“Stop,” said Betty suddenly, as they were at the top stair, “you must remove your boots:  the slightest creak might wake the sleepers at the end of the hall.”

It took but a second of time to follow her directions; and then very softly, with many pauses, the pair crept down the winding stairs, and Betty involuntarily held her breath until the last step was safely passed and she raised the latch of the buttery door.

“If Miss Bidwell has locked it,” came the swift thought,—­but, no! like everything else that dreadful night, fortune seemed to favor Betty, and with a long-drawn sigh she drew her companion across the threshold and instantly shot the bolt behind her.

A faint glow of dawn crept through the pantry windows, and Betty paused a moment and regarded the rows of milk pans which adorned the shelves of the small room with grave intentness.

“Had you not better take a glass of milk?” she said.  “You may have to travel far without food, although I am sure that should you ask for it at any of our Connecticut farmhouses you would be cheerfully supplied,” and raising the neat dipper she filled it and handed it to Geoffrey, who took it gratefully from her hand.

“And now put on your boots, for freedom lies beyond that door,” she said, still in softest tones, as she unbolted the other door which led directly outside.  “I must go with you as far as the barn, for you will need my mare to take you out of danger of pursuit.”

“No, no,” answered Geoffrey, speaking for the first time as they sped rapidly over the grass, “I will not take her; you have dared much for me, and I fear censure and harm may come to you for releasing me should you be discovered.”

“Censure,” said Betty, throwing back her small head haughtily, “wherefore?  Do you think I shall conceal my share in this night’s work?  Oliver is but a hot-headed boy; had my father been at home it would have been different, and to him I shall make my confession, that I have given liberty to—­oh, I cannot say a foe, after what you have done for me—­to a British officer who comes to slay my countrymen!”

“Never your foe, Betty,” cried Yorke, confronting her with face as pale as her own, and in his admiration of her spirit and nobility forgetting all else.  “Say, rather, your adoring friend, who one day, God willing, hopes to prove to you that there are British hearts which are true and honest as yours, and that none will be more loyal to you than mine own.”

A hot wave of color flashed up over Betty’s charming face; her lips trembled, but no words came from them.  What was this impetuous young man daring to say to her?