There was a pause, as Betty’s sweet, passionate tones ceased; she stood with head thrown back, but downcast eyes, as fair a picture us ever greeted father’s eye.
“A loyal traitor, Betty,” said General Wolcott slowly; “and I think that it were well I should look after the condition of my chimneys.”
Scarcely daring to believe her ears, Betty looked up, and in another second she had thrown her arms around her father’s neck, sobbing softly as he caressed her.
“’Twas a daring, mad scheme, my child,” said General Wolcott, his own eyes not quite guiltless of moisture; “but bravely carried out; and looking at the matter much as you do, I cannot find it in my heart to censure you. Captain Yorke is doubtless a manly foe, and of such I have no fear. It shall be our secret, yours and mine, Betty; we will not even tell Oliver just now, else it might make sore feeling between you. For Oliver was right, and”—smiling kindly, “so were you. Everything depends upon the point of view, my daughter; but let me beg you never to try your hand again to assist the escape of a British officer, or it might cost me the friendship of General Washington.”
“Father, dear father!” cried Betty, overjoyed to find judgment so lenient accorded her, “I crave your pardon; ’twas alone for Moppet’s sake.”
“Aye,” said General Wolcott, and then paused a brief second, for his wife’s death, had been the forfeit paid for Moppet’s birth, and this was one reason why the child had become the family idol. “Now run away, for I must close these papers in time for Oliver, who rides dispatch to Fort Trumbull to-night. And, Betty,” as she stood glowing and smiling before him “my child, you grow more like your mother every day.” and with a hasty movement General Wolcott turned away to conceal his emotion, as Betty went quickly from the room.
BY COURIER POST
It had been a wild night, find the morning wind sobbed and sighed through the elms, which, denuded of their leaves, stood out tall and bare against the leaden sky, and there was a chill in the air that might betoken snow. Pamela Wolcott stood in the sitting-room window and sighed softly, as she gazed out at the November landscape, letting her fingers beat soft tattoo against the lozenge-shaped pane.