The foreign trade that Roger Bardwell had brought to such success had begun, latterly, to be much hampered by laws of England that bore heavily upon Colonial shipping. They must not carry certain commodities, they must not trade in other than British ports, since the merchants of England had become suddenly aware that the bold sailors from across the sea were beginning to take their profits from them. That was not to be endured for a moment! Therefore Amos’ father, Alisoun’s brother, had gone to live in London, and to manage as English owner such of Roger Bardwell’s ships as it was still worth while to send to sea. Gilbert Sheffield had in charge the smaller vessels that traded with the other Colonies, Virginia, New York, and the Carolinas. Alisoun often wondered what her father would have said had he known of these restricting laws and had he seen his dearly-loved ships lying idle in the harbour of Hopewell. But of such troubled matters Roger Bardwell had never dreamed when he had laid down the burden of his labours seven years before. Gilbert hurried away up the lane and Alisoun walked back alone and entered the house. Stephen, she observed as she passed, was having much difficulty in teaching the new game to his sisters and the three neighbour’s children. Some of his pupils were apt and some were not, while five-year-old Peter from across the way was always singing loudly the wrong words and trailing behind when he should have been marching ahead. Alisoun, as she closed the door, could hear their gay cries and laughing calls to one another. “Hurry, Stephen, hurry, it is your turn!” “No, Elizabeth, it is yours. Stand up and make Peter come into the row. Now, throw down your hats and begin again.” Then the irregular procession would form once more, marching with measured tread and to music sung by voices some loud and tuneful, some very uncertain and squeaky: “King William was King James’ son, And from a royal race they sprung, Upon his breast he wore a star—” “Stop!” cried Stephen, suddenly pausing in the middle of a word, “there is some one listening to us yonder in the road.” The music ceased, the line broke, and six pairs of feet scampered down the slope toward the corner of the newly-moved fence. When, however, the children came near enough to see what sort of a person it was that had paused under King James’ Tree, there was some faltering and hanging back, so that at the end it was Stephen alone who pressed forward and peered over the bushes at the stranger. A stout, broad-shouldered man it was who had come down the hot, dusty road and had stopped to rest in the shade of the pine. His hair was red, his coat was redder and his face was reddest of all.