It was past midsummer—the shadow of change was in the year. The birds were gathering in flocks in the rowened meadows, and the woods were displaying their purple grapes and first red leaves.

Rochambeau had been receiving the hospitalities of the Governor, and had also received lessons in the new school of liberty from Faith Robinson Trumbull, the wife of the Governor. The hero of Minden had come to see this grand woman, and wished to make her a present before he marched on to join the army of Washington against Clinton, with his six thousand heroes.

What should his present to this noble woman be?

He had among his effects a scarlet cloak. It was suitable for a woman or for a man. It covered the whole form, and made the wearer conspicuous, for it was made of fine fabric, and represented the habit of the battle-field.

He took the cloak out of his treasures one evening and came down into the public room of the forest inn, where some of the French officers of the regiment of Auvergne sans tache were seated in a merry mood before the newly kindled fire.

He held up the scarlet cloak. “Here,” said he, “is a garment to be worn after the war for liberty is over. A field-marshal might wear it after the day of victory. This war will soon end; I am going to present this cloak to one of the most patriotic souls that I have ever met. Who do you think it is?”

“The Governor,” said an officer, a colonel; “Washington’s own ‘Brother Jonathan.’ He has made himself poor by the war, but has been the inspiration of every battle-field, so they say. Well, you do well to honor the rustic Governor. The world is richer for him. That is a good thought, General. You honor the soldiers of Auvergne sans tache.”

The General, the hero of Lafeldt, held up the cloak before the cooling summer fire. A soldier turned a burning stick with iron tongs, and flames with sparks like a little volcano shot up and threw a red gleam on the scarlet cloak with its gold thread.

“You have made a wrong guess, Colonel,” said Rochambeau. “This cloak is for Madam Faith Trumbull, who has the blood of Robinson of Leyden in her veins, and who is the very spirit of liberty.”

Immediately the officers leaped to their feet.

“Cheers!” said the Colonel. “Cheers for Madam Faith—may she soon wear the cloak—after the war!”

The soldiers of Auvergne sans tache were chivalrous, and they swung their arms in wheel-like circles and cheered for the wife of the self-forgetful Governor.

In the midst of this enthusiastic outpouring of feeling the Governor himself appeared in the reception-room of the forest inn with madam, smiling and stately, on his arm.

“You came at a happy moment, Governor,” said Rochambeau. “I am showing my men this scarlet cloak.”

“It is a fine garment,” said the Governor. “It were worthy of a field-marshal of France.”

“Would it be worthy of the wife of a marshal of a regiment of Auvergne sans tache?” asked the courtly Frenchman.

“It would,” said the Governor in a New England tone.

“Then it would be worthy of your wife, Governor.”

Rochambeau approached Madam Faith. “Will you allow me, madam, to honor you, if it be an honor, with the scarlet cloak? I wish you to wear it in memory of the soldiers of Auvergne, and of your humble servant, until you shall find some one who is more worthy of it—and I do not believe, madam, if you will allow me to say it, that any heart truer than yours to the principles of liberty and to all mankind beats in these provinces.”

He placed the scarlet cloak over her shoulders, and the officers shouted for madam, for the Governor, for Rochambeau, and for the soldiers of the banner of Auvergne sans tache.

How noble, indeed, Madam Faith looked as she stood there in the scarlet cloak, its gold threads glimmering in the first firelight!

Her face glowed. She tried to speak, but could only say: “My heart is full, General. But any soldier who sleeps to-night on the battle-field is nobler than I—my heart would cover him with this cloak.”

The officers shouted enthusiastically: “Auvergne!”

The Governor stood off from his wife and her dazzling garment.

“You do look real pretty, Faith—wear it in memory of the French—wear it to church—your wearing it will honor the cause, and be a service to liberty. I wish Washington could see you now.”

“I will wear it,” said Madam Faith. “My heart thanks you!” she said to Rochambeau. She began to retreat from the room, her face almost as red as the cloak, and her eyes bright with tears. “I thank you in the name of Liberty!” She moved farther away and out of the door.

“Going, Faith?” asked the Governor.

There came back a voice—“God bless you!”—the scarlet cloak had gone. She thought that it was unworthy of her to remain where she would secure homage, when the Connecticut soldiers had had scarcely clothes to wear in their march against Clinton in the midst of the poverty that had befallen the colonies during the war.

She became greatly distressed. In her enthusiasm for the French deliverers she had promised to wear the cloak until some one more worthy of it could be found, some one who needed it more.

