The Young Continentals at Lexington — Story, Setting & Ideas

more. It was easy to see that his fears were of the worst, but that he had no desire to impart them to his son.

“All this controversy is a struggle,” he said. “And as time draws on, it will grow more bitter.”

“But,” queried Ben, his face alight with anticipation, “do you think it will end in blows being struck?”

But his father was bent over the book. All he would say was:

“No one can predict the outcome of such a thing.”

Ben waited for a moment, thinking he would speak further; but as he did not, the lad shook the reins and Molly loped gaily up the path and off toward the barn.

In the shadow of the coach house a broad-shouldered youth of seventeen was engaged in cleaning a long, shining rifle. He looked up as Ben dismounted and turned the mare over to a hired man.

“Good morning for a ride,” commented he, as he rubbed industriously at the brass butt of the weapon. “Wanted to go over my traps, or I’d have joined you.”

“You missed something,” replied Ben, as he sat upon a sawbuck near the other. “The air is fine upon the road.”

“I know,” smiled the other, “full of sunshine and some other things which you can’t see, but which make you feel like a giant. It’s that way among the hills, up in the Wyoming valley.”

Ben kicked at some chips with the toe of his riding-boot and looked thoughtful.

“You _are_ right,” he said, after a short pause; “there are things in the air this morning--things that maybe you don’t mean. And the nearer I rode to the city, the stronger I felt them.”

The broad-shouldered youth laughed and his gray eyes twinkled.

“Maybe,” said he, “they were bits of Mr. Franklin’s electricity.”

“It might seem odd to you, Nat,” proceeded Ben, without noticing the other’s light words, “but I fancied that the roadside looked different. Everything seemed closer together and secretive, somehow. When the trees rustled in the wind and nodded toward each other, it seemed as though they were whispering mysteriously.”

Again Nat Brewster laughed.

“Ben,” said he, “I think you’ve passed the glen where Mother Babette lives, and that she’s put a spell upon you.”

But Ben paid no attention to the raillery; his round, good-natured face was serious and he went on soberly:

“Of course, I don’t think any of these things are so. They are merely impressions caused by something I did not notice at the time.”

Nat looked at him with more interest. The long rifle lay across his knee, and the burnishing ceased.

“That’s so,” said he. “I’ve often felt like that myself. Sometimes when I’ve tramped alone among the mountains I’ve felt worried about things that I couldn’t give a name. And always something of importance turned up afterward. It was just as though I felt it coming a long way off.”

“That’s it,” said he. “That’s it, exactly.” He paused a moment, then continued, “All along the road the people seemed quiet. Men burning brush in the fields looked strangely at me through the smoke. People in carts who’d usually have something to say just nodded their heads, and seemed to look after me, watchfully. I passed the schoolhouse there at the crossroads and the long drone that always comes from it, of the scholars chanting their lessons, was queer and hushed.”

“It was a strange sort of ride,” commented Nat. “I wish I’d gone with you.”

“I went as far as the ‘Bull and Badger.’ Some farmers were gathered in front of it and some travelers were upon the porch. It was the same with them as with the others. The very inn seemed to be trying to contain some weighty secret; and I turned and rode away without even getting down.”

Ben leaned over and his forefinger tapped his cousin upon the shoulder.

“I was at the gate of this place before I found out what caused it all,” said he.

“What was it?” asked Nat, quickly.

“We’re going to have a war with England,” replied Ben. “It means nothing else.”

TELLS WHY NAT BREWSTER WALKED TOWARD CLIVEDEN IN THE DARK

Nat Brewster settled his stalwart frame back against the coach house wall and, wrinkling his brows, regarded his cousin attentively.