kettle and its scarlet contents. “That is a bright dye which you have there, mistress,” he remarked. “Are you fond of so high a color?” “In good truth, sir, and why not?” replied Polly. “Have you fault to find with it?” “I would be but a churl, an I did,” answered the guest gallantly, “since it is scarcely more pink than the cheeks of my fair hostess. “The redcoats must feel flattered at your preference,” he added. “And is it not the hue that all loyal subjects should prefer?” queried Polly demurely. “Nay, but I will not gainsay you, mistress,” replied the young man. “And yet,” he added, “it is a color soon to fade under our American sun.” “But not from the hearts of the king’s loyal subjects,” retorted Polly. “This is no rebel household, sir. My kinsmen, who were here but yesterday, wear the scarlet and are the king’s loyal servants.” And saying this she observed her guest closely and saw that he winced. “Beyond doubt he is one of the patriots,” she thought. “But such a handsome youth! Moreover, he is most courteous, and his voice and ways are more gentle and respectful than those of Cousin Charles.”