"Hours fly; flowers die; New days, new ways, Pass by. Love stays."

"It is very pretty," was her only comment.

"Hast no one told thee how well thou might appear in a ball gown?"

"I ne'er gave thought to such."

"Nor what an impression thou wouldst make at court?"

"Hast thou seen court beauties?"

She resolved to learn more about him.

"Aye! Oft have I been in their company."

"At St. James?"

"No. Much as I would have been pleased to. I know only Versailles."

So she thought he must be a French nobleman, who like Lafayette had incurred the royal displeasure by running away from court to fit out a vessel at his own expense in the hope of furthering the cause of the Colonists. The great impulse given to the hopes of the disheartened population by the chivalrous exploit of the latter, the sensation produced both by his departure from Europe and by his appearance in this country, might behold a glorious repetition in the person of this unknown visitor.

Her interest accordingly grew apace.

"It was magnanimous of His Majesty to take our cause to his heart. We can never fail in our gratitude."

"It is only natural for man to resist oppression. It has been written that it is only the meek who should possess the land."

"An ideal which is often badly shattered by the selfish ambitions and perverse passions of godless men."

"You are a Catholic?" he asked suddenly.

"I am proud of it."

"And your fellow patriots are of the same form of worship?"

"A goodly proportion of them."

"How many might you assume?"

"I scarce know. We have no method of compiling our numbers, not even our total population."

"Surely there must be a great percentage, if one considers the influx from France and England, not to mention Ireland, whence many fled from persecution."

"I once heard Father Farmer say that there must be over seven thousand Catholics in Pennsylvania, while Maryland has about fifteen thousand. Whatever there remain are much scattered, except of course New York with its thousand."

"I never dreamt they were so numerous! So great is the spirit of intolerance, that the wonder is that a single Catholic would remain in the Colonies."

"I know it. Formerly Maryland and Pennsylvania were the two only colonies where Catholics were allowed to reside, and even there were excluded from any civil or military office. And the time has not yet arrived for complete religious freedom, though the arrival of the French fleet with its Catholic army and Catholic chaplains will make a favorable impression upon our less enlightened oppressors."

"It seems strange that you should throw in your lot with a people who prove so intolerant."

"Father Farmer, our pastor, says that no influence must ever be used except for the national cause, for we must be quickened by the hope of better days. He pleads with his people to remain faithful and promises the undivided sympathy of his fellow priests with their kinsmen in the struggle. For these reasons I hardly think that many Catholics will desert our cause."

"Yet you must know that it was England that bestowed the most liberal grants to the inhabitants of the Northwest territory."

"You mean the Quebec Act?" she asked.

"Yes. And you know that Canada would be allied with you, heart and soul, were it not for the intolerant spirit of your fellow colonists."

"Perhaps it would."

"Now, would it not be better——"

"Do you mean to suggest to me that we turn traitor?" she interrupted, turning full upon him, her eyes flashing with intense feeling.

"No ... pardon ... I meant no offense.... The fact is I was only remarking on the sad plight of our co-religionists."

"I fail to perceive how ill we fare. Our compatriots render us honor, and as Father Farmer says, 'we may cherish the hope of better days, which are inevitable.' You must know that one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence is a Catholic; and that the army and navy boast of a considerable quota."

"We are not ungenerous of our service, it seems."

"Rather are we proud of our efforts. We are proud of the fact that there has been found among us not one false to his country. We point with pride to him who was privileged to first read the Declaration of Independence to the public. We are proud of the composition of Washington's 'Life Guard'; and we are proud of our mutual friend, whom, perhaps, you know," and she glanced at him with a merry twinkle, "Captain Meagher, Washington's aide-de-camp."

And so they talked. Marjorie became completely absorbed in her subject, once her religion became the topic, and she almost forgot her game in regard to her visitor. She desired to appear to the best advantage, however, for which purpose she talked freely, in the hope of extracting from him some information concerning himself and his intents. Still, however, there was another extreme which, though apparently less dangerous, she must be careful to avoid. The imaginations of men are in a great measure under the control of their feelings and it was absolutely necessary for her to refrain from imparting too much information lest it might deflect from its purpose the very object she was seeking to obtain.

