“I b’lieve something’s goin’ to happen b’fore long, though,” the landlord whispered anxiously to Hadley, and walked to the other end of the porch, leaving the two young people together. “It is usually very quiet about here,” Hadley said, trying to speak easily to the guest. He was not at all used to girls, and Miss Lillian was altogether out of his class. He felt himself rough and uncouth in her presence. “But we see soldiers once in a while.” “Our soldiers?” asked the girl, smiling. “No--not British soldiers,” Hadley replied, slowly. “Oh, you surely don’t call those ragamuffin colonists soldiers, do you?” she asked, quickly. A crimson flush spread from Hadley’s bronzed neck to his brow; but a little smile followed and his eyes twinkled. “I don’t know what you’d really call them; but they made your grenadiers fall back at Bunker Hill.” Miss Lillian bit her lip in anger; then, as she looked down into the stable boy’s face her own countenance cleared and she laughed aloud. “I don’t think I’ll quarrel with you,” she said. “You are a rebel, I suppose, and I am an English girl. You don’t know what it means to be born across the water, and--” “Oh, yes I do. I was born in England myself,” Hadley returned. “My mother brought me across when she came to keep house for Uncle Ephraim Morris--” “Who?” interposed Lillian, turning towards him again, with astonishment in both voice and countenance. “My mother.” “No, no! I mean the man--your uncle. What is his name?” “Ephraim Morris. He is a farmer back yonder,” and Hadley pointed over his shoulder. “My name is Hadley Morris.” Before Lillian could comment upon this, or explain her sudden interest in his uncle’s name, both were startled by an exclamation from the landlord at the other end of the porch. “Had! Had!” he called. “He’s coming.” Hadley left the gate at once and leaped into the road. Far down the dusty highway there appeared a little balloon of dust, and the faint ring of rapid hoofs reached their ears. Somebody was riding furiously toward the inn from the east. Lillian rose to look, too, and in the doorway appeared the military figure of her father. His face looked very grim indeed as he gazed, as the others were doing, down the road. The advancing horseman was less than a quarter of a mile away when, of a sudden, there sounded a single pistol shot--then another and another. It was a scattering volley, but at the first report those watching at the inn could see the approaching horse fairly leap ahead under the spur of its rider. “Ha! the scoundrels are after him!” cried the inn-keeper, his fat face paling. The colonel’s countenance expressed sudden satisfaction. “Go into the house, Lillian!” he commanded. “There will be trouble here in a moment.” He brought out from under his coat tails as he spoke a huge pistol such as was usually carried in saddle holsters at that day.