It was in the time when the king's men had things pretty much their own
way, and mystery and plot held full sway, that there lived, in a little
house near McGown Pass on the upper end of Manhattan Island, a widow and
her lame son. She was a tall, gaunt woman of Scotch ancestry, but loyal
to the land that had given her a second home. She was not a woman of
many opinions, but the few that she held were rigid, and not to be
trifled with. With all her might she hated the king, and with equal
intensity loved the cause of freedom. In the depths of her nature there
was a great feeling of shame and disappointment that her only son was a
hopeless cripple, and so could not be offered as a living sacrifice to
the new cause.

Janie McNeal held it against the good God that she, His faithful
servant, must be denied the glorious opportunity of giving her best and
all, as other mothers were doing, that the land of the free might be
wrested from cruel tyranny.

To be sure, Andy was but sixteen. That mattered little to Janie; young
as he was, she could have held him in readiness, as did Hannah of old,
until the time claimed him--but his lameness made it impossible. Among
all the deeds of courage, he must stand forever apart!

Poor Janie could not conceive of a bravery beyond physical strength. In
her disappointment she looked upon pale Andy, and she saw--she hated to
acknowledge it--but she saw only cowardice written upon every line of
the shrinking features! The patient blue eyes avoided her pitying
glance. The sensitive mouth twitched as the boy listened to her
oft-repeated laments. Janie had never seen those eyes grow steely and
keen; she had never seen the lips draw into firm lines, or the slim form
stiffen as the boy listened to the doings of the king's soldiers. When