"They say Wallingford ’s tried to give the Ranger into the enemy’s hands, and got captured for his pains. Some thinks they ’ve hung him for a spy. He ’s been watching his chance all along to play the traitor," said one news-bringer triumphantly, as if he had kept the best news till the last. "’T is false!" cried a clear young voice behind them. They turned to front the unexpected presence of Miss Hamilton. "Who dared to say this?" She stood a little beyond the crowd, and looked with blazing eyes straight at the two flushed faces of the rustic heralds. "Go tell your sad news, if you must," she said sternly, "but do not repeat that Roger Wallingford is a traitor to his oath. We must all know him better who have known him at all. He may have met misfortune at the hand of God, but the crime of treachery has not been his, and you should know it,—you who speak, and every man here who listens!" There fell a silence upon the company; but when the young mistress turned away, there rose a half-unwilling murmur of applause. Old Peggy hastened to her side; but Miss Hamilton waved her back, and, with drooping head and a white face, went on slowly and passed alone into the great house. The messengers were impatient to go their ways among the Old Fields farms, and went hurrying down toward the brook and round the head of the cove, and up the hill again through the oak pasture toward the houses at Pound Hill. They were followed along the footpath by men and boys, and women too, who were eager to see how the people there, old Widow Ricker especially, would take the news of a son’s captivity or death. The very torch of war seemed, to flame along the footpath, on that spring afternoon. The makers of the linen sheets might have been the sewers of a shroud, as they came ruefully back to their places by the spinning-room door, and let the salt tears down fall upon their unwilling seams. Poor Billy Lord and Humphrey Hodgdon were old friends, and Corporal Ricker was a handsome man, and the gallant leader of many a corn-husking. The clack of Peggy’s shuttle sounded like the ticking clock of Fate. "My God! my God!" said the old woman who had driven the weeping maids so heartlessly to their work again. The slow tears of age were blinding her own eyes; she could not see to weave, and must fain yield herself to idleness. Those poor boys gone, and Madam’s son a prisoner, or worse, in England! She looked at the house on the other side of the river, dark and sombre against the bright sky. "I ’ll go and send Miss Mary over; she should be there now. I ’ll go myself over to Susan." "Fold up your stents; for me, I can weave no more," she said sorrowfully. "’T is like the day of a funeral." And the maids, still weeping, put their linen by, and stood the two flax wheels in their places, back against the wall. *XXIX* *PEGGY TAKES THE AIR*