to him that this was what these very colonists were engaged in doing, and for a moment the British officer felt a throb of sympathy hitherto unknown to him.  He had landed at New York but a month before, filled with insular prejudices and contempt for these country lads and farmers, whom he imagined composed the Continental army; but the fight at Fairfield, which was carried on by the Hessians with a brutality that disgusted him, and the encounter with such a family as this under whose roof he was, began to open his eyes, and he acknowledged frankly to himself that young Oliver Wolcott was both a soldier and a gentleman.

“The boy looked every inch a soldier,” thought Geoffrey, “when he refused his sister’s pleading; faith, he is made of firm stuff to withstand her.  Oh, Betty, Betty!  I wonder if the fortunes of war will ever let me see your face again,” and with a sigh compounded of many things, Geoffrey picked up a book that was lying on the table, and resolved to read until it should be far on into the night, when he would make a bold attempt to escape.

The clock on the stairs struck twelve and Geoffrey, roused from the light slumber into which he had fallen, heard the steps outside his door as Josiah Huntington was joined by Reuben, who was to relieve his guard, and straightened himself, with a long breath, as he rose from his chair.  As he did so, he became conscious of a slight, very slight, noise in the direction of the chimney; and turning his eyes toward it, a soft whisper reached his ear.

“Captain Yorke,” murmured the sweetest voice in the world; and as the slight grating noise ceased, to his amazement a little white hand beckoned him to approach a small aperture, which he now perceived in the bricks about four feet from the floor.  Very softly Geoffrey obeyed the summons, and cautiously made his way to the chimney.

“Kneel down and put your ear near me,” said Betty, and the tall soldier dropped on one knee obediently; “be very careful, for though Aunt Euphemia’s chamber is on this side, and she is usually a sound sleeper, it might be our ill fortune that to-night she would wake.  I have made up my mind, sir; I cannot keep you prisoner under a roof that but for you might be mourning my little sister dead.”

“I pray you say no more of that,” interrupted Geoffrey softly.  “I am more than repaid by your interest in my unhappy condition.”

“It may be wrong, it doubtless is,” said Betty, sighing, “but I have two plans for your escape.  Tell me, are your windows securely fastened?”

“Too strongly to be tampered with except by making noise that is certain to be overheard,” returned Geoffrey.

“Then we must try other means; if you can but manage to scale the chimney,—­and I think there are still some pegs inside which Reuben put there in the spring when he went up after burning it out,—­if you can reach the roof by the chimney you will find on the south side, close to the chimney itself, a trap-door which lets down by a ladder into our garret.  The ladder is stationary, and I will meet you there at its foot, and from the garret there is a back stairway, down which you may creep to the buttery, and once there ’tis but a step outside when I open the door.”