Prudence looked up from her sewing. It was a pleasant place to work, out there in the morning sunshine that trickled through the big white pillars of the broad piazza. The wide street was overarched by the leafy branches of the spreading elms, but the houses that lined the streets were strangely empty of life.

It was in Philadelphia in the long, long-ago time of the Revolution. Prudence was a quaint, demure little Colonist girl. In all her eleven years she had known nothing save the daily routine of the simple home; the scouring of floors, the polishing of copper kettles and brass andirons and mahogany chairs, the making of huge loaves of bread and yellow butter and round cheeses, the bleaching of linen, and the patching together of gay blocks of colored cloth to make log-cabin and morning-star bed quilts.

Sometimes there was a quilting bee or donation party at the minister’s to attend. These, with their feasts of rich preserves and pound cake, and the children’s table set after the grown-ups had finished, were wonderful parties for Prudence. Usually, though, her days were very much alike. She helped her mother and studied her lessons from school books in queer wooden covers, and stitched her sampler when the studying was done.

It was not a cross-stitch sampler, though, that Prudence was working on so busily now. Her needle flew in and out as she stitched together with even small stitches some long straight strips of red calico and white cotton. In her lap lay some star-shaped pieces of plain white cotton calico. The edges were neatly turned in and basted ready for sewing upon a square of blue calico cloth that Prudence had just cut.

“Put up your work! It’s too pleasant a day to sew.”

Prudence looked up and saw a boy standing in front of her—her neighbor, William Brewster. The hair of each of these little Philadelphia children was cut short and square. They had the same round, rosy faces. Prudence’s short-sleeved, short-waisted frock and William’s ruffled shirt were both cut from the same cloth. It was green and white checked gingham from Deacon Wells’ store. From beneath William’s long trousers and Prudence’s skirt showed the same stout shoes with copper tips on the toes.

William ran up the steps of the piazza and pulled Prudence’s sewing.

“Oh, William!” Prudence gasped. “Be careful; you’ll soil the white cotton I fear. What ails your hands? I never saw them so stained before in all my life.”

William dropped down on the top step and held up his two brown hands in the sunlight, laughing merrily.

“You are indeed right, Prudence,” he said. “My hands need a dose of my mother’s good soft soap, but”—the boy’s voice dropped to a whisper—“all this morning I have been busy digging holes in the orchard.”

“Why?” Prudence’s blue eyes were wide with wonder. William got up now and looked all about him to see that no one was listening. Then he whispered in Prudence’s ear.

“For burying the silver,” he explained. “We packed it all in a strong box; my grandmother’s teaspoons, the silver cake basket with the design of strawberries around the edge, and the sugar tongs. We buried them all; oh, very deeply.”

“Was it necessary, William?” Prudence’s eyes were frightened as she spoke. “I know that my mother, before she had to take to her bed with the ague, planned to hide our silver in the well that is dried out. Are—are the Red Coats coming through Philadelphia soon?”

“They do say that they are coming. I am very fearful,” William answered. Then, as Prudence’s pink cheeks grew a little pale at the thought, the boy pointed to her sewing.

“What are you stitching, Prudence? Surely you are not going to dress yourself in these gaudy colors? It would scarcely be right in these hard times.”

Prudence laughed, shaking out the strips of scarlet and white that filled her lap.

“No, indeed, William. Dark colors and plain frocks must be worn by us children of the war. I am making a flag. Our great, beautiful stars and stripes of the Colonies went to our regiment with father and your brother John. But I went down to the flag shop of Mrs. Betty Ross not long ago, and I stood awhile on the threshold, watching how she and her maids cut and sewed their red, white, and blue cloth together. I said to myself, ‘why not make your own flag, Prudence Williams? You have ten fingers and a piece bag up in the attic.’ And here it is, all done but sewing on the little white stars.”

“Oh, Prudence!” William’s eyes shone.

“It is wonderful! How did you ever measure and sew it so well? I always did say that you are the most clever girl with your needle of any in town.”

“It is carefully made,” Prudence assented, “but that is because I thought of my regiment with every stitch. And I wished that I might march in the regiment beside my father, waving my flag, and shouting for the independence of our dear Colonies at every step. Oh, it is hard, William, to be a girl in this time of the Revolution, with nothing to do but sit at home.”

“That it is,” William said, “but now let’s go in the house and delve in your cooky crock, Prudence. Perhaps your cook has filled it with her good caraway cakes,” and the two little neighbors disappeared through the great white door of the old house.

In the days that followed, Prudence quite forgot to dread the coming to Philadelphia of the British soldiers. Rumors came of how the Red Coats had marched through the near-by towns and countryside. They had taken possession of the homesteads, appropriated the supplies that had been left for the women and children, and plundered the treasures of silver that were almost all the wealth of the Colonists. News of this reached the ears of those who remained behind, alone, in Philadelphia. But Prudence paid little heed to the rumors. Her mother was better, but still an invalid and confined to her room. There was only one maid servant to do the work of the large house, and Prudence found herself a real little housekeeper with her hands very full. All day long she tripped up and down the wide oak staircase, with instructions from her dear mother to the maid in the kitchen, and then helped to carry them out. She had finished the flag. It was laid away in a drawer.

