As the King's troops, Major Pitcairn at their head, reached the
open door and saw the old lady, they paused. What could they do
but look, for a moment, at the unexpected sight that met their
view; a placid old lady in black silk and dotted muslin, with all
the sweet solemnity of morning devotion hovering about the tidy
apartment and seeming to centre at the round stand by which she
sat, this pretty woman, with pink and white face surmounted with
fleecy little curls and crinkles and wisps of floating whiteness,
who looked up to meet their gaze with such innocent
prayer-suffused eyes.
"Good morning, Mother," said Major Pitcairn, raising his hat.
"Good morning, gentlemen and soldiers," returned Martha Moulton.
"You will pardon my not meeting you at the door, when you see
that I was occupied in rendering service to the Lord of all." She
reverently closed the book, laid it on the table, and arose, with
a stately bearing, to demand their wishes.
"We're hungry, good woman," spoke the commander, "and your hearth
is the only hospitable one we've seen since we left Boston. With
your good leave I'll take a bit of this, and he stooped to lift
up the Johnny-cake that had been all this while on the hearth.
"I wish I had something better to offer you," she said, making
haste to fetch plates and knives from the corner-cupboard, and
all the while she was keeping eye-guard over the well. "I'm
afraid the Concorders haven't left much for you to-day," she
added, with a soft sigh of regret, as though she really felt
sorry that such brave men and good soldiers had fallen on hard
times in the ancient town.
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