"You, Andy! And why! Have you heard about our Sam!" The girl came out
into the moonshine. She was tall and strong, and her face was very
pretty.

"Yes; I've heard, Ruth;" then, coming close, Andy poured out his misery
to the girl who had been his lifelong friend and comrade.

She listened silently, once raising her finger and pointing toward the
house as if to warn him against arousing the others. When he had
finished there was silence. It was not Ruth's way to plunge into reply.

"Come," she whispered presently, "I am going to tell the bees. Hans
Brickman told me to-night that 'tis no fancy, but a true thing, that the
bees will leave a hive if death come unless they are told by a member of
the family. The bee-folk are overwise, I know, and I mean to take no
chances of their leaving. With the British at hand, honey is not to be
despised. Come."

Andy followed, wondering, but biding Ruth's time. She was a strange girl
in all her ways.

Without speaking, the two went through the little garden and paused
before the row of neat hives. Then Ruth bent before the first.

"Sam's dead!" she whispered, "but do not fear. We need you, so do not
leave the hive." From hive to hive she went, quite seriously repeating
the sentence in soft murmurings. Andy stood and looked, the moonlight
showing him pale and intent. At last the deed was done, and Ruth came
back to him and laid her firm, brown hand upon his shoulder. She was a