There was a subtle influence about him, an adroitness of speech, a precision of movement which, unless sufficiently safeguarded against, was insidious. He had the most wonderful way of getting one's confidence, not only by reason of his genial and affable disposition, but also by his apparent and deliberate sincerity. And while it was true that she had determined upon a method which was originally intended to redound to her own advantage, she soon learned that she was playing with a boomerang which soon put her upon the defensive against the very strategy which she had herself directly planned.

He was not sincere in his protestations of admiration; that she perceived immediately. But she was resolved to let him think that she believed him in order that she might discover his true intents and purposes. Her knowledge of human nature was sufficient to enable her to conclude that one cannot unite the incompatible elements of truth and deception, the discernment of reality and the enjoyment of fiction for any great length of time. The reality is bound to appear.

For this reason she was not disposed to dismiss him at once but rather to allow him to call and see her frequently, if need be, until she had been thoroughly satisfied as to his true character. Nevertheless she sensed, at this very moment, that she was playing with a skillful adversary, one thoroughly versed in the game of diplomacy, against whom she would be called upon to employ every manner of weapon at her command. She realized the weight of the foe, and thought she understood his tactics. So she accepted the challenge.

"You are interested in Captain Meagher?" he asked serenely.

There was a pause. Marjorie looked slightly perturbed.

"Well," she confessed, "there is this much about him. I chanced to know the details of the offense with which he has been charged and I am naturally interested to learn the result of his trial."

"He may be found guilty," he quietly announced.

"Why do you say that?"

"The evidence was wholly against him."

"And there was no testimony to the effect that Colonel Forrest was somewhat intoxicated, or that he spoke disparaging words against the Captain's co-religionists, or that he attacked the character of the Commander-in-chief?"

"There was to some extent, but it did not seem to make any impression."

"I presume that you know the reason."

Her eyes gleamed a little.

"Why?"

There was a pause.

"The verdict has not been given. I shall be pleased to inform you of it at the earliest opportunity."

"Thank you. I shall be delighted. But let's not talk about it any more," she added. "Let's leave it."

Mr. Anderson smiled.

II

It was perhaps an hour after dawn that Stephen awoke for about the third or fourth time that night; for the conflict still surged within him and would give him no peace. And, as he lay there, awake in an instant, staring into the brightness of the morn, once more weighing the mysterious disclosures of the evening, swayed by the desire for action at one moment, overcome with sadness at the next, the thought of the impending verdict of his trial occurred at him and made him rise very hurriedly.

He was an early arrival at Headquarters. There had been several matters disposed of during the preceding day and the verdicts would be announced together. The room where the court was being held was already stirring with commotion; his judge-advocate was there, as was Colonel Forrest, Mr. Anderson, several members of the General's staff, and Mr. Allison, who had sought entry to learn the decision. Suddenly a dull solemn silence settled over all as the members of the court filed slowly into the room.

They took their places with their usual dignity, and began to dispose of the several cases in their turn. When that of Captain Meagher was reached Stephen was ordered to appear before the court to hear his sentence.

He took his place before them with perfect calmness. He observed that not one of them ventured to meet his eye as he awaited their utterance.

They found that he was not justified in making the attack upon a superior officer, notwithstanding the alleged cause for provocation, and that he was imprudent in his action, yet because of his good character, as testified to by his superior officers, because of the mitigating circumstances which had been brought to light by the testimony of the witnesses during the course of the trial and because the act had been committed without malice or criminal intent, he was found not guilty of any violation of the Articles of War, but imprudent in his action, for which cause he had been sentenced to receive a reprimand from the Military Governor.

Stephen spoke not a word to any one as he made his way back to his seat. Why could they not have given him a clear verdict? Either he was guilty or he was not guilty. He could not be misled by the sugary phrases in which the vote of censure had been couched. The court had been against him from the start.

At any rate, he thought, the reprimand would be only a matter of form. Its execution lay wholly with him who was to administer it. The court could not, by law, indicate its severity, nor its lenity, nor indeed add anything in regard to its execution, save to direct that it should be administered by the commander who convened the court. And while it was undoubtedly the general intention of the court-martial to impose a mild punishment, yet the quality of the reprimand was left entirely to the discretion of the authority commissioned to utter it.

When Stephen appeared before the Military Governor at the termination of the business of the day, he was seized with a great fury, one of those angers which, for a while, poison the air without obscuring the mind. There was an unkind look on the face of the Governor, which he did not like and which indicated to him that all would not be pleasant. He bowed his head in answer to his name.

"Captain Meagher," the Governor began. "You have been found guilty by the Regimental Court-Martial of an action which was highly imprudent. You have been led perhaps by an infatuate zeal in behalf of those, whom you term your co-religionists, to the committal of an offense upon the person of your superior officer. It is because of this fact that I find it my sad duty to reprimand you severely for your misguided ardor and to admonish you, together with the other members of your sect, of whom an unfair representation is already found in the halls of our Congress and in the ranks of our forces, lest similar outbreaks occur again. Did you but know that this eye only lately saw the members of that same Congress at Mass for the soul of a Roman Catholic in purgatory, and participating in the rites of a Church against whose anti-Christian corruptions your pious ancestors would have witnessed with their blood? The army must not witness similar outbreaks of religious zeal in the future."

He finished. Stephen left the room without a word, turned on his heel and made his way down the street.

III

Nature is a great restorer when she pours into the gaping wounds of the jaded system the oil and wine of repose. Divine grace administers the same narcotic to the soul crushed by torture and anguish. It is then that tears are dried, and that afflictions and crosses become sweet.

Desolation, a very lonely desolation, and a deep sense of helplessness filled the soul of Stephen as he retraced his steps from the court room. His life seemed a great burden to him, his hopes swallowed up in his bereavement. If he could but remove his mind from his travail of disappointments and bitterness, if his soul could only soar aloft in prayer to the realms of bliss and repose, he might endure this bitter humiliation. He felt the great need of prayer, humble, submissive prayer. Oh! If he could only pray!

He was invisibly directed into the little doorway of St. Joseph's. His feeling was like that of the storm tossed mariner as he securely steers for the beacon light. The church was nearly empty, save for a bare half-dozen people who occupied seats at various intervals. They were alone in their contemplation, as Catholics are wont to be, before their God, without beads or prayer-book, intent only upon the Divine Person concealed within the tabernacle walls, and announced by the flickering red flame in the little lamp before the altar. Here he felt himself removed from the world and its affairs, as if enclosed in a strange parenthesis, set off from all other considerations. And straightway, his soul was carried off into a calm, pure, lofty region of consolation and repose.

To the human soul, prayer is like the beams of light which seem to connect sun and earth. It raises the soul aloft and transports it to another and a better world. There basking in the light of the divine presence it is strengthened to meet the impending conflict. Nothing escapes the all-seeing eye of God. He only waits for the prayer of his children eager to grant their requests. Nothing is denied to faith and love. Neither can measure be set to the divine bounty.

"Miserere mei, Deus; secundum magnam misericordiam tuam."—"Have mercy on me, O God, according to Thy great mercy."

Stephen buried his face in his hands, in an agony of conflict.

The tone of the Military Governor's reprimand had left no room for speculation as to his true intents and purposes. Whatever rebuke had been administered to him was intended for the Catholic population, otherwise there was no earthly reason for holding up to reprobation the conduct of the body governing the republic. The mere fact that the Governor despised the Congress was an unworthy as well as an insufficient motive for the base attack.

The humiliated soldier felt incapable of bearing the insult without murmuring, yet he chose to accept it with perfect resignation and submission. For a time he had fought against it. But in the church he felt seized by an invisible force. On a sudden this invisible tension seemed to dissolve like a gray mist, hovering over a lake, and began to give place to a solemn and tender sweetness.

"Miserere mei Deus."

He sought refuge in the arms of God, crying aloud to Him for His mercy. He would give his soul up to prayer and commit his troubled spirit into the hands of his intercessors before the throne of Heaven.

