Only by chance was it that her eye caught a distant glimpse of flaunting yellow, so bright that it drew her attention even from those absorbing thoughts of Stephen, General Washington and Miles. The little clearing that she was about to pass showed, there at her right, such a gleam of brilliant colour as no wild Spring flowers ever could display. In spite of her preoccupation, she was obliged to turn aside and see what it could be. Bending back the bushes, she peeped into a little glade, and caught her breath with delight and wonder at what she saw. At the foot of a high, dark, granite boulder, and all down the slope of woodland grass that dipped toward her, grew a mass of yellow daffodils. How could they have come there, by what means had they escaped from civilisation and bloomed here in such joyous, reckless profusion? Their yellow heads rocked and curtseyed in the wind, their eager faces were turned to the sunshine that, at the very moment of her coming, looked out from behind a cloud and transformed the yellow petals into gleaming gold. Suddenly Clotilde dropped upon her knees and flung her arms about the nearest clump. “You darlings,” she cried, “you darlings, you are from Master Simon’s garden!” There could, indeed, be no other explanation for the flowers. She knew well that Master Simon, when he had more plants than he and his neighbours needed, often set them out by wayside springs or in nooks and corners of the wood where they were seen through the years only by the peering Indians or the wild wood animals. But surely it must have been a hundred years ago that he, with spade and basket full of nodding yellow flowers or tight-jacketed brown bulbs, had come to set out this little garden that was to grow and spread and fill the glade with sunshine long after he was dead. Wars had raged past them, three generations had come and gone, Indians and wild things had disappeared, forever, from these forest hills, but still the flowers bloomed and faded and bloomed again, silent proof that the work of such hands and hearts as Master Simon’s never died. Clotilde, with a joyous laugh, began quickly to gather great sheafs of the daffodils and to pile them high in her apron. Meanwhile Stephen had sat long in motionless silence but at last raised his head from his hands and looked hopelessly about him. Slowly he reached to take up his pen, dipped it in the ink and then sat staring at the blank white paper before him. “To His Excellency, General George Washington, Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Armies,” he wrote at last, and then paused long again. “Can I tell him,” he finally said aloud, “can I say that the struggle is over and America can do no more? Two years have we fought bravely, but can a handful of scattered Colonies hope longer to resist a mighty Empire? Ah, God knows, God knows!” With a long, dreary sigh he dipped his pen in the ink again and began to write.