ruby disc of the beamless sun stooping to touch the western rim of the
valley. Many a time had they thus gone over the farm together, but never
before with such a sense of peace and security. The day was removed,
mysteriously, from the circle of its fellows, and set apart by a
peculiar influence which prevented either from ever forgetting it,
during all the years that came after.

They were not aware that at the very moment this influence was
profoundest in their hearts, new rumors of Sandy Flash's movements had
reached Kennett Square, and were being excitedly discussed at the
Unicorn Tavern. He had been met on the Street Road, riding towards the
Red Lion, that very afternoon, by a man who knew his face; and, later in
the evening came a second report, that an individual of his build had
crossed the Philadelphia Road, this side of the Anvil, and gone
southward into the woods. Many were the surmises, and even detailed
accounts, of robberies that either had been or might be committed, but
no one could say precisely how much was true.

Mark Deane was not at home, and the blacksmith was commissioned to
summon Alfred Barton, who had ridden over to Pennsbury, on a friendly
visit to Mr. Joel Ferris. When he finally made his appearance, towards
ten o'clock, he was secretly horror-stricken at the great danger he had
escaped; but it gave him an admirable opportunity to swagger. He could
do no less than promise to summon the volunteers in the morning, and
provision was made accordingly, for despatching as many messengers as
the village could afford.

Since the British occupation, nearly twenty years before, Kennett Square
had not known as lively a day as that which followed. The men and boys
were in the street, grouped in front of the tavern, the women at the