Again and again, during the evening, David Bushnell went out from the house and stood silently on the rough bridge that crossed the river by the door. "Let David alone, mother," urged Ezra, as she was about to follow him on one occasion. "He is thinking out something, and is better alone." That which the young man was thinking at the moment was, that he wished the moon would hurry and go down. He longed for darkness. The night was growing cold. Frost was in the air. As he stood on the rough logs, a post-rider, hurrying by with letters, came up. "Holloa there!" he called aloud, not liking the looks of the man on the bridge. "It's I,--David Bushnell, Joe Downs! You can ride by in safety," he responded, ringing out one of his merriest chimes of laughter at the very idea of being taken for a highwayman. "I've news," said Joe; "want it?" "Yes." Joe Downs opened his pocket, and, by the light of the moon, found the letter he had referred to. "Dr. Gale told me not to fail to put this into your hands as I came by. I should kind o' judge, by the way he _spoke_, that the continent couldn't get along very well _'thout you_, if I hadn't known a thing or two. Howsomever, here's the letter, and I've to jog on to Guilford afore the moon goes down. So good-night." "Good night, Joe. Thank you for stopping," said David, going into the house. "Were you expecting that letter, David?" questioned Mr. Bushnell, when it had been read. "No, sir. It is from Dr. Gale. He asks me to hasten matters as far as possible, but a new contrivance will have to go in before I am ready." "There! _That's_ what troubles him," thought both Mrs. Bushnell and Ezra, and they exchanged glances of sympathy and satisfaction--and the little household went to sleep, quite care-free that night. At two of the clock, with nearly noiseless tread, David Bushnell left the house. As the door closed his mother moved uneasily in her sleep, and awoke with the sudden consciousness that something uncanny had happened. She looked from a window and saw, by the light of a low-lying moon, that David had gone out. Without awakening her husband she protected herself with needful clothing, and, wrapped about in one of the curious plaid blankets of mingled blue and white, adorned with white fringe, that are yet to be found in the land, she followed into the night. Save for the sleepy tinkle of the water over the stones in the Pochaug River, and an occasional cry of a night-bird still lingering by the sea, the air was very still. With light tread across the bridge she ran a little way, and then ventured a timid cry of her own into the night: "David! David!" Now David Bushnell hoped to escape without awakening his mother. He was lingering near, to learn whether his going had disturbed anyone, and he was quite prepared for the call. Turning back to meet her he thought: "_What_ a mother _mine_ is." And he said, "Well, mother, what is it? I was afraid I might disturb you."