"Accept my punishments for the soul who is about to be released."

To the souls in Purgatory, then, he poured forth the bitterness of his heart, offering in their behalf through the intercession of the Virgin Mary, the cross which had been imposed upon him. The injustice of his trial which he knew, or thought he knew, had been tempered by the spirit of intolerance, was brought home to him now in full vigor by the severity of his reprimand. He did not deserve it, no—he could not force himself to believe that he did. Still he accepted it generously though painfully, in behalf of the sufferings of his friends.

He besought them to pray for him, that he might the more worthily endure his cross. He prayed for his tormentors that they might be not held culpable for their error. He entrusted himself entirely into the hands of his departed ones and renewed with a greater fervor his act of consecration.

"I beseech Thee, O my God, to accept and confirm this offering for Thy honor and the salvation of my soul. Amen."

He arose from his pew, made a genuflection before the Blessed Sacrament, pronouncing as he did, "My Lord and My God," crossed himself with the holy water, and left the church.

IV

In the meantime an event of rare importance had occurred in the garden of the Shippen home. There, in the recesses of the tulips sheltered behind the clustering hydrangeas, Peggy accepted the fervent suit of the Military Governor and gave him her promise to become his bride. A few days later the world was informed of the betrothal and nodded its head in astonishment, and opening its lips, sought relief in many words.

The wheels of destiny began to turn.



PART TWO



CHAPTER I

I

It was a hot October day.

A torrid wave generated somewhere in the far west, and aided by the prevailing trade winds had swept relentlessly across the country, reaching the city at a most unusual time. It had not come unheralded, however, for the sun of yesterday had gone down a blazing red, illuminating the sky like rays from a mighty furnace, and tinging the evening landscape with the reddish and purplish hues of an Indian summer. And what a blanket of humidity accompanied it! Like a cloak it settled down upon the land, making breathing laborious and driving every living creature out of doors.

Jim Cadwalader and his wife sat on the lawn, if the patch of brown grass to the side of their little house could be termed a lawn, and awaited the close of the day. Three huge elms, motionless in the still sunshine and, like all motionless things, adding to the stillness, afforded a canopy against the burning rays of the sun. What mattered it that the cool shaded air was infested with mosquitoes and house-flies or that the coarse grass was uneven and unkempt, from the low mounds which ran all over it or, from the profusion of leaves which had here and there fluttered down from the great trees. For it must be confessed that neither Jim nor his wife had found the time for the proper care of the premises, or if perchance, they had found the time the inclination itself had been wanting.

"Sumthins got t' turn up in sum way 'r other b'fore long. I ain't seen the sight o' work here in nigh two year."

"Guess you won't see it fur a while," responded the wife, from her straight-backed chair, her arms folded, her body erect.

"Like as not a man 'd starve t' death in these here times, with nuthin' t' do."

Jim sat with his elbows resting upon his yellow buckskin breeches, his rough stubby fingers interlocked, his small fiery eyes piercing the distance beyond the fields.

"If this business o' war was through with, things 'd git right agin."

"But it ain't goin' t' be over, let me tell you that."

They became silent.

Sad as was their plight, it was no sadder than the plight of many of their class. The horrors of a protracted war had visited with equal severity the dwelling places of the rich and the poor. It was not a question of the provision of the sinews of war; tax had been enacted of all classes alike. But it did seem as if the angel of poverty had tarried the longer at the doorposts of the less opulent and had, in proportion to their indigence, inflicted the greater suffering and privation. Figuratively speaking, this was the state of affairs with Jim's house.

Everything that could stimulate, and everything that could gratify the propensities of a middle-aged couple, the blessings of health, the daily round of occupation, the joys of life and the hopes of at length obtaining possession of a little home, all these and the contentment of living, had at once been swept away from Jim Cadwalader and his wife by the calamities of war. They had lived as many had lived who have no different excuse to plead for their penury. The wages of their day's labor had been their sole means of support, and when this source of income had vanished, nothing was left. In the low and dingy rooms which they called their home there were no articles of adornment and many necessary for use were wanting. Sand sprinkled on the floor did duty as a carpet. There was no glass upon their table; no china on the cupboard; no prints on the wall. Matches were a treasure and coal was never seen. Over a fire of broken boxes and barrels, lighted with sparks from the flint, was cooked a rude meal to be served in pewter dishes. Fresh meat was rarely tasted—at most but once a week, and then paid for at a higher price than their scanty means could justly allow.

