"What wasn't a dream, Charity?" asked Mehitable curiously.
"The Indian!" answered Charity, her eyes upon the tell-tale tracks. "You were all asleep, Father," she hurried on before the Squire could speak. "I saw the door pushed open and—and—that Indian whose life you saved in the last storm—he stepped in. But he only stayed a moment and did no harm"
"Did no harm!" echoed the Squire. "But, gadzooks, girl, he might have come back with some of ye drunken Hessians and done us harm as we slept!"
"Oh, no, Father!" interrupted Charity with a little shake of her head. "He isn't that sort at all, I'm sure. He is a good Indian!"
"There are no good Indians," said the Squire shortly, exactly as his wife had said. He, too, could tell of Indian raids upon white men's outposts, tales of barbaric cruelty.
Mistress Condit, who had appeared in the doorway in time to hear them conversing, nodded her head at her husband's last remark.
"'Tis true, Samuel," she said. Then her face paled. "Think you he will return to-night?" she asked.
Squire Condit looked grave, but shook his head.
"'Tis doubtful," he answered, "knowing that we are warned. But Amos shall build us a stout bar for the door to-night."
"Then we can have no fire to-night?" inquired Mehitable dismally, who foresaw a series of cold meals stretching drearily away into the future.
"'Twere better not," returned her father. "An Indian
