“Now, Dolly, you’re going too far,” said Elizabeth sternly. “What would mother say? It is downright wicked to have such thoughts in the house of God.” “Don’t get cross,” pleaded Dolly coaxingly. “I paid heed to the parson, and I can tell you the text. And for the other matter, time will show if I be wrong,” and with a saucy nod she broke away and joined her mother. Time did show. Whatever might be the fault of Mistress Dolly’s tongue, her eyes were seldom mistaken. Before a week was over the strange gentleman had met Elizabeth and he soon fell into the habit of calling almost daily. His name was Henry Robbins, and he was Eunice Winter’s cousin, visiting there for a month, he said. All Dolly’s admiration for him vanished on the day she suspected he was a Royalist. He had never avowed it, but the girl detected a look in his eyes when she spoke of Lexington that brought her to her feet in great excitement. “I believe you’re a Royalist!” she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. “If not, why are you tarrying here when the need is so sore? I think a man who tarries unconcerned is a coward!” “Dolly!” remonstrated Elizabeth. “I do,” answered Dolly angrily. “And I hate cowards! You can excuse me if you will, Betty, but I would say it all over again to the king’s face!” and she ran out of the room. The young man looked a little disturbed. “I pray you overlook the child’s quick tongue,” Elizabeth said. “She is an eager little rebel, and loses control of herself.” “Oh, I am not troubled by a child’s idle talk,” he said. “I admire her spirit. Yet I feel I scarce deserve the lash of her words.” “I judge no man who follows his conscience. God will direct the right,” said Elizabeth gently. With that he had to be content. Yet as he walked down the road he switched impatiently at the daisies beside it, and felt ill-satisfied with the part he was playing. To live among these people solely to discover their preparations for war revolted him, and he did so only at the positive order of his general. But as days went on, he began to despair. No slightest clue could he get of the whereabouts of the stores he knew were being collected. Then one day, as he was about to return to Boston, a scrap of paper was slipped into his hand by a boy, who immediately scampered away. Captain Robbins was standing with a group of men at the tavern waiting for the mail-coach, and he carelessly untwisted and read the note: Search the loft of the meeting-house. A servant of his majesty. A quick glow came into the young man’s face. John Thurlow was standing near and looked at him a little curiously. “Good news, judging from your face,” said John. “Aye, the best,” the Royalist said slowly. And never did John Thurlow forget the curious tone and look of the Tory.