" 'Oh dear! oh dear!' sobbed the terrified chorus.
"Aunt Polly could do nothing with us; and little Dolly Miles, the deacon's granddaughter, burst into a series of wild lamentations that called Farmer Gubtil to the door to know the cause of the commotion.
" 'What's all this hullabaloo about?' he asked crossly; and when he had heard the story he seized Dan and shook him till his teeth chattered.
" 'What do you mean by tellin' such stuff an' scarin' these young ones ter death?' he demanded.
"Dan wriggled himself from his grasp and looked sulkily defiant:
" 'I didn't say 'TWAS that,' he muttered. 'I said it MIGHT be, an' p'r'aps 'twas; or it might 'a' been the deacon's old mare switchin' 'er tail ter keep off the flies. I'm sure _I_ don't know which 'twas. But girls are always a-squealin' at nothin'.'
"And with this parting fling at us tearful ones, Dan turned in the direction of the barn; but I was too anxious to hear from father and mother to let him go without a word more. 'Dan,' I whispered with my hand on his arm, 'did you see or hear anything of OUR folks?'
" 'No!' was the rather grump reply; 'after what I saw at the deacon's I didn't want ter ventur' furder, but from there I could see 'em lightin' fires in the village, an' I don't doubt by this time that most o' the houses is in flames.'
"With this comforting assurance Dan went off to his bed upon the haymow, and I crept back into the house and laid my tired head down upon Aunt Polly's motherly lap, where, between my sobs, I managed to tell what Dan had told me.
Aunt Polly laid a caressing hand upon my hair: 'La, child,' said she soothingly, 'don't you worry yourself a bit over Dan Parson's stories. That boy was BORN to tell stories. The Britishers are bad enough, but they ain't heathen savages, an' if the town has surrendered, as I calc'late it has, the settlers will be treated like prisoners o' war. There won't be no sculpin' nor burnin' o' houses--no, dear. And now,' giving me a little reassuring pat, 'you're all tired out, an' ought ter be asleep. I'll make up a bed on this rug with a cushion under your head, an' my big plaid shawl over you, an' you'll sleep jest as sound as if you was ter home in your own trundle-bed.'
"Little Sally shared my rug and shawl, and Aunt Polly, gently refusing the ungracious civility of the old couple, who had offered her the use of their spare bedroom, after seeing every little, tired form made as comfortable as possible with quilts and blankets from the farmwife's stores, laid herself down upon the floor beside us, after commending herself and us to the God she loved and trusted, raised her head and spoke to us once more in her sweet, hopeful, quavering old tones:
" 'Good night, dears! Go to sleep and don't be a bit afraid. I shouldn't wonder if your folks come for you in the mornin'.'
"What comfort there was in her words! And even the very little ones, who had never been away from their mothers a night before in their lives, stopped their low sobbing and nestled down to sleep, sure that God and Aunt Polly would let no harm come to them.
"The next day passed slowly and anxiously for us all. From a stray traveller Aunt Polly learned that the village was still in the hands of the British and--what was no little comfort to us --that no violence had been done to the place or its inhabitants.
Some of the older boys were for venturing to return, but Aunt Polly held them back with her prudent arguments. If their parents had considered it safe for them to come home they would have sent for them. The British, she said, had been known to impress boys, as well as men, into service, and the wisest way was to keep out of their sight.
"The gentle, motherly advice prevailed, and even Dan Parsons contented himself with climbing the tallest trees in the vicinity, from which he could see the chimneys of several of the nearest houses. From these pinnacles he would call out to us at intervals:
" 'The smoke comin' out o' Deacon Mileses chimly has a queer look, somethin' like burnin' feathers I shouldn't wonder a mite if them Britishers was burnin' up his furnitoor! Sam Kelly's folks hain't had a spark o' fire in their fireplace to-day. Poor critters! Mebbe there ain't nobody left ter want one.'
"With these dismal surmises, Dan managed to keep our forlorn little flock as uncomfortable as even he could wish; and as the second night drew on, I suppose the homesickness of the smaller ones must have been pitiful to see. Aunt Polly patted and cuddled the forlorn little things to the best of her ability, but it was past midnight before the last weary, sobbing baby was fairly asleep, while all night long one or another would start up terrified from some frightful dream, to be soothed into quiet by the patient motherly tenderness of their wakeful protector.
"Next morning the brow of the farmer wore an ominous frown, and his wife, as she distributed to each the scant measure of brown bread and milk remarked, grudgingly, that she should think 'twas 'bout time that her house was cleared of a crowd o' hungry, squallin' young ones; and then Mr. Gubtil took out his account-book and wrote down the name of each child, with an estimate of the amount of bread, milk and potatoes consumed by each. He did this with the audible remark that 'if folks thought he was a-feedin' an' a-housin' their young ones for nothin' they'd find themselves mightily mistaken.'
"The third morning dragged slowly away. Dinner was over and still no message for us forlorn little ones. At last Aunt Polly slowly arose from her seat upon the doorstep, with the light of a strong, courageous resolve on her little face.
"Children!' she called loudly, and after we had gathered at her call, she spoke to us with an encouraging smile:
