But Peter, with great discretion, paused not for reply as he vanished up a back stair-case and reached his own chamber, panting but triumphant.

“Good-day, dear grandma,” said Kitty, crossing the hall as Pompey held open the door of the drawing-room; “I was detained by reason of the sewing-bee at the Morrises’, and have barely time to see you and ask for Clarissa.”

“How does thee do?” said Grandma Effingham, drawing her little drab shawl more closely around her shapely shoulders as she laid down her knitting.  “I am pleased to see thee.  Clarissa is somewhat stronger to-day; thee knows she has been more like her old self since Gulian dispatched the letters asking that one of her sisters be allowed to come to her.  The poor child pines for a home face; it is natural; thee sees she has been long absent from her people.”

“Surely it is almost time to get some reply,” said Kitty, as she kissed the dear old Quakeress, for Kitty was one of Mrs. Effingham’s grandchildren, although her mother had been read out of meeting for having married one of the “world’s people.”  “I doubt that Clarissa will shortly begin to worry and grow ill again unless kind Providence sends some tidings.”

“Nay, nay,” said grandma gently.  “If thee had half Clarissa’s patience it would be thy gain, Kitty.”

Grandma was such a quaint, pretty picture, as she sat in her straight-backed chair, with her Quaker cap and steel-gray silk gown, her sleeves elbow-cut, displaying still plump and rounded arms (although she was nearly seventy), and her smooth white fingers flew rapidly in and out of the blue yarn as she resumed her knitting of Peter’s stocking.  Peter was rather a godsend to grandma in the matter of stockings; no wool that was ever carded could resist his vigorous onslaughts, and it kept grandma busy all her spare moments to supply his restless feet with warm covering.

“Patience,” echoed Kitty, with a comical sigh.  “Nay, grandma, give me a few more years without it.”

“Fie,” said grandma, gazing at the bright face with her indulgent eye; “eighteen is full late to begin to learn to conform to thy elders.  I was married and the twins were born at thy age, Kitty.”

“Good lack,” quoth Kitty.  “Where are the men nowadays, grandma?  Save for the redcoats, and I am not so daft over Sir Henry Clinton’s gay officers as some—­no doubt’t is my Quaker blood—­except for the officers, where are our gallants?  Some of mine are up the Hudson beyond the neutral ground, others with the rebels at Morristown.”

“Hush,” said grandma, with an uneasy glance toward the door; “do not talk of rebels in this house; hadn’t thee better run up and see Clarissa?”

“If Miss Kitty pleases,” spoke the voice of Pompey at the door, “will she walk upstairs?  Young madam wants to see her.”