Suddenly a far door flew open with a bang, feet came running down the hall, his study door burst open and in came Clotilde. Her apron and her arms were full of golden flowers that spilled from her hands, dropped over table and floor, were tumbled upon Stephen’s knees and, so it seemed, filled the whole room with yellow sunshine. “See, Master Sheffield,” she cried, “they are for you—from Master Simon!” Stephen passed a trembling hand across his forehead. “From Master Simon?” he repeated, bewildered. “My child, what can you mean?” With much incoherence and several beginnings at the wrong end, Clotilde managed to explain how she had been walking in the wood, lonely, sorrowful and in utter despair, how she had come upon the flowers and how she had felt as though a friendly hand had been stretched out across the hundred years to cheer and comfort her. Stephen listened wondering. “Master Simon!” he said at last in a shaking voice. “To think that in this dark hour I had forgot Master Simon and his roofs of gold!” As he still sat, looking silently at the yellow blossoms, Clotilde stooped to lift a paper from the floor. “Oh, dear,” she said ruefully, “here is your letter that I swept down with the flowers and see, it is all blotted and wet through my carelessness!” “Never mind,” returned Stephen, sitting bolt upright, and taking his pen again, “bring me another sheet for I have a different message to write now. Send that man of General Washington’s to me for I will despatch him to-day after all. And do you, my child, and Mother Jeanne, pack my clothes and bid Jason and Michael to make ready for a journey.” “A journey,” faltered Clotilde, “a journey in this wild, wet Spring weather?” “Yes, a journey,” he repeated firmly. “I am going forth to gather men for General Washington’s army.” “Oh, no, no!” cried the girl in alarm, but she went to do his bidding, nevertheless. A few minutes later, Mother Jeanne, with her gravest face and most severe manner came bustling in. “What is this of Monsieur’s journey?” she said. “It must have been that I did not hear aright. It will cost Monsieur his life, and that is a life we cannot spare.” “Woman,” replied Stephen with a sternness so new that Mère Jeanne was utterly taken aback and stood staring at him open-mouthed. “So far America has given to this war but what she could spare, now we must all give more than that. Go I must, and I will look to you and to Clotilde to take care of the poor of Hopewell until I shall come back.” Mother Jeanne hesitated a moment, then dropped a curtsey as her brown face wrinkled into a proud smile. “Monsieur may rely on us to do our duty,” she said. CHAPTER XVI THE HAND ON THE LATCH