"Do you think 'Billy the fiddler,' as you call him, is one of the Sons
of Liberty?"

"H-u-s-h!" and Peter looked fearfully around. "I don't dare say, but I'm
sure he's true and steady. Betty, I wish I was a little taller; if I
were I'd run away some fine morning and go for a drummer boy with
General Washington."

Betty looked up with affectionate eyes at the sturdy urchin. "I know how
you feel, Peter; but wait a bit. It's sad and disheartening enough now,
God knows, but perhaps better days may dawn for the patriots. My father
says we must keep up our hearts as best we can, and trust in God and the
Continental Congress. Did I tell you how we moulded the bullets last
summer? We kept the tally, and over forty-two thousand cartridges were
made from the statue of King George, so the women of Litchfield have
contributed their aid to the cause in good practical fashion."'

"Aye, that was fine! It must have been jolly fun, too."

"It was very hot," said Betty, laughing; "we tried it in our big
kitchen, but finally had to melt the lead in larger kettles hung over a
crane in the shed down in orchard. Aunt Euphemia thought we would fire
the house, and for many nights Miss Bidwell and she, protected by Reuben
with a lantern, paraded the place before closing up, hunting for stray
sparks which she fancied might fly in the wrong direction."

"What a lot this hamper holds," said Peter, diving down into it. "You've
made enough wreaths to decorate the rooms, I'm sure, and your hands are
getting black."