“Betty, go to your chamber,” said Gulian sternly.  “I will myself escort Kitty to her own door, and impress upon her the necessity of keeping the matter a close secret.  My mortification would be great were it known.  Why, it might even endanger my friendship with Sir Henry Clinton.”

Betty left the room, but her lip curled as she said to herself, “A Tory to the tips of his fingers; God forbid that I should ever feel what Clarissa must.”

Very little sleep visited Betty that night (or what remained of it) as she lay with open eyes that strained into the growing dawn, picturing to herself Oliver’s flight across the North River, and hoping fervently that she had thrown the pursuit skillfully off his track.  When at last she fell into a doze it was nearly seven o’clock in the morning, and Miranda, who softly entered the room, bringing fresh water, halted at the pillow, loth to waken her.

“Mistress Betty,” she whispered.  No reply, but the sleeper turned uneasily, and then opened her eyes.  “I certainly do hate to call you, but jes’ look here; what you say for dat, little missy?” and Miranda held up a letter.  “Dat was left wif me at daybreak by de young boy who came wif Sambo—­missy knows who I mean,”—­rolling her eyes fearfully around the room,—­“and he said tell you that Jim Bates, of Breucklen Heights, had tole him to fetch it to you.”

Betty seized the package; it consisted of a half-sheet of paper which inclosed a letter, doubled over and sealed with wax in the fashion of the day.

“I am safely across the river,” wrote Oliver on the outer sheet, “and send this to ease your mind and Kitty’s.  Moppet’s letter came to me inside one from my father by private hand a few days since, on chance of my being able to give it you.  My service in the city is over, my object attained; hereafter I shall be on duty with our troops.  God be with you till we meet again.”

Betty broke the seal of her letter and between sobs and laughter deciphered the queer pot-hooks and printed letters with which Miss Moppet had covered the pages.  Dear little Moppet; Betty could almost see the frowns and puckered brow with which the child had penned the words.

“My Betty dear,” the letter ran, “we miss you sorely, especially the Mare and me.  She whinnies when I seek the Stable, and I was going to say I cry too, but never mind.” (This was partly erased, but Betty made it out.) “It is so cold the Chickens are kept in the kitchen at night lest they freeze.  We hope it may thaw soon, as we Desire to get the maple syrup from the trees.  Aunt Euphemia is well.  Miss Bidwell is still knitting Socks for our poor soldiers, and I made Half of one, but the Devil tempted me with Bad temper and I threw it on the Fire, for which I was well Punished.  Pamela cries much; I do not see why she is so Silly.  Sally Tracy is the only merry one, now you are away; she spends too much, time, to my thinking, reading and walking with a young Gentleman who comes from