November passed, and December, with still the depressing news of retreat and ever retreat before the overwhelming numbers of the British. Clotilde long remembered that dreary Christmas night when the wind shrieked down Master Simon’s chimney and banged and shook at the heavy wooden shutters, while she, Stephen and Mother Jeanne huddled about the fire and tried to smile at Stephen’s merry stories and cheerful talk. All three of their hearts were so heavy with thoughts of the struggling army, of freezing soldiers crouching over camp fires, of the desperate struggle against almost hopeless odds, that it was Stephen alone who managed to speak confidently and to see in the blazing fire pictures of hope, victory and peace at last. On New Year’s day came the tidings of that marvellous crossing of the Delaware and the capture of Trenton. People brightened then and began to speak more cheerily. Strange to say, it was only Stephen who shook his head over the news. “A General who must take such fearful risks as that,” he said, “is plainly in such dire necessity that he must win, or lose all. May Heaven help him!” On an afternoon in April came a messenger, covered to his eyes with splashings of mud, clay and gravel, and bearing a letter from General Washington to Stephen. “Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York and New England have combined to decorate them,” he said, displaying his great jack boots, “but there was naught of bad roads or hidden enemies could stay me on an errand that, so His Excellency said, was desperate in its need for haste. Things have come to a fearful pass with the army!” Stephen, however, although he read the letter carefully, seemed in no hurry with his reply. “See that the man is well cared for,” he directed Clotilde. “It is too late for him to set forth again to-day, so let him lodge here and receive my answer in the morning.” There was something in his voice, as he spoke, that made Clotilde start and turn, a note of dull, despairing weariness such as she had never before heard from him. She ran to him and put her hand on his arm. “What is it, oh, what is it, Master Sheffield?” she cried. “You may read the letter, child,” he said, handing it to her, although with fingers that trembled. “And do my bidding, see that the messenger is fed and rested and treated well. As for me, I must be alone a little; the letter calls for an answer in haste, but I know not—I know not what to say!” Quickly Clotilde ran to do as Stephen directed and to see that the travel-worn rider was comfortably bestowed in the chimney corner with a hot meal before him. Not until then did she creep to her own room and open the letter. It was short and in General Washington’s own hand.