The years had gone swiftly for Betty.  Shortly after her parting with Yorke an opportunity had occurred for her return to Litchfield, and although Clarissa lamented her departure Betty was eager to fly home.  Gulian had done his best to smooth over his ill-judged and ill-tempered effort to arrange her matrimonial affairs, and one of Betty’s minor annoyances was her sister’s evident disappointment at Yorke’s rejection.  Only once had she forgotten herself and flashed out upon Clarissa, peremptorily forbidding further discussion, and Clarissa had been positively aghast at the impetuous little creature who confronted her with flashing eyes and quivering lips, and had speedily warned Gulian never to broach the subject to Betty again.  Peter was Betty’s closest friend in those stormy days.  The urchin had a shrewd perception of how matters stood, and many a time had Betty hugged him for very gratitude when he made a diversion and carried her off to some boyish haunt in the city or to the Collect, thereby giving her opportunity to regain the self-control and spirit necessary to appear as usual.  For Betty was formed of gallant stuff.  No matter if her heart ached to bursting for sight of Geoffrey, if her ears longed, oh, so madly, for the sound of his voice; she could suffer, aye, deeply and long, but she could also be brave and hide even the appearance of a wound.  That Gulian, and even Clarissa, considered her a heartless coquette troubled her not at all, and so Betty danced and laughed on to the end of her sojourn in New York.

It had always been a source of thankfulness to her that she had been able to go home before Geoffrey’s return from the expedition to South Carolina, for she sometimes doubted her own ability to withstand his personal appeal if again exerted.  That he had returned and then, shortly after, gone upon another detail, she had heard incidentally from Oliver during one of her brother’s flying visits to Litchfield on his way to New London with dispatches.  Oliver had been greatly touched by Yorke’s conduct in the matter of his escape, but if he suspected that Betty’s lovely face had anything to do with the British officer’s kindly blindness, he was too clever to hint as much, for which forbearance Betty thanked him in the depths of her heart.  The only way in which he showed his suspicion was in the occasional bits of news concerning Yorke with which he favored her.  At the battle of Cowpens Yorke had been wounded and taken prisoner, and it fell to Oliver Wolcott to arrange for his exchange.  Then, for the first time, were Oliver’s surmises changed to certainties, for one night when he had been attending the prisoner, whose wound was nearly healed, Yorke broke silence and in the frankest, most manly fashion demanded news of his little sweetheart, and told Oliver of his hopes and fears.  Nothing could have appealed so directly to the brother as Yorke’s avowal that Betty had refused him because of the coat he wore, and his eyes filled as he said, boyishly enough, “Egad, Yorke, she has all the Wolcott pluck and patriotism; though were this vexed question of independence settled, I wish with all my heart that you may yet conquer this unwilling maid whom I call sister.”