"The way things 're goin' a pair o' boots 'll soon cost a man 'most six hundr' dollars. I heard a man say who 's good at figurin' out these things, that it now takes forty dollar bills t' make a dollar o' coin. We can't stand that much longer."

"Unless a great blow is struck soon," observed Nancy.

"But it won't be struck. Washington's watchin' Clinton from Morristown. The Americans are now on the offensive an' Clinton 's busy holdin' New York. The French 're here an' who knows but they may do somethin'. 'Twas too bad they missed Howe's army when it left here."

"Were they here?"

"They were at the capes when the chase was over. Lord Howe's ships had gone."

Again there was silence.

"I guess Washington can't do much without an army. He has only a handful an' I heard that the volunteers won't stay. Three thousan' o' them left t' other day. Can't win a war that way. If they'd only listen to Barry they'd have a navy now, an' if they want to catch Clinton in New York they'll need a navy."

"Is the Captain home?"

"I saw him t' other day. He is goin' t' Boston t' command the Raleigh, a thirty-two gunner. But one's no good. He needs a fleet."

"Thank God! The French have come. Peace is here now."

"It's money we need more'n soldiers. We can git an army right here if we could only pay 'em. No one 'll fight fur nuthin'. They're starvin' as much as us."

The fact that the hopes of this American couple had suffered a partial collapse, must be attributed rather to the internal state of affairs than to the military situation. While it is true that no great military objective had been gained as a result of the three years of fighting, yet the odds at the present moment were decidedly on the American side. Still the country was without anything fit to be called a general government. The Articles of Confederation, which were intended to establish a league of friendship between the thirteen states, had not yet been adopted. The Continental Congress, continuing to decline in reputation and capacity, provoked a feeling of utter weariness and intense depression. The energies and resources of the people were without organization.

Resources they had. There was also a vigorous and an animated spirit of patriotism, but there were no means of concentrating and utilizing these assets. It was the general administrative paralysis rather than any real poverty that tried the souls of the colonists. They heartily approved of the war; Washington now held a higher place in their hearts than he had ever held before; peace seemed a certainty the longer the war endured. But they were weary of the struggle and handicapped by the internal condition of affairs.

Jim and his wife typified the members of the poorer class, the class upon whom the war had descended with all its horror and cruelty and desolation. Whatever scanty possessions they had, cows, corn, wheat or flour, had been seized by the foraging parties of the opposing forces, while their horse and wagon had been impressed into the service of the British, at the time of the evacuation of the city, to cart away the stores and provisions. A means of occupation had been denied Jim during the period of stagnation and what mere existence could now be eked out depended solely in the tillage of the land upon which he dwelled. Nevertheless the Cadwaladers maintained their outward cheer and apparent optimism throughout it all but still they yearned inwardly for the day when strife would be no more.

"I can't see as t' how we're goin' to git off eny better when this here whole thin's over. We're fightin' fur independence, but the peopul don't want to change their guver'ment; Washington 'll be king when this is over."

Jim was ruminating aloud, stripping with his thumb nail the bark from a small branch which he had picked from the ground.

"'Twas the Quebec Act th' done it. It was supposed to reestablish Popery in Canada, and did by right. But th' Americans, and mostly those in New England who are the worst kind of Dissenters and Whigs got skeered because they thought the Church o' England or the Church o' Rome 'd be the next thing established in the Colonies. That's what brought on the war."

"We all don't believe that. Some do; but I don't."

"You don't?" he asked, without lifting his eyes to look at her. "Well you kin. Wasn't the first thing they did up in New England to rush t' Canada t' capture the country or else t' form an alliance with it? And didn't our own Arnold try t' git revenge on it fur not sidin' in with him by plunderin' th' homes of th' peopul up there and sendin' the goods back to Ticonderoga?"