She took off the garment in her own room and sat down. She thought of the past. She saw in her vision her godly ancestor, Robinson, addressing the Pilgrim Fathers for the last time.

“Go ye into the wilderness,” he had said, “and new light shall break out from the word. I will follow you.”

She saw in fancy the Mayflower sail away, lifting new horizons. She saw the many Pilgrims’ graves amid the May flowers after the first winter at Plymouth.

She rose and put on the cloak and stood before the glass.

“I can not wear it,” she said. “I must wear only the clothes made with my own hands, in times like these.”

She looked into the glass again.

“But my promise?” she asked. “I must keep that—I must be worthy of the confidence that these soldiers of liberty have given me. I must honor Rochambeau and the soldiers of the land of Pascal. How shall I do it? I will wear it once and then seek some one more worthy to wear it; he will not be hard to find.”

Governor Trumbull had become famous for his Fast-Day and Thanksgiving proclamations. His words in these documents had the fire of an ancient prophet.

This year his proclamation sang and rang. He called upon the people to assemble in their meeting-house, and to bring with them everything that they could spare that could be made useful to the soldiers on the battle-field and be laid upon the altar of sacrifice.

Madam Faith heard his message as the pastor read it from the tall pulpit under the sounding-board.

She thought of the scarlet cloak. She must wear it to the church on that great day to honor Rochambeau and the soldiers of Auvergne. But of what use could her garment be to the soldiers in the stress of war?

It was a bright mid-autumn day. The people were gathering on the harvest-laden plateau on Lebanon Hill. The church on the high green, founded some eighty years before, opened its doors to the sun. The yeomen gathered on its steps and looked down on the orchards and harvest fields. The men of the great farms assembled in groups about the inn and talked of the fortunes of the war. They were rugged men in homespun dress, with the purpose of the time in their faces. The women, too, were in homespun.

While groups of people were gathering here and there the door of the Governor’s plain house opened, and in it appeared Madam Faith in her scarlet cloak. All eyes were turned upon her. She stepped out on to the green. She did not look like the true daughter of the Pilgrims that she was! The gay and glittering garment did not become the serious purpose in her face.

She waited outside the door, and was soon joined by the Governor. The two approached the church under the gaze of many eyes, and entered the building, which is to-day in appearance much as it was then, and the people followed them. The chair in which Governor Trumbull sat in church is still to be seen in the old Trumbull house. A colored picture of the church as it then appeared, with its high pulpit, sounding-board and galleries, may be seen in Stuart’s “Life of Trumbull.”

A silence fell upon the assembly. The people felt that the crisis of the war had passed with the coming of Rochambeau, but the manner of the issue was yet doubtful.

The minister arose—“Be still, and know that I am the Lord.”

The stanza, or a like one, was sung in a firm tone, such as only times like these could inspire. The heroic quality sank into tuneful reverence with the lines:

or a like paraphrase. A long prayer followed; the hour-glass was turned—silence in the full pews!

The sermon followed in the silence. Then the minister made an appeal which went to every heart.

“The nation stands waiting the Divine will. We have given to the cause our sons, our harvests, the increase of our flocks. We have sent of our substance, our best, to every northern battle-field. We have seen our men go forth, and they come not back. We have seen our cattle driven away, and our cribs and cellars left empty; we have heard our Governor called a ‘brother’ by the noble Washington, and the glorious regiment of France’s honor has sung amid these cedars the songs of Auvergne.

“But the trumpets of the northern winds are sounding, and our army faces winter again, cloakless and some of them shoeless, in tatters. We are making new garments for the soldiers, but we have no red stripes to put upon them; we may not honor the noblest soldier in the world with any uniform, or insignia of his calling. He goes forth in homespun, and in homespun he faces the glittering foe, and falls. His honor is in himself, and not in his garments. He courageously goes down to the chambers of silence without stripe or star.”

At the words red stripes, all eyes, as by one impulse, turned to the scarlet cloak. It would furnish the ornament of dignity and honor to a score of uniforms.

“Women of Lebanon, you have with willing hands laid much on the altar of liberty. Under the pulpit stands a rail that guards holy things. I appeal to you once more—I hope that it may be for the last time—to spare all you can for the help and comfort of the soldier. Come up to the altar one by one and put your offerings inside of the rail, and I will lift my hands over your sacrifices in prayer and benediction.”

Silence. A few women began to remove the rings from their fingers and ears. One woman was seen to loosen her Rob Roy shawl. Two Indian girls removed strings of wampum from their necks. But no one rose. All seemed waiting.

