Margaret Holland, however, still clung to hope.

Her face was paler, and there was a set, pathetic expression in it; so, when she spoke of her husband as being still alive, Ben would sooner have cut out his tongue than allow the slightest word, indicative of his own feeling of certainty as to the captain's fate, to escape him; and he always made a pretence of entering warmly into her plans.
The training, as she considered it, of her son went on steadily.

She always conversed with him in her father's language, and he was able to speak it as well as English.

She was ever impressing upon him that he must be strong and active.

When he was twelve, she engaged an old soldier, who had set up a sort of academy, to instruct him in the use of the sword; and in such exercises as were calculated to strengthen his muscles, and to give him strength and agility.
Unlike most mothers, she had no word of reproach when he returned home from school with a puffed face, or cut lips; the signs of battle.
"I do not want you to be quarrelsome," she often said to him, "but I have heard your father say that a man who can use his fists well is sure to be cool and quick, in any emergency.