the escape of a rebel spy—­was, so far as Betty was concerned, a meritorious act.  So Kitty promised, with the utmost sincerity, that not one syllable would she breathe of the matter to her mother, or, in fact, to any human being, and hugged herself mentally as she thought of Gulian’s horror if he only knew what a personal interest she had in that night’s mad race for freedom.  Clarissa, sweet soul, had lain down quietly, when told that their horses had nearly run away, being badly frightened by the hue and cry of an escaping rebel; and uttering heartfelt thanksgivings that Pompey had brought the girls home in safety, she went fast asleep and remained so long after Gulian had risen, breakfasted, and gone down Maiden Lane.

Business was somewhat dull that morning, and Gulian was conscious that each time his office door opened he feared some one would enter who had learned, he hardly knew how, of his having been connected with the hateful affair occupying his thoughts.  It was therefore with a genuine feeling of relief that just as he was preparing to lock up his books he heard the outer door open, and a familiar voice inquire if he was within.

“Pray come in at once, Yorke,” he said, throwing open the door of his private room with alacrity, as he held out a hand of welcome to his visitor.  “Did you rise early this morning?  I am ashamed to own how late I was, but the balls at De Lancey Place are promoters of sleep next day, I find.”

“I can usually plead guilty to sleep,” replied Yorke, throwing off his military cloak, and taking the chair which Gulian offered him, “but I had to be stirring early to-day, for Sir Henry had pressing affairs, and I was at headquarters before seven o’clock.”

“Did you take horse in pursuit of the spy last night?” asked Gulian, with somewhat heightened color.

“Not I,” answered Yorke carelessly; “the poor devil had luck on his wide, or doubled marvelously well on his pursuers, for I am told that not a trace of him nor of his confederate, the little fiddler, did our men find.  It’s well for them, as Sir Henry was much enraged and their shrift would have been short, I fear, had they been captured.”

“These rebels grow bolder than ever,” said Gulian, uttering a secret thanksgiving which spoke better for his kindness of heart than his loyalty to King and Crown; “I marvel at their adroitness.”

“So do we all;—­but, Verplanck, I came on a different errand to-day than politics.  I came”—­and Geoffrey hesitated, as a questioning look came on Gulian’s face—­“I came—­I—­In short, am I right in esteeming you for the present as brother and guardian to Mistress Betty Wolcott?”

“Aye; in her father’s absence, of course, I stand in that relation toward her.  Well, what of Betty?”

“Only this,” and rising, Yorke bowed in courtly fashion:  “I have the honor to ask your permission to pay my addresses to your sister, Mistress Betty.”