"Our hearts are wounded to the quick, because we are the same New England folk who fought together with the King’s troops at Louisburg, and you have oppressed us," said Mary quickly. "I heard that Mr. John Adams said lately—and he has been one of our leaders from the first—that there had not been a moment since the beginning of hostilities when he would not have given everything he possessed for a restoration to the state of things before the contest began, if we could only have security for its continuance. We did not wish to separate from England, and if the separation has come, it is only from our sad necessity. Cannot you see that, being English people, we must insist upon our rights? We are not another race because we are in another country." "Tut, tut, my dear," said the old man uneasily. "What does a pretty girl like you know about rights? So that’s the talk you ’ve listened to? We may need to hear more of it; you sound to me as if Fox had all along been in the right, and knew the way to bring back our trade." He began to fidget in his elbow chair and to mend the fire. "I can’t go into all this; I have had a wearying day,"—he began to make faint excuse. "There’s much you should hear on England’s side; you only know your own; and this war is costing Parliament a terrible drain of money." "Do you know anything of Lord Newburgh, and where he may be found?" asked Mary, with sudden directness. "My Lord Newburgh?" repeated Mr. Davis wonderingly. "And what should you want with him? I know him but by name. He would be the son of that Radcliffe who was a Scotch rebel in ’45, and lost his head by it, too; he was brother to the famous Lord Darwentwater. ’T was a wild family, an unfortunate house. What seek you at their hands?" Mary sat looking into the fire, and did not answer. "Perhaps you can send some one with me toward Plymouth to-morrow?" she asked presently, and trembled a little as she spoke. She had grown pale, though the bright firelight shone full in her face. "The captain learned when we first came ashore that Lord Mount Edgecumbe is likely to be commander of that prison where our men are; the Mill Prison they said it was, above Plymouth town. I did not say anything to Madam Wallingford, lest our hopes should fail; but if you could spare a proper person to go with me, I should like to go to Plymouth." The old man gazed at her with wonder.