The streets in the upper part of the city were filled with a different kind of crowd, but one equally eager to be off and away.  Many of the Tories and sympathizers with the Crown had found New York a most unpleasant dwelling-place since the signing of the treaty in which “The United States of America” were proclaimed to the world an independent Power, and Sir Guy Carleton, the British commander, had more trouble in providing transportation for this army of discontented refugees than for his own soldiers.  However, the day was fixed, the ships ready to weigh anchor, and the Army of Occupation about to bid adieu to American shores forever.

“Peter,” said Miss Moppet, as she danced merrily out of the breakfast-room, “you are sure, quite sure that the grand procession, with General Washington at its head, will come past this door?  Because we are all cordially bidden to Mistress Kitty’s and perhaps Betty may prefer to go there.”

“But it will be a far better sight here,” returned Peter; “it is sure to pass our door, for I heard Oliver tell Aunt Clarissa so last night just as he was going out.”

“Oliver has overmuch on his mind to-day,” remarked Moppet shrewdly; “to ride with his troop in the morning and be married at evening is quite enough to make him forget the route of a procession.  Do you think we might go out on the doorstep and see if there be any sign of its approach?”

“Why not?  It will be royal fun to see the British soldiers come down from the Government House, and hear the hoots and howls the Broadway and Vly boys are bound to give them.  For once all the boys of the city are of one mind—­except the Tory boys, and they don’t count for much hereafter.”

“I wouldn’t jeer at a fallen foe if I were you, Peter,” said Moppet, severely, as she took up a position on the stoop, and leaned her elbows on the iron railing; “my father says that is not manly, and besides I do suppose there may be some decent Britishers.”

“I never knew but one,” retorted Peter stoutly.  “What knowledge have you of them, I’d like to know?”

“Not much,” evasively.  “Who was the one you mention?”

“My! but he was a prime skater; how he and Betty used to fly over Collect Pond that winter.  Do you skate up in Litchfield, Moppet?”

“Yes, of course; that’s where Betty learned with Oliver.”

“Oh, aye, I remember; when she cut a face on the ice the day she raced with Captain Yorke she told me her brother had taught her.”

At this moment there was sound of a distant bugle; both children ran down to the foot of the steps and gazed eagerly up the street.  But it was a false alarm, and after a few moments spent in fruitless watching they returned to their post of observation on the stoop.

“Peter,” began Moppet presently, with true feminine persistency, “what were you saying about a British officer who knew Betty?”

“Captain Yorke?  He was aide to Sir Henry Clinton.”