The Governor sat in his chair, and beside him his good wife in the red Rochambeau cloak. They were in the middle aisle.

Madam Trumbull was thinking. Could she offer the scarlet garment to the cause without implying a want of gratitude toward the noble Rochambeau?

Would she not honor Rochambeau by offering the gift to the camp and battle-field?

“Stripes on the soldiers’ garments are inspirations,” she may have whispered to her husband. “I am going to give my cloak—it shall follow Rochambeau—I am going to make it live and march—he shall see it again in the lines that dare death. Shall I go to the altar?”

“Yes, go. Send your cloak to Rochambeau again. Let it move on the march. You will honor the regiment of Auvergne—Auvergne sans tache.”

She rose, almost trembling. Every eye was fixed upon her. Madam Faith was held in more than common esteem, not only because she was the wife of the Governor, but also because she was a descendant of the Prophet of the Pilgrims of Leyden and Plymouth.

She stood by the Governor’s chair, unfastening the red garment. The people saw what she was about to do. Some of them bowed their heads; some wept.

The pastor spoke: “I would that the Pilgrim, John Robinson, were here to-day!”

Madam Faith removed the cloak and laid it over her arm. She bent her face on the floor, and slowly walked toward the rail that guarded the sacred things of the simple altar.

The pastor lifted his hands.

“Pray ye all for the principle of the right, for the cause of the soldier of liberty.”

She laid the scarlet cloak on the altar, and turned to the people and lifted her eyes to God.

She looked like a divinity as she stood forth there that day, like a spirit that had come forth from the Mayflower.

That Thanksgiving was long remembered in Lebanon. That cloak was turned into stripes on soldiers’ uniforms and made history, and some of the uniforms bearing them are yet to be seen.

To Dennis and Peter was entrusted the sending of the new uniforms with the red stripes to the army gathering around Yorktown. The faithful Irishman and the lad rode away from the alarm-post in the cedars amid the cheers of the people. What news would they bring back when they should return?

It was an anxious time in the cedars. In the evenings the people gathered about the war office and at the Alden Inn. A stage-driver, who was a natural story-teller, used to relate curious stories at the latter place, on the red settle there, and in these silent days of moment the people hugged the fire to hear him: it was their only amusement.

One evening a country elder, who had done a noble work in his day, stopped at the tavern. This event brought the Governor over to the place, and the elder was asked to relate a story of his parish on the red settle. He had a sense of humor as keen as Peters, who was still telling strange tales in England of the people that he had found in the “new parts.”

Let us give you one of the parson’s queer stories: it pictures the times.

THE COURTING STICK

Asenath Short—I seem to see her now (said the elder). One day she said to her husband:

“Kalub, now look here; we’ve got near upon everything so far as this world’s goods go—spinnin’ wheels and hatchels, and looms and a mahogany table, and even a board to be used to lay us out on when the final time shall come. The last thing that you bought was a dinner-horn, and then I put away the conch shell from the Indies along with the cradle and the baby chair. But, Kalub, there’s one thing more that we will have to have. The families down at Longmeadow have all got them; they save fire and fuel, and they enable the young folks and their elders all to talk together at the same time, respectfully in the same room, and when the young folks have a word to say to each other in private it encourages them. Now I’m kind o’ sociable-like myself, and I like to encourage young people; that’s why I wanted you to buy a spinet for Mandy. I don’t like to see young folks go apart by themselves, especially in winter; there is no need of extra lights or fires, if one only has one of them things.”

“One of them things? Massy sakes alive, what is it, Asenath?”

“Why, haven’t you never seen one, Kalub? It is a courtin’ stick. They didn’t used to have such things when we were young. A courtin’ stick is like Aaron’s rod that budded.”

“A courtin’ stick! Conquiddles! Do I hear my ears? There don’t need to be any machinery for courtin’ in this world no more than there does to make the avens bloom, or the corn cockles to come up in the corn. What is a courtin’ stick, Asenath?”

“Well, Kalub, a courtin’ stick is a long, hollow wooden tube, with a funnel at each end—one funnel to cover the mouth of the one that speaks, and one to cover the ear of the one that listens. By that stick—it is all so proper and handy when it works well and steady—young people can talk in the same room, and not disturb the old people or set the work folks and the boys to titterin’ as they used to do when we were young. It was discovered here in the Connecticut Valley, which has always been a place of providences. Just as I said, it is a savin’ of fire and lights in the winter-time, and it suggests the right relations among families of property. It is a sort of guide-post to life.

“Kalub, don’t you want that I should show you one?”

“Where did you get it, Asenath?”

“Asahel made it for me. I told him how to make it, but when I came to explain to him what it was for his face fell, and he turned red and he said, ‘Hyppogriffo!’ I wonder where he got that word—‘hyppogriffo!’ It has a pagan sound; Asahel, he mistrusted.”

“Mistrusted what, Asenath?”

“Well, I haven’t told you quite all. When the head of a family knows that a certain young man is comin’ to visit him at a certain time and hangs up a courtin’ stick over the mantel-tree shelf, or the dresser, it is a sign to the visitor he is welcome.”

“But there is no need of a sign like that, Asenath.”

Asenath rose, went into the spare bed-room, a place of the mahogany bureau, the mourning piece, valences and esconces, and brought out a remarkable looking tube, which seemed to have leather ears at each end, and which was some dozen feet long.

“Moses!” said Caleb, “and all the patriarchs!” he added. “Let’s you and me try it. There, you put it up to your ear and let me speak. Is the result satisfyin’?”

Asenath assured him that the experiment was quite satisfactory.

“Well, well,” said Caleb. “Now I will go on shellin’ corn and think matters over; it may be all right if the elder says it is.”

For a few minutes there was a rain of corn into the basket, when Caleb started up and said, “Cracky!” He put his hand into one pocket after another, then went up to the peg board and took down his fur overcoat and felt of the pockets in it. He came back to the place of the corn-shelling doubtfully, and began to trot, as it were, around the basket, still putting his hand into one pocket after another.

“Lost anything, Kalub?” asked Asenath.

“Yes, the stage-driver gave me a parcel directed to Asahel, in the care of Amanda, and I don’t know what I did with it. I meant to have told you about it, but you set me all into confusion over that there courtin’ stick.”

We know not how many old New England homesteads may have a courting stick among their heirlooms, but imagine that they are few. Such a stick used to be shown to the curious in the Longmeadow neighborhood of Springfield, Mass., and we think it may be seen there still. It was especially associated with the manners and customs of the Connecticut Valley towns, and it left behind it some pleasing legends in such pastoral villages as Northampton, Hadley, and Hatfield. It was a promising object-lesson in the domestic life of the worldly wise, and could have been hardly unwelcome to marmlet maidens and rustic beaux.

Caleb Short continued his shelling corn for a time, but he worked slowly. He at last turned around and looked at his wife, who was sewing rags for a to-be-braided mat.

“Well, what is it now, Kalub?” asked the latter.

“Asahel.”

“Yes—I know—I’ve been thinkin’ much about him of late. He came to us as a bound boy after his folks were dead, and we’ve done well by him, now haven’t we, Kalub? I’ve set store by him, but—I might as well speak it out, he’s too sociable with our Mandy now that they have grown up. It stands to reason that he can never marry Mandy.”

“Why not, Asenath?”

“Why not? How would you like to have people say that our Amanda had married her father’s hired man? How would it look on our family tree?” Asenath glanced up to a fruitful picture on the wall.

“Asahel is a true-hearted boy,” said Caleb. “Since our own son has taken to evil ways, who will we have to depend upon in our old age but Asahel, unless Mandy should marry?”

“O Kalub, think what a wife I’ve been to you and listen to me. Mandy is going to marry. I am going to invite Myron Smith here on Thanksgiving, and to hang up the courtin’ stick over the dresser, so that he will see it plain. That stick is goin’ to jine the two farms. It is a yard-stick—there, now, there! I always was great on calculation; Abraham was, and so was Jacob; it’s scriptural. You would have never proposed to me if I hadn’t encouraged you, and only think what a wife I’ve been to you! Just like two wives.”

“But Asahel Bow is a thrifty boy. He is sensible and savin’, and he is feelin’.”

“Kalub, Kalub Short, now that will do. Who was his father? Who but old Seth Bow? Everybody knows what he was, and blood will tell. Just think of what that man did!”

“What, Asenath?”

“Why, you know that he undertook to preach, and he thought that if he opened his mouth the Lord would fill it. And he opened his mouth, and stood with it open for nearly ten minutes, and he couldn’t speak a word. He was a laughing-stock, and he never went to meetin’ much after that, only to evenin’ meetin’s in the schoolhouse—candle-light meetin’s.”

“Yes, Asenath, that is all true. But Seth Bow was an honest man. Just hear how he used to talk to me. He used to say to me—I often think of it—he used to say: ‘Caleb Short, I’ve lost my standin’ among the people, but I haven’t lost my faith in God, and there is a law that makes up for things. I couldn’t preach, but Asahel is goin’ to preach. He’s inherited the germ of intention from me, and one day that will be something to be thankful for, come Thanksgiving days. I will preach through Asahel yet. I tell you, Caleb, there is a law that makes up for things. No good intention was ever lost. One must do right, and then believe that all that happens to him is for his good. That is the way the Book of Job reads, and I have faith, faith, faith! You may all laugh at me, but Asahel will one day be glad that his old father wanted to preach, and tried, even if he did fail. The right intention of the father is fulfilled in the son, and I tell you there’s a law that makes up for things, and so I can sing Thanksgiving Psalms with the rest of um, if I don’t dare to open my mouth in doin’ it.’ Asenath, I look upon Asahel as a boy that is blessed in the intention of his father. The right intentions of a boy live in the man, and the gov’nin’ purpose of the man lives in his boys or those whom he influences, and I tell you, Asenath, there’s nothing better to be considered on Thanksgiving days than the good intentions of the folks of the past that live in us. There are no harvests in the world ekul to those. You wait and see.”

At this point of the story, the clergyman said:

“That is good old Connecticut doctrine, Brother Jonathan.”

The story-teller continued:

The weather-door slowly opened, and the tall form of a young man appeared.

“Asahel,” said Asenath, “we were just speakin’ of you and your folks, and now I want to have a talk with you. Take off your frock, and don’t be standing there like a swamp crane, but sit down on the uniped here close by me, as you used to do when you was a small boy. I set store by you, and you just think what a mother I’ve been to you since your own mother was laid away in the juniper lot! But I am a proper plain-speakin’ woman, as your own mother was—she that answered the minister back in meetin’ time when the good old elder said that your father was a hypocrit.”

Presently the weather-door opened, and Amanda appeared and sat down on the same uniped with Asahel.

The good woman continued:

“You two have been cowslippin’ together, and sassafrassin’ together, and a-huntin’ turkeys’ nests and wild honey, and pickin’ Indian pipe and all. Now, that was all right when you were children. But, Asahel, you and Amanda have come to the pastur’ bars of life, and you must part, and you, Asahel, must be content to become just one of our hired men and sit at the table with the other hired men, on Thanksgivin’ days the same as on all other days, and not stand in the way of any one. And, Amandy Short, do you see that?”

Asenath held up the courting stick.

“Do you know what that is?”

“It is just a hollow stick. I’ve seen sticks before. What does all this mean?”

“You’ve seen sticks before, have you, Amanda? And you have experienced ’em, too, for I have been a faithful mother to you—as good as two. But this is the stick that must unite some farm to ours, and I am goin’ to hang it up over the dresser, and when the right young man comes, Amanda, I want you to take it down and put it up to your ear, so, and it may be that you will hear somethin’ useful, somethin’ to your advantage and ourn. I hope that I made myself clearly understood.”

She did. The two young people had not been left in any darkness at all in regard to her solution of their social equation. Asahel stepped into the middle of the great kitchen floor. His face was as fixed as an image, and the veins were mapped on his forehead.

He bent his eyes on Asenath for a moment and then his soul flowed out to the tone of the accompaniment of honor.

“Mrs. Short, you were good to me as a boy, and I will never do a thing against your will in your family affairs. My father prayed that I might have the ability to fulfil what he was unable to do in life. To inherit such a purpose from such a father is something to be grateful for, and now that I am disappointed in my expectation of Amanda I shall devote all that I am to my father’s purpose in me. I am going to be a minister.”

“You be, hey? But where is the money comin’ from?”

“Mrs. Short, it is to come out of these two fists.”

Poor tender-hearted Caleb, he shelled corn as never before during this painful scene. Suddenly he looked up and about for relief. His eye fell upon the courting stick.

“Here,” said he to Amanda, who was crying, “just let us try this new comical machine, and see how it works. Mandy, let’s you and I have a little talk together. I’ll put the thing up to my mouth, so, and you just listen at the other end of it. There—I’m going to say something. Ready now, Mandy? Did you hear that?”

“Yes, father, I heard it just as plain as though you spoke it into my ear.”

“You didn’t hear anything in particular, did you, Asenath?”

“No, only a sound far away and mysterious like.”

“Curis, ain’t it, how that thing will convey sound in that way? I should think that some invention might come out of it some day. Now, Amanda, you just put your ear up to the funnel and listen again. Mandy,” he continued through the tube, “if your heart is sot on Asahel, do you stand by him, and wait; time makes changes pleasantly.” He put aside the tube. “There, now, do you hear?”

“You didn’t hear, mother, did you?” said Caleb to Asenath, glancing aside.

“No, Kalub.”

“This is a great invention. It works well. Now let me just have a word with Asahel.”

Amanda conveyed one end of the tube to Asahel’s ear.

“Asahel.” He took his mouth from the tube. “Did you hear?”

“You didn’t hear anything, did you?” he said, looking toward Asenath.

“No, Kalub.”

“Now, Asahel, you listen again,” said Caleb, putting his mouth to the tube. “If your heart is sot on Mandy, you just hang on, and wait. Time will be a friend to you, and I will. There, now, did you hear, Asahel?”

“You didn’t hear anything, did you?” asked Caleb of Asenath again with a shake.

“I don’t know,” said Asenath, “it seems to me as though the hands are the hands of Esau, but that the voice is the voice of Jacob.”

“Show! Well, now, Amanda, you and Asahel talk now with each other. Here’s the tube.”

“Asahel Bow,” said Amanda, through the tube, “I believe in you through and through.”

“Amen!” said Asahel, speaking outside of the tube. “Amen whenever your mother shall say Amen, and never until then. There is no need of any courting stick for me.”

At this point of family history Caleb leaped around.

“I know what I did with it—I do now!”

“Did with what, Kalub?” asked Asenath.

“That letter for Asahel—it is right under my bandanna in my hat!”

Caleb went to his hat and handed the lost letter to Asahel.

The latter looked at it and said, “England!” He read it with staring eyes and whitening face, and handed it to Mrs. Short, who elevated her spectacles again.

“That old case in chancery is decided,” said he, “and I am to get my father’s share of the confiscated property. I may have yet to wait for it, though. My great-grandfather was Bow of Bow. He was accused of resisting the Act of Uniformity, and his property was withheld.”

Asenath lifted her brows.

“Bow of Bow,” she repeated. “He was a brave man, I suppose. Resisted the Act of Uniformity? How much did he leave?”

“An estate estimated at £20,000.”

“Heavens be praised!” said the suddenly impressible Asenath. She added: “I always knew that you had good blood in you, and was an honest man, Asahel, just like your father; nobody could ever turn him from the right, no more than you could the side of a house; no Act of Uniformity could ever shape the course of old Seth Bow. And you are a capable man, Asahel; your poor father had limitations and circumstances to contend with, but you are capable of doing all that he meant to do. I always did think a deal of your father, and I think considerable of your grandfather now. I always was just like a mother to you, now wasn’t I, Asahel, good as two or more ordinary stepmothers and the like?

“‘Bow of Bow,’ ‘Bow of Bow,’” continued Asenath. “Well, I have prayed that Amanda might marry well, and your part of £20,000 would be just about twenty times the value of the Smith farm, as I see it. That farm isn’t anything but a bush pastur’, anyhow.

“‘Bow of Bow,’ what a sort of grand sound that has! ‘Bow of Bow.’ I once had an uncle that was a stevedore, an English stevedore, or a cavalier, or something of the kind, but he didn’t leave any estate like Bow of Bow. I think he uniformed in the time of the Uniformity.

“Asahel, you just put that there courtin’ stick up to your ear once more and let me say a word, now that I have new light and understand things better.”

Asahel obeyed. There came a response that could be heard outside of the hollow tube: “Amen!” A murmurous sound followed which was understood only by Asahel. “You will overlook my imperfections now, won’t you, Asahel? Pride is a deceitful thing, and it got the better of me. I only meant well for Amandy, same as you do. I’m sorry for what I said, Asahel. Marry Mandy, and I’ll be a mother to you as I always have been. As good as two common mothers, or more, same as I have always been to Kalub.”

“And I am Asahel. Have my father’s intentions been fulfilled in me?”

“Yes, elder,” said the Governor. “They have!” shouted all. “That is a tale that makes me pray to become all I can,” said a taverner from Boston.

“The purpose of life is growth,” said the Governor. “Growth is revelation. Grow, grow, and past intentions will be fulfilled in you.”

He crossed Lebanon green in the moonlight.

Lebanon, the place that had been filled with life, with hasty orders to couriers, as “Fly!” “Haste!” was silent now. What would be the next news to come by the green?