“Nay, you won the race fairly, and Betty Wolcott craves your pardon.”

“Oh, my eye!” shouted Peter, as he flung himself between them; “’t was the prettiest race of the season, was it not, Kitty?  Do, do try a game with the rest of us, and I’ll be your hurlie myself.”

A hurlie, be it known, was a small boy or man who, in the fashion of a ball-game of the day, propelled the balls along the icy surface of the pond with a long, sharp-pointed stick, and the race was accorded to whoever first caught the ball,—­often a trial of both speed and endurance when the course was a long one.

“Are you deserting me, Peter?” put in Kitty playfully; “the other hurlies are busy with the De Lancey party; we must have two or three at least.”

Yorke moved a step forward; his first impulse was to offer his services to Kitty, as he had done before, but some fine instinct warned him not to jeopardize his half-reconciliation with Betty, and before he could speak, Philip Livingston whistled to a tall, slight lad who was standing looking at them from the bank close at hand.  In response the lad ran down, leaped on the ice, and said pleasantly,—­

“Your pleasure, sir.  Did you call me?”

“Can you drive a ball for me?” asked Philip; “if so, I’ll promise you a shilling for an hour of your time.”

“Indeed I will,” said the boy; “but let me first go tell Jim Bates, there, who maybe will be returning to Paulus Hook, and I’ll just bid him wait for me over yonder in the tan-yard until you gentlefolks have had your game.”

Off darted the new recruit, and was seen to join a man wearing the wide hat and somewhat greasy garb of a fisherman, who, after a few words, nodded assent, and with somewhat slouching gait proceeded leisurely across the bridge in the direction of the tan-yard referred to.  Amid much laughter the game began; some other acquaintances came down the bank and joined them, and presently Betty found herself darting over the ice hither and thither, following Peter’s purposely erratic course, and pursuing the ball, determined this time to outdo Yorke, who followed her every motion, and whom she again began to tease and laugh at.  But to Yorke anything was better than her scorn or displeasure, and when, by a lucky stroke and a quick turn of her skates, Betty bent down and captured the elusive ball, he was the first to raise a shout of triumph, in which the merry party joined with the heartiness of good-fellowship and breeding.

It was growing dark and cold as Betty climbed up the bank and seated herself on a pile of boards, while Peter unstrapped her skates.  As she looked up, she saw Yorke and Philip Livingston talking with the boy who had been hurlie for Kitty, and it crossed her mind to wonder where Kitty had vanished.  So she rose to her feet and walked leisurely along with Peter toward the tan-yard and turned the corner of the furnace chimney.  As she did so, she almost stumbled against a man, who drew back suddenly; on the other side stood Kitty, and Betty distinctly saw a piece of white paper pass from Kitty’s muff into the hand of the stranger, whom she instantly recognized as the greasy fisherman who had crossed the bridge half an hour before.