After the man had gone, Clotilde stood dreaming beside her wheel, forgetting to wind the spindle or take up another roll of wool. She was proud of brave Miles, proud that he should risk himself on such a chivalrous errand, and a little envious still that he should do such things and she must bide at home. She longed to see him and tell him how well she thought he had done. It was not until she heard Stephen’s slow footstep on the path outside that she remembered herself and her task, and fell to whirling her wheel around as swiftly as though it had wings. Some days later she heard the story from Miles himself, who came whistling up the path to knock at the door of Master Sheffield’s new abode. Stephen, sitting in the big armchair, rose to greet him cordially and bade him take his place on the settle on the opposite side of the fire. Clotilde was just coming in from the kitchen as Stephen was saying: “These are brave accounts that we hear of you and your gallant rescue of your Cousin Betsey Anne. We are all proud of you, lad.” The girl could not, at that moment, see Miles’ face, but she noticed that his ears turned suddenly the colour of flame and she heard him mutter, “I would that people did not make so much of so small a thing!” “Nay, but it was no small deed,” insisted Stephen, “and the risk was really great, as we all know. There is no hope of success in your effort to make light of what you did, the grateful tongue of your Cousin Betsey drowns all you can say.” “It is so,” answered the boy with a sigh. “Did you ever know a woman so feeble of body, yet so untiring of speech? I sometimes think it is small wonder that the British were so willing to let her pass.” “For shame, Miles,” laughed Clotilde, coming at this moment round the corner of Stephen’s great chair. “You do a gallant deed and then seek to spoil it by such ungallant words.” Miles’ face lighted happily as he rose to greet her, but dropped once more into gloom as he sat down again. For a few moments he remained silent, gazing into the fire, and then burst out into hurried and determined speech. “You cannot know, Master Sheffield,” he said, “how terrible it is to be praised by all for a deed whose memory brings me only rage and shame. People call me brave when really I have done nothing save to prove that I am the greatest and most blundering fool in General Washington’s army. I came hither with the firm determination that you, at least, and Clotilde, should know the truth of this adventure, since to you alone I can speak freely. Ah, I could beat my head against the wall when I think of what a booby I have been.” “Tell on, boy,” directed Stephen, smiling, “but allow us to reserve judgment until we know all.” He leaned back in his chair, pulling at his long tobacco pipe while Clotilde bent forward in hers, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Miles drew a long sigh of relief, and began.