"Andy," she said, in her prompt fashion, "the house is empty. Mother has gone to your home, father will be away until to-morrow. The children are easily managed. Now I want you to go in the upper room after you have eaten. I want you to rest all day and then--then I have something to tell you and--there is more to do." "Yes; these," sighed Andy, looking at the papers. "I should start at once with these." "'Twould be folly. There are awful doings afoot, Andy McNeal. It is no time for a mid-day walk to Harlem Heights. You must do as I say. Come in now; you are starved and utterly spent." Andy followed gladly. It was the course, the only course, of wisdom. He ate ravenously, and drank a quart of rich milk. Ruth was busied in the room above, and when the meal was finished Andy joined her. "Now," she smiled, "everything is ready." He found a pail of hot water, and some of the minister's clothing lay on a chair. "They'll have to do, Andy, until I can wash and dry yours," said Ruth. "What matters?" answered Andy. "If I sleep I shall not mind the rest." "I know. You must only obey now, Andy. Remember I love to do my share!" Tears stood in her brave eyes, and Andy understood. Andy fell asleep almost at once. The hot bath took the pain from his sore body, the clean, worn linen was cool and soothing, and the droning of the bees in the near-by hives hushed sorrow and weariness into deep oblivion. And while he dreamed of peaceful walks with the master under sunny skies, and smiled in the dreaming, Ruth had summoned Janie, and the mother sat waiting patiently the awakening. There was much to tell and more to do. But Andy dreamed on. Four o'clock! The tall clock in the living-room spoke loudly. Andy stirred and muttered something, then slept again. Five o'clock! The boy sat up on the narrow bed and stared into his mother's face. Janie never flinched, though his pallor and the cut on his forehead made her heart ache. "Mother, I must get to Washington at once. I--I have a message." "Yes, son." "I do not fear death. It comes but once!" "Yes, Andy, lad. But I'm thinking you'll not be meeting death just now. It looks like you were singled out to live and act for all my old misgivings. God forgive me." She bowed her head and it rested on Andy's shoulder. Stern Janie had never done such a thing before, and even at the moment Andy was touched and moved. He smoothed the hair away from the pale face, and gently, lovingly kissed his mother. "There are strange happenings, Andy," she sighed. "There are, indeed," he agreed. "But things about which you know nothing, lad, and--and I must tell you before you go. Get up; dress, son. Ruth and I have made decent your own clothing. I can talk better while you move about. I cannot bear your eyes, my lad." Andy arose at once and began his dressing, keeping his face turned from his mother, but her own was rigidly set toward the window. "Your father has come back, Andy!" A strange pause, then: