leaning forward in his saddle, his sides shaking.

The twins by this time were within speaking-distance. They did not smile, but still holding each other's hands bowed quite gravely.

"Mr. Wyeth, your presence, sir," they said.

"In the name of St. George," said the fat man, "what have you been doing?"

"We fell into the water," said the twins, together.

"You'll pardon our appearance," went on George, "but we are glad to see you here at Stanham Mills, I do assure you, sir. I—I suppose this is our Uncle Daniel? Is it not?"

This was said with such a fine imitation of Uncle Nathan's courtliest manner, that Mr. Wyeth could hardly repress another burst of laughter.

But Mr. Daniel Frothingham—for it was none other—gravely lifted his hat, and said: "Young gentlemen, I salute you. The honor is mine, I do declare."

Then seeing Grace, he took his feet from the stirrups. "Will the young lady come up here with me?" he asked.

In a minute the little girl, with her garland of oak leaves trailing to the ground, was seated before her uncle from London on the old gray horse.

"Well, this is an unexpected greeting," remarked the huge man to the merchant.

The twins had started down the road, leaving a trail of water dripping from their soggy coats.

"What are you doing with those switches, Cato?" asked Mr. Wyeth, turning in his saddle and winking at Uncle Daniel.

"I reckin, sah," said the old darky, smiling grimly, "Mars Nathaniel may have need of 'em. I's tol' Miss Frothingham dat dose chilluns oughter be teached ter swim."

Daniel Frothingham gazed at the soaked figures ahead, and his eyes twinkled merrily.

Just to the right of the highway, a short distance from the edge of the pond, a lane fringed with trees led up a gentle incline, at the end of which could be seen a large rambling building, with great white pillars supporting an overheavy Grecian portico.

Before the twins had turned the corner, two figures on horseback came down the main road at a steady trot.

The two boys did not move out of the way a single step, and if the first rider had not drawn off to the road-side they would have been almost under his horse's hoofs. But the twins appeared to pay no attention to this. In fact, so far as any motion of theirs was concerned the two riders might not have existed.

One was a tall man with long leather leggings, and the other a boy of fourteen on a small brown pony. As they passed Mr. Wyeth both gravely acknowledged his salute.

"Who are they?" asked Mr. Daniel Frothingham. He had not spoken for some time, and had been listening to his niece's description of the adventure up the brook.

"Dat's Mr. Mason Hewes and his son Carter," answered the old negro before Mr. Wyeth could reply. "I reckin you's heard 'bout de boundary-line trubbles, sah."

"Oh yes," replied Mr. Wyeth, and he smiled significantly; "that was the man of whom I spoke to you," he went on, addressing Mr. Frothingham. "He is the most advanced rebel in this colony. I have heard utterances attributed to him that ought to—if true bespoke them—place a halter round his neck. It is said that he has proposed resisting the impost taxes with the force of arms. He is a leader of the so-called Sons of Liberty." Mr. Wyeth said the last words with a sneer.

"An arrant scoundrel. I know of him. He should be clapped in prison," rejoined Daniel Frothingham in a voice so like Uncle Nathan's that little Grace looked up in fright. The pleasant expression had vanished from the old man's face.

"This is not England," remarked Mr. Wyeth, sententiously.

"No; I would it were," answered the other. "There's law for such a one as this. A 'Whig' he calls himself? He's a rebel, and naught else."

By this time they had turned into the lane, and could see two figures waiting by the great white pillars. One was a large man in a red coat, and the other was a tall gray-haired lady, who stood very straight and prim beside him.

The twins had prudently fallen behind, and one observed to the other, as they watched the greetings from a distance:

"Did you see Carter Hewes? He made faces at us."

"Wait until we catch him off some time," was the reply. Then both boys ran for it, and dodged into the house through the kitchen door; but they had not escaped Aunt Clarissa's eagle eye. However, they received no punishment that night, and went to bed in peace.

The next day was quite as fine as the one that had preceded it. The morning was spent in a visit to the various works about the place, but the result of the inspection was not encouraging, and the family party at Stanham Manor was much depressed.

Uncle Daniel had proved to be a large edition of the Frothingham characteristics bound in red. His hands were thick and his fingers short. His manner of speech was ponderous, yet emphatic. Nothing in the new country pleased him; he longed for London. Besides this, he saw that the mining property promised little for the future.

Early in the afternoon Uncle Nathan might have been seen seated on the broad piazza in a great, easy-chair; opposite to him sat Mr. Wyeth, and beside him Uncle Daniel. All three were smoking long-stemmed clay pipes, and blowing the white clouds into the air. For some time no one had spoken. The bees were delving into the honeysuckle blossoms that grew about the pillars, and Aunt Clarissa was plying her white fingers at a tatting-frame close by.

Little Grace, seated in the sunlight on a low hassock, was playing with a small black kitten.

The sound of busy wheels and the roar of the waterfall at the dam drifted across the stretch of green, for besides the foundry the Frothinghams maintained a grist-mill, where most of the grinding for the neighborhood was done.

Uncle Nathan was not in the best of spirits. The discord and dispute over the eastern line worried him more and more each day. He had confided this to his brother and to Mr. Wyeth at some length the night before, and had worked himself into a towering rage.

Mr. Wyeth was also troubled, but it was mostly owing to the trend of political events throughout the country.

The spires of the city on a clear day could just be descried through a strong glass, away off to the east, from the top of Tumble Ridge.

"There's trouble, sir, trouble, I fear me, ahead," said Mr. Wyeth, breaking the silence at last. "Business is again at a standstill, and the spirit of discontent is slowly growing throughout the colonies. In fact, among our friends some rebellious spirits have dared to breathe a word against Parliament and the court, and are almost ripe even to disown allegiance to his Majesty. You find some of this here about you in its worst form; that we all know." He said the last in a low tone of voice.

Uncle Nathan's face turned red, and he quivered with excitement. Aunt Clarissa stopped in the middle of a purple blossom in her embroidery.

"Yes," went on Mr. Wyeth, "I fear me we'll have trouble. Many people whom I see every day, and whose loyalty no one could have doubted some time since, appear to be outraged at what they term 'the oppressions of the crown' forsooth. The new duties, they maintain, must be removed. It will require a strong hand and action to repress the growing discontent."

Mr. Nathaniel Frothingham stammered in his rage, finding his tongue at last. "The soldiers treated the villains right in Boston, March two years ago," he shouted, with an approach to an oath, "and they called it 'a massacre! a massacre'!"

"Pay the tax, say I, and avoid the trouble," ventured Mr. Wyeth, who had not expected to call forth such an amount of feeling.

Here Uncle Daniel put down his pipe, and struck the arm of his chair a mighty blow. "A few hangings and the marching of some regiments under the standard of King George would bring them to their senses," he hissed. "Traitors and plotters against our King are enemies to this