The roads of New England were so deep in snow, the cold so intense and so terrible that, through the midwinter, Stephen was forced to forego his journeyings. At the end of January, however, a difficulty arose that haled him forth again. Andrew Shadwell, the wealthy and influential Tory who dwelt in the next town, had gathered about him a considerable company of his own kind, the number beginning to grow so great that their presence was a threat against the peace of the community. People said that the nest of Loyalists was plotting all sorts of evil, and demanded that the enemy be driven out. The Tories, in turn, loudly complained that they were persecuted and had done no wrong. Each party was afraid of the other and neither dared to move first. It was to confer with the authorities in Boston in this matter, and to try for some peaceable settlement of the trouble, that Stephen set out one cold, glittering January morning, when the dry snow creaked under the horses’ hoofs, and their breath rose in twin columns of steam as they pawed and snorted before the door. “I have no reluctance in leaving matters in your hands,” he said to Clotilde, as he bade her good-bye in the hall. “I will do what I can,” she answered, “although the best thing that I could accomplish would be to keep you at home.” “No, no, child, there is no danger in this journey,” he said, “but, should this brewing trouble break out while I am gone—well, well, there is small use in such misgivings! I will be back again in four days and little can happen in that time.” Clotilde watched him ride away through the clear, keen, frosty air and wished, for the hundredth time, that she were a man and could go with him. “What are spinning and weaving,” she sighed aloud, “and sewing and baking, beside what men can do?” But spinning and weaving and baking must be accomplished if the war were to go on and the patriot soldiers be clothed and fed, so she ran quickly into the house, tucked up her sleeves, put on her big apron and began the labours of the day. Two evenings later, just as the early winter dark had begun, there came marching up the long driveway to the house, a little band of blue-coated soldiers. Their young Lieutenant bore a letter from Stephen, explaining that these men, stationed at Salem, had been sent forward at once, but if there were no immediate disturbance near Andrew Shadwell’s, they were to await the coming of a larger body of troops from Boston. He begged that Clotilde would see to it that the men supped well before they went on to the empty farm-house a mile or two from Hopewell, where it had been arranged that they camp for the night. There was much hurrying and scurrying, you may be sure, in the getting ready of an abundant meal for so many hungry fighting-men, a great clattering of dishes and stirring of pots. Huge fires roared up every chimney in the house while the men gathered close about the hearths to warm their cold hands and half frozen feet.