For a moment Kitty did not see anything to exclaim about. The cart full of prisoners trundled slowly by. Close beside it walked a young man in a rough woolen shirt and homespun breeches. He carried a knapsack, and a large wooden bottle was slung from his shoulder by a leather strap. Just then the procession halted a moment. Up ahead, the drummer turned down Ferry Street on his way to the docks to meet the boats from the _Lively_. The phaeton bent its wheels sharply to round the corner. In the pause the young man unstoppered the wooden bottle and held it over the side of the cart so one of the prisoners could drink. The rear guard, another group of blue-coated Connecticut men, halted too. They were apparently the last of the procession. Kitty glanced again at her cousin. Sally Rose stood up proud and smiling. The long lashes about her hazel eyes flickered provocatively. Sally Rose was watching the young man with the bottle. For that reason, and that reason alone, Kitty looked closer at him herself. He turned just then and smiled at them. He had dark hair, she saw, and deep-set blue eyes. My, he was certainly handsome! Living all her life in Newburyport, she hadn’t realized how many handsome men there were in the world--drifting down the Merrimack on a log raft, walking the road that ran past Bunker Hill. They were everywhere, now that she had suddenly grown up enough to look at them. Sally Rose had always known. Sally Rose was born grown up. She cast a sudden look at Dick, and knew instinctively that she would never kiss him good night again, or if she did, it would be with a difference. Their kissing days were over. Dick was an old friend now, and only that. Never again would he stir in her that strange tremulous feeling that went with a new moon and apple blossoms and the first warm nights of spring. She knew, but she did not know how it was that she knew. The young man in the leather breeches was still smiling. He lifted his hand, oh so slightly, and motioned toward the docks. Then the cart wheels began to turn again, and the procession plodded on. The little group around the door of the Bay and Beagle watched until the last straggler was out of sight. “Well, that’s over,” said Gran briskly, “It’s well past noon, and I expect we’ll have custom. If you’re leaving us, Master Dick, you might as well be off, and good luck to you--the same as I’d wish to the son of any neighbor. Timothy, you better bring up another keg of brandy from the cellar. You can tend the taps for awhile, Kitty, and Sally Rose--why, where is Sally Rose?”