As Rodney left the manager of Mr. Jefferson's estate he said: "I only ask that you say to Mr. Jefferson, I sell the colt with the understanding that I may buy him back if I ever get the money." "I'll do it, an' you won't need it in writin' so long as Mr. Jefferson lives." What a long, dusty, gloomy road was that over which the boy walked back to his home! "What has become of Nat?" his mother asked, a few days later. "I haven't seen him lately." "He was too valuable a horse for me to own and I sold him to Mr. Jefferson. I can have the privilege of buying him back," and Rodney turned away, afraid to trust himself to say more. The crops that fall were successful and the neighbours told the boy he would surely make a good farmer. He worked early and late and grew strong; whereas his mother, watching him with sad eyes, became weaker. When Mrs. Allison was absorbed in thought the old coloured woman would stand looking with anxious face at her mistress. One day she said, "Missus, yo' jes' done git well. Dat's no mo'n doin' what's right by Marse Rodney, ah reckon." Mrs. Allison looked up into the kindly old face of the coloured woman, and a wan smile was on her lips as she replied, "Mam, you are a woman of good sense, and, God willing, I will get well." From that day she began to improve. Angus being away, Rodney had little diversion. His chief pastime now was target practice with the rifle. The old Indian had chosen wisely when he purchased the rifle, and the boy became very proficient in marksmanship. One day when he had made a fine shot he turned and found his mother and the two servants watching him. "I hadn't an idea you were such a fine shot, Rodney," said his mother. "Scolding Squaw hasn't an equal in the whole county of Albemarle, mother." "Lan' sakes, an' what heathen mought she be?" asked Mam. "She was once the rifle of a noted chief of the Wyandottes, and when she speaks a deadly silence follows," replied the boy, laughing. "Marse Rodney will be wantin' ter jine de riflemen, I specs," remarked Thello. Mam, noting her mistress' face, hastened to say, "Reckon de riflemen done froze up in Canada las' winter. Dey won't be rantin' down in ol' Virginny fer one right smart spell." That year, 1776, there were no steel rails laid nor copper wires strung to carry the news, yet it was surprising how quickly tidings of victory and defeat spread over the country.