manly figure affords a fine contrast to that of the traitor skulking down the lane (still shown as “Arnold’s Path”) at the back of the Robinson House in his flight to the British frigate moored out in the stream fifteen miles below the fort.  A few hasty words had put his innocent wife in possession of the horrid story, and she had fallen, as if struck by his hand, in a swoon to the floor, where he left her unconscious of his frantic farewell.  In her sad interview with Washington next day she manifested such frenzied grief and horror at her husband’s guilt, such tender concern for the future of her helpless babe, that the stern commander was melted to the heart’s core, and left her entirely convinced of her innocence.  He gave orders that her comfort should be fully attended to, and offered her an escort to protect her from insult on the journey to her father’s house in Philadelphia.  Further, he sent her word in a day or two that, however sorely he must regret the escape of a traitor, he was glad to be able to assure her of her husband’s safety with the British.  Then came the mournful pilgrimage to the loving home in Philadelphia.  She set out at the time when poor Andre was making his preparations for the still longer journey whence he was nevermore to return—­the brilliant young officer with whom she had danced at the great fete, the “Mischianza,” given by the British army to Sir William Howe only two years before in Philadelphia—­the gay man of fashion who had written versicles in her honor, and whose graceful pen-portrait of the fair girl is still in the possession of the Shippen family—­her thickly-powdered hair drawn up into a tower above her forehead and bedecked with ribbons and strings of pearls in the fashion then newly imported out of France, the last modish freak of Marie Antoinette before she laid her own stately head under the axe of the guillotine.

One can easily picture the terror and anguish she bore with her to her old home; the uncertainty regarding her own fate and that of her child; the haunting thought of young Andre’s approaching doom, and, more piteous than all else, the ever—­recurring temptation that sorely beset her to see no more the author of her undoing, the still beloved father of her babe.  It is difficult to imagine a more awful situation, and one can almost forgive her first hasty sentence against the man who had wrought her such ill.  She forgot for a while that she had taken upon her those sacred vows “for better, for worse:”  the worst indeed had come, and for my part I own I am glad that she chose the nobler part.  He was a traitor, but she, alas! was the traitor’s wife.  She accompanied him to England, where her dignity and sweetness helped to sustain her husband in the doubtful position he held in society.  Her letters to her family bear witness to his unfailing love for her and anxious care of her welfare, but breathe a spirit of resignation incompatible with perfect happiness.  Once only did she return to America.  After peace was proclaimed she visited her beloved old home, but meeting with much unkindness from her former friends, soon left for England again.  She died in 1804, surviving Arnold but three years.