“It’s hardly safe to fly a flag from your piazza, Prudence,” sensible William had warned. So Prudence opened the drawer only when she had a little spare time. Then she would kneel down on the rag carpet in front of the drawer and hold the beloved Stars and Stripes tenderly in her arms.

“I love every star, and every color,” she would say to herself. “Oh, may God win the battle for us and help to give me back my father, and William his brother John!”

The next morning, when Prudence set the tray with her mother’s breakfast, she laid it with unusual care. Upon the sun-bleached linen cloth stood the thin china dishes, white with a pattern of raised bunches of grapes in purple and green. The silver spoons and forks were arranged neatly. Prudence’s mother, sitting in a big arm chair by the window where the sweet odors of the garden roses were blown up to her, looked lovingly at her small daughter.

“You are a good little housewife, my dear,” she said. “I don’t know what I should have done without you. Father will find his little girl almost a little woman when he returns.” She paused a moment, lifting one of the silver spoons to break the end of her eggshell. “If he ever does return,” she sighed. “Oh, I should have hidden the silver weeks ago.” The sound of a muffled drum struck her ear. She looked at Prudence in terror. “Pull the curtains close, child, and lock all the doors. The Red Coats are coming.”

Like a line of fire taking its winding way in and out between the houses, the regiment of British soldiers streamed through the streets of Philadelphia. Here, it stopped as an officer and his men stripped the fruit from some peaceful orchard or garden. There, at an officer’s order, a group of soldiers entered a house, and returned with bits of old family treasure that war gave them the privilege of taking.

Prudence’s heart beat fast, but she tried to be brave. She ran from room to room, stowing away the silver candlesticks and tableware, closing blinds, and locking doors. The old maid servant, her apron held over her head, had fled to the cellar in her fright. Her mother, bravely directing Prudence, was still unable to leave her room. Suddenly the front door burst open and in came William.

“I couldn’t bear to leave you alone, Prudence,” he said. “See, I brought my father’s old drum, thinking we could make a little noise on it and scare the Red Coats.”

Prudence looked into the brave face of her little neighbor.

“You’ve given me an idea, William,” she exclaimed. She ran over to the chest of drawers, opened one drawer, and pulled out the little homemade flag.

“We’ll both scare the Red Coats,” she said. “We won’t fasten the doors, for it wouldn’t be of any use. The soldiers could very easily break the bolts and I can’t find any safe place to hide the silver. Come. We’ll go right out on the piazza and meet the whole British army if it comes!” She clutched William’s hand, and tugged him toward the door.

“Do we dare?” William’s round, merry face was very sober.

“Of course we dare. Come on. You drum and I’ll wave the Stars and Stripes,” Prudence said.

The Williams’ white house, set a little back from the street in the midst of sweet old flower beds and low hedges of box and yew, looked like a prize to the ruthless Red Coats. It was well known in Philadelphia at that time that Prudence’s father had used much of his wealth to further the cause of the Colonies. This made the invading enemy hate him. It was a common rumor, too, that although the Williams’ chests of gold were greatly depleted, there was still much treasure of silver left in the home. News of it passed from mouth to mouth of the soldiers.

“There’s the house. Left flank, wheel, Halt!” shouted the British general in command. He turned in at the Williams’ gate and strode up the path. At the steps he looked up and stopped. “Gad!” he said, “the children of these stubborn Colonists would defy us, too,” but a smile took away the stern lines from his mouth.

On the top step of the piazza stood Prudence and William, two brave little Colonists. William was beating a loud, rap tap, on the cracked head of an old drum. Prudence, her arm held high above her head, waved the little home-made flag that showed the glorious stars and stripes of their regiment.

“You mustn’t come a step farther, sir!” she commanded.

“No indeed!” echoed William. “We won’t let you come in.”

“So you’re holding the fort, are you?” the General asked.

“We have to, sir,” Prudence explained. “My father is with the army of the Colonies and my mother is ill. This is my neighbor, William Brewster. He came over to help me guard the house.” Then she turned pleading eyes toward the great man as she held out her flag.

“It looks to me as if there were a thousand Red Coats, sir, more or less, out there in the road. There are only two of us. Please, sir, for the sake of our flag, march on!”

Was it dust or the mist of tears that made the British general wipe his eyes? He reached out one ungloved hand and grasped Prudence’s little one.

“Give my sympathy to your mother, my child,” he said kindly, “and tell her that I hope she will soon be better. Little soldiers, remember that never before have I surrendered, but now I do, in the name of the King. March on!” he ordered to his men. Looking back he saw Prudence and William standing in the gate and waving him good-bye until the trees and the distance shut them from his view.