One fine summer's morning, in the year of grace 1742, the little inn of the little town of Marblehead was in a state of great bustle, in anticipation of the visit of some Government officials from Boston to dine there. The landlady, rather vixenish in temper and tongue, was busily occupied in attending to the culinary department, and at intervals scolding a young girl of sixteen, who was scrubbing the floor, and was the maid-of-all-work in the establishment, working from early in the morning till late at night for a small pittance of wages. Marblehead was a small fishing town or village about sixteen miles from Boston, in New England, consisting of a cluster of log-built and straw-thatched houses, amongst which stood conspicuously forth the little hostelry, in consequence of its sign of King George the Second's head swinging and creaking from a crossbeam over the highway. The inhabitants were almost entirely of Guernsey descent, a brave people, but not so loyal as the sign of their inn would seem to indicate, as after the war of the Revolution there were in the town 600 widows of patriots who had fallen; and, in the war of 1812, 500 Marblehead men were prisoners of war in England. The washing of the floor was not completed when the sound of horses' feet was heard coming along the road, and in a few minutes three gentlemen alighted at the door, gave their horses in charge of an extemporised ostler, and entered the house. The landlady made a profound curtsy to her guests, and at the same time rated her hand-maiden for not having the room ready for the gentlemen. "Don't scold her," said he who appeared to be the chief of the group; "I dare say the little lassie has done her best, and perhaps we have arrived earlier than we were expected." The girl, who was dressed in homely attire, and without shoes or stockings, turned her head with a silent glance of thanks to the speaker--a glance which he pronounced to himself to be angelic.