"Tell me the facts of your life."

"As I said, my name is John Brereton. Nothing else about
me will ever be known from me."

Washington scrutinised the man with an intent surprise.
"You cannot expect us to trust you on such information."

"An hour ago it would have been possible for me to have
sneaked by stealth into the British lines with this letter," said
the man, taking from his pocket a sheet of paper and handing
it to the general. "What think you would Sir William Howe
have given me for news, over the signature of General Washington,
that the Continental Army had less than ten rounds of
powder per man?"

Washington studied the face of the young fellow steadily for
twenty seconds. "Are you good at penmanship?" he asked.

"I am a deft hand at all smouting work," replied Brereton.

"Then, sir," said Washington, smiling slightly, "as I wish to
keep an eye on you until you have proved yourself, I shall for
the present find employment for you in my own family."

Thus a twelve-month passed without Philemon Hennion, John
Evatt, Charles Fownes, Parson McClave, or any other lover so
much as once darkening the doors of Greenwood.

"Janice," remarked her mother at the end of the year, "dost