“How graceful they are,” said Yorke softly.  “See, even their shadows on the wall opposite are picturesque and wild.  How distinct the faces are!”

“Silhouettes!” burst in Kitty; “have you seen the pictures made by the new artist who came from Albany?  Some folks like to be done thus, but for me I do not care for a black profile of my own face.  They are cut skillfully enough in paper, however.”

Betty, wondering what had possessed Kitty to set off on an animated description of silhouettes, looked up at the wall, and then her heart almost stood still.  That fine, high forehead, the curving lips, the nose, with its clear-cut nostrils,—­not even the disfiguring woolly wig, stiff collar, and blackened face and hands could disguise them to her.  She gazed with sickening apprehension at the dancers; how often she had seen Oliver dancing with Miranda when they were children together at home, the performance usually taking place in the garret, for fear of scoldings upon the sinfulness of dancing from Chloe, Miranda’s mother; oh, how did he dare do this here, where any moment might bring discovery and death?  Why, why, had she failed to see and recognize him! his disguise was very perfect, and yet—­

The applause rang out heartily as the dancers tripped faster and faster; Betty wondered if her torture would ever end.  Perhaps it had only begun, for Oliver had said—­

“Mistress Betty,” spoke Yorke, and his voice was low and very tender, “may I offer you my arm?  A glass of mulled wine would, I think, be of service to you.”  Stumbling a little in her agitation, Betty slipped through the door with him, on into the dining-room, where he placed her in a corner of the wide sofa and fetched the wine.

“Drink it, every drop,” he said, smiling down at her with a masterful look in his dark eyes that Betty had never seen before.  “Sweetheart, trust me, and sit here till I return.”

Betty sipped her wine and the truant color came back to her cheeks, as she saw him vanish through the door.

“Have I grown a coward?” she thought indignantly.  “I was brave up in the Litchfield hills—­how dare I fail now!  Captain Yorke must have seen—­and yet, how could he know Oliver’s face sufficiently well?  Ah,”—­and Betty almost cried out,—­“it is I, miserable I, who have betrayed my brother.  We are so strongly alike that”—­

“Mistress Betty,”—­Yorke was at her side again,—­“I left you to bestow a few shillings on yonder fellow who danced so well, but I could not find him, and Mistress Kitty Cruger tells me he left at once for Breucklen Heights, whence he came, as there is a party crossing before daybreak.  I trust you are better; the air was close in your kitchen.”

Betty’s two small hands clasped each other mutely; her large eloquent eyes were raised to his in the sweetest glance that ever maiden gave.

“God bless you!” she cried impulsively, and, turning, fled through the open door.