“Indeed, I do not know; I left the choice to my father, but I think—­I hope it may be Betty.  I only wish I might have Moppet as well,” and the quickly checked sigh told Gulian’s keen ears what the unuttered thought had been.

“Betty—­let me see—­is that the sister next yourself?”

“Oh, no; the sister next to me in age died in infancy.  Then comes Oliver, and then Pamela, who is seventeen now, and next my Betty.  How I wonder if the girls have changed; five years makes a long gap, you know, and even my imagination can scarce fill it.  Do you fancy we will hear soon, Gulian?”

“I cannot tell,” he said gently, thinking how often he had sought reply to the same question in the past week, and longing tenderly to give her the expected pleasure.

“It may be that General Wolcott may find some chance opportunity to send his daughter at once, in which event you know there would scarce be time to hear before she would reach us.”

“Oh, Gulian,” cried Clarissa, clasping her hands, as a faint pink glow lit her pale face, “you did not say that before.  If it were only possible”—­

“Why not?” said Kitty encouragingly.

“But, Gulian, you said in the letter that you would await my sister at King’s Bridge Inn.  Surely you cannot go there and stop, waiting at the Inn for days?”

“I can ride out to-morrow, and, in fact, I hastened through some business at the wharf to-day which enabled me to have the day free.  I can easily go to King’s Bridge and inquire at the Inn for dispatches; you will not mind my being absent all day?  Perhaps Kitty will come and bear you company while I am gone?”

“Right gladly,” replied Kitty; “will you ride alone, Gulian?”

“I might, easily,” said Gulian; “but when I procured a pass from Sir Henry Clinton yesterday (it is an eight days’ pass, Clarissa) I found that Captain Yorke goes to-morrow to the neutral ground to inspect troops, and I think I shall take advantage of his company.”

“I am glad of that,” said Clarissa, putting her slender hand in Gulian’s and looking with grateful eyes up at him, as he stood beside her chair.  “Is he the aide-de-camp you told me of, Gulian, for whom you had taken a liking?”

“The same; a fine, manly fellow, the second son of Lord Herbert Yorke, one of my father’s old friends in England.  You were dancing with him at the De Lanceys’ ‘small and early,’ were you not, Kitty, last week?”

“Yes,” said Kitty, with a quick nod and a half frown, “he has the usual airs and graces of a newly arrived officer from the mother-country.”

“Perhaps you find the colonists more to your mind,” responded Gulian somewhat severely; but Clarissa gave his sleeve a warning twitch, as Kitty made answer with heightened color:—­

“My own countrymen are ever first with me, as you know full well, Gulian, but one must dance sometimes to keep up one’s heart in those times, and Captain Yorke has a passably good step which suits with mine.”