118

“Yes,” said Dorothy. ‘Though of course I
should rather, a great deal rather, nurse one of
our own soldiers. But Arty,” continued the little
elder sister, ‘‘papa says if we must fight, why, we

must fight bravely, but that we can be brave without -

fighting.”

“Well, I mean to be a hero, and heroes always
fight. King Arthur fought. Papa saidso, He and
his knights fought for the Sangreal, and liberty
is our Sangreal. I’m glad my name is Arthur,
anyhow, for Arthur means noble and high,” he said,
lifting his bright boyish face with its steadfast blue
eyes, and glancing again towards his mother. She
gave an answering smile.

“T hope my boy will always be noble and high
in thought and deed. But, as papa said, to be a
hero one does not need to fight, at least, not to
fight men. We can fight bad tempers and bad
thoughts and cowardly impulses, They who fight
these things successfully are the truest heroes, my
boy.”

“Ah, but mamma, didn’t I hear you tell grand-
mamma how you were proud of your hero. That’s
what you called papa when General Montgomery
wrote to you, with his owr hand, how he drove
back the enemy at the head of his men, while the
balls. were flying and the cannons roaring and

flashing; and when his horse was shot under him.

how he struggled out and cheered on his men, on
foot, and the bullets whizzed and the men fell all
around him, and he wasn’t hurt and”— Here the
boy stopped abruptly and sprang impulsively forward,
for his mother’s cheek had suddenly grown pale.

“True grit!’? remarked Abram to Basha, in an
undertone, as she paused in her walk to and fro
by the spinning-wheel to join a broken thread.
* But there never was a coward yet, man or woman,
’mong the Heaths, an’ I’ve known ’em off an’
on these seventy year. Now there was ole Gin-
eral Heath,” he continued, holding up the axe
helve and viewing it critically with one eye shut,
“he was a marster hand for fightin’. Fit the Injuns
’s though he liked it. That gun up there was his’n.”

“Tell us about the ‘sassy one,’” said Arthur,
turning at the word gun.

“Youngster, ’f I’ve told yer that story once, I’ve
told yer fifty times,” said Abram,

“Tell it again,” said the boy eagerly.
take down the gun, too.” :

Abram got up as briskly as his seventy years

“And

‘haps from hunger.

A HERO.

9

and his rheumatism would permit, and took down
the gun from above the mantel-piece.
large one.

“Not quite so tall as the old Gineral himself,”
said Abram, “but a purty near to it. This gun is
*bout seven feet, an’ yer gran’ther was seven feet
two—a powerful built man. Wall, the Injuns had
been mighty obstreperous ‘long ’bout that time,
burnin’ the Widder Brown’s house and her an’ her
baby a-hidin’ in a holler tree near by, an’ carryin’
off critters an’ hosses, an’ that day yer gran’ther
was after “em with a posse o’ men, an’ what did
that pesky Injun do but git up on a rock a quarter
o’ a mile off an’ jestickerlate in an outrigerus
manner, like a sarcy boy, an’ yer gran’ther, he took
aim and fired, an’ that impident Injun jest tumbled
over with a yell; his last, mind ye, and good enough
for him!”

“T like to hear about old gran’ther,” said Arthur.

As Abram was restoring the gun to its place
upon the hooks, a sound was heard at the side
door—a sound as of a heavy body falling against
it, which startled them all. The dog Czsar rose,
and going to the door which opened into the side
entry, sniffed along the crack above the threshold.
Apparently satisfied, he barked softly, and rising on
his hind legs lifted the latch and sprang into the
entry. Abram followed with Basha. As he lifted
the latch of the outer door—the string had been
drawn in early, as was the custom in those troublous
times — and swung it back, the light from the fire fell
upon the figure of a man lying across the doorstone.

“Sakes alive!” exclaimed Abram, drawing back.
But at a word from the mistress, they lifted the
man and brought him in and laid him down on the
braided woollen mat before the fire. Then for a
moment there was silence, for he wore the dress
of a British soldier, and his right arm was bandaged.
He had fainted from loss of blood, apparently —per-
Basha loosened his coat at the
throat, and tried to force a drop or two of “spirits”
into his mouth, while Mrs. Heath rubbed his hands.

“He ain’t dead,” said Basha, in a grim tone, “and
mind you, we'll see trouble from this.” Basha
was an arrant rebel, and hated the very sight of
a red coat. “What are you doin’ here,” she con-
tinued, addressing him, “ killin’ honest folks, when
you'd better ’ve staid cross seas in yer own country?”

“Basha!” said Mrs, Heath reprovingly, “he is
helpless.”

It was a very