“Did ever I hear such fal-lal nonsense,” and Moppet’s foot came down in a genuine hot-tempered stamp which made Betty start, “Betty, Betty, I will not have it—­pray put them back this moment;” then in the coaxing voice which she knew always carried her point, “What would Oliver and Kitty say if you were not as gay as possible to grace their wedding?  Oh, fie, Betty dear!”

As usual Moppet had her way, and when the pair alighted at the Cruder door Betty’s knots of rose-color were in their accustomed place.

Within the mansion all was light and gay.  Weddings in those times were conducted with even more pomp and ceremony than in our day, and the entertainments, though not upon the present scale, were fully as lavish.  Wax candles shone at every possible point, and lit up the broad reception-hall, the polished floors and high ceilings, while mirrors on mantels and walls reflected back many times the stately figures which passed and repassed before them.  And then there came a pause, when voices were hushed, and down the oak staircase came Kitty, led by Gulian Verplanck (her nearest male relative), wearing a white satin petticoat (though somewhat scanty to our ideas in width and length), and over it a, train of silver brocade, stiff and rustling, while a long scarf of Mechlin lace covered her pretty dark head and hung in soft folds down her back.  The high-heeled slippers, the long lace mitts, with their white bows at the elbow, completed her toilet.  She stood before the assembled company a fair young bride of the olden days, and behind her came Miss Moppet and Peter Provoost, holding her silver train with the tips of their fingers.  Oliver, in full Continental uniform, his cocked hat under his arm, awaited her at the end of the great drawing-room, and with somewhat shortened service, the rector of old St. Paul’s said the words which made the pair man and wife.

[Illustration:  “I HOPE THESE ARE WEDLOCK SHOES”]

Betty was standing near the mantel, laughing and chatting gayly with several of her former New York gallants, when she beheld her father advancing toward her on the arm of a gentleman.  Surely she knew that tall, elegant figure, that erect, graceful carriage?  But the scarlet uniform which was so familiar was absent; this was the satin coat, small-clothes, and powdered hair of a civilian.  Betty’s head swam, her brilliant color came and went, as her father said quietly!—­

“My daughter, an old acquaintance desires that I should recall him to your recollection; I trust it is not necessary for me to present to your favor my friend, Mr. Geoffrey Yorke.”

Betty’s knees shook as she executed her most elaborate courtesy, and as if in a dream she heard General Wolcott say to Yorke, with a somewhat quizzical smile, “Perhaps you will kindly take Betty to the library, where I will myself join you later after escorting General Washington to the banquet.”

Betty never knew how she crossed that room; every effort of her mind was concentrated in the thought that she must not betray herself.  What did all this mean?  Such a blaze of sunshine had fallen upon her that she did not dare look at it; she only realized that her hand was in Geoffrey’s until they reached the quiet and deserted library, and then he was at her feet.