Debby stooped and picked up a stone, then flung it into the crowd. An oath came from the man hit and in the excitement Mason, with bowed head joined the yelling rabble. “Shame on thee, lass!” cried Mrs. Lane laying firm hands on the sobbing girl, “who would ever think thy mother was a lady? The town hath done well to try and save thy soul and body. Thou art possessed of a devil. Follow me!” The door of the wretched home was closed. Nothing mattered any more. Meekly enough Debby followed her rescuer up the hill to the white house on the top. Poor Debby! in the neat home, with plenty to eat and decent clothing she was absolutely miserable. Since her mother had died five years before she had led a wild uncared-for existence. Among her father’s rude companions she had shared food and drink, when there was any, and had gone hungry and cold without complaint when times were hard. In Mrs. Lane’s well ordered life and home, she was a worse outcast than amid the poverty and shame. There she had at least the love of the poor wretched father who, when he was sober, remembered the past, and lavished affection upon her. With Mrs. Lane she was watched, distrusted and whipped for misdeeds, and under the new order of things her soul and body were in a very bad way indeed. With a burning longing she fretted in silence for news of her father, but how could she hope, in Mrs. Lane’s loyal home, to hear of the doings of the wild rebels who were defying their King and his laws? It mattered little to Debby whether her father was Whig or Tory, no matter what he was she hungered for him day and night. There was one other thing Debby hungered for, that was her drum; it had been her one childish toy, the treasure of lonely years. She had always longed to be a boy, and her drum was the concession her father had made to her desire. Upon it he had taught her to beat so clearly and in time, that she had become famous among his boon companions. But there was no place in Mrs. Lane’s house for such an unmaidenly thing, and to save it from destruction, Debby had hidden it behind the old home in a bit of woodland. Thither she sometimes ran when life pressed hard, and with muffled sticks, beat frantically upon the blessed comfort. During the year which dragged drearily away after Mr. Mason left the town, Debby learned to do some useful things in her new home, and she grew straight and tall and strong; but her heart was hard and bitter. Strange as it seemed though, in all her misery in the prim existence, she remembered her mother clearer than ever before, and snatches of old talk and scenes came sharply to her mind. It had not always been such a sad life as Debby had last known with her father. Once the home was neat and cosy, and dimly an old story,—a story never finished, floated through the girl’s mind.