“For the love of God and of our Country,” it ran, “send me help if you are able. My army is dwindling daily, and, without new recruits—not a mere handful, nor a few hundreds, but thousands—the cause of Liberty is lost. Many have left whose terms of enlistment were up, hundreds more have deserted on account of the lack of food, of clothing and of the pay that Congress does not send. That I should call upon you, who are already spent with doing so much, is only the proof of my desperate need. If there is aid in the world, it lies with you alone.” Clotilde stood staring blankly out of the window, the letter clutched in her hand. General Washington confessing that he was at the end of his resources, Master Sheffield finally giving way to despair and owning that he knew not what to do! Could there be fuller proof that all was at an end? So the war was lost then: the sacrifice of Master Simon’s garden, all the suffering, all the bloodshed, all had been in vain! What a black, black world it was. She slipped on her blue cloak, drew up its hood and ran downstairs and out-of-doors. As she passed the study, she saw Stephen sitting in his armchair, his face bowed in his hands; she heard something like a groan sound through the hall as she softly closed the outer door. Once she had been accustomed to look for help and comfort in the garden, but now it was only a dreary waste that made her even more sick at heart, as she hurried across it and out through the white gate. Beyond the village, among the tall, silent trees of the forest, perhaps she could find a little peace and soothe her whirling wits into forming some plan to help her dear Master Sheffield. She trudged down the rough country lane, the high Spring wind ruffling her hair and finally blowing back the hood of her cloak. The way was muddy and full of little rippling pools, where she could see reflected the blue sky and sailing white clouds. The hedges were budding and the grass on the sunny banks growing green, and a meadow lark, perched upon a gate post swelled his yellow breast and sang a song that was all for her. In spite of herself, she began to be a little comforted and to feel some of the gladness of the growing world, although heavy trouble still lay like lead upon her heart. Leaving the lane, where it skirted the wood, she plunged into the forest itself. The dead leaves and old, withered brambles were almost knee deep and were soaking wet, sharp twigs reached out and caught her hair and hood with crooked fingers. But the wind still blew gaily among the treetops and swaying anemones and blue-eyed hepaticas smiled up cheerfully at her as she passed along.