She made no reply, but continued to peer into the distance.

"And didn't our Congress send a petition to King George t' have 'm repeal the limits o' Quebec and to the peopul t' tell 'm the English Guver'ment 'is not authorized to establish a religion fraught with sanguary 'r impius tenets'? I know 'cause I read it."

"It makes no diff'rence now. It's over."

"Well it shows the kind o' peopul here. They're so afreed o' the Pope."

She waved her hand in a manner of greeting.

"Who's that?" asked Jim.

"Marjorie."

He turned sideways looking over his shoulder.

Then he stood up.

II

That there was more than a grain of truth in the assertion of Jim Cadwalader that the war for Independence had, like the great rivers of the country, many sources, cannot be gainsaid. There were oppressive tax laws as well as restrictions on popular rights. There were odious navigation acts together with a host of iniquitous, tyrannical measures which were destined to arouse the ire of any people however loyal. But there were religious prejudices which were likewise a moving cause of the revolt, a moving force upon the minds of the people at large. And these were utilized and systematized most effectively by the active malcontents and leaders of the strife.

The vast majority of the population of the Colonies were Dissenters, subjects of the crown who disagreed with it in matters of religious belief and who had emigrated thither to secure a haven where they might worship their God according to the dictates of their own conscience rather than at the dictates of a body politic. The Puritans had sought refuge in Massachusetts and Connecticut where the white spires of their meeting houses, projecting above the angles of the New England hills, became indicative of Congregationalism. Roger Williams and the Baptists found a harbor in Rhode Island. William Penn brought the Quaker colony to Pennsylvania. Captain Thomas Webb lent active measures to the establishment of Methodism in New York and in Maryland, while the colony of Virginia afforded protection to the adherents of the Established Church. The country was in the main Protestant, save for the vestiges of Catholicity left by the Franciscan and Jesuit Missionary Fathers, who penetrated the boundless wastes in an heroic endeavor to plant the seeds of their faith in the rich and fertile soil of the new and unexplored continent.

Consequently with the passage of the Quebec Act in 1774 a wave of indignation and passionate apprehension swept the country from the American Patriots of Boston to the English settlements on the west. That large and influential members of the Protestant religion were being assailed and threatened with oppression and that the fear of Popery, recently reestablished in Canada, became an incentive for armed resistance, proved to be motives of great concern. They even reminded King George of these calamities and emphatically declared themselves Protestants, faithful to the principles of 1688, faithful to the ideals of the "Glorious Revolution" against James II, faithful to the House of Hanover, then seated on the throne.

"Can a free government possibly exist with the Roman Catholic Church?" asked John Adams of Thomas Jefferson. This simple question embodied in concrete form the apprehensions of the country at large, whose inhabitants had now become firmly convinced that King George, in granting the Quebec Bill, had become a traitor, had broken his coronation oath, was a Papist at heart, and was scheming to submit this country to the unconstitutional power of the English monarch. It was not so much a contest between peoples as a conflict of principles, political and religious, the latter of which contributed the active force that brought on the revolt and gave it power.

III

Strange to relate, there came a decided reversal of position after the formation of the French Alliance. No longer was the Catholic religion simply tolerated; it was openly professed, and, owing in a great measure to the unwearied labors of the Dominican and Franciscan friars, made the utmost progress among all ranks of people. The fault of the Catholic population was anything but disloyalty, it was found, and their manner of life, their absolute sincerity in their religious convictions, their generous and altruistic interest in matters of concern to the public good, proved irrefutable arguments against the calumnies and vilifications of earlier days. The Constitutions adopted by the several states and the laws passed to regulate the new governments show that the principles of religious freedom and equality had made progress during the war and were to be incorporated as vital factors in the shaping of the destinies of the new nation.

The supreme importance of the French Alliance at this juncture cannot be overestimated. Coming, as it did, at a time when the depression of the people had reached the lowest ebb, when the remnant of the army of the Americans was enduring the severities of the winter season at Valley Forge, when the enemy was in possession of the fairest part of the country together with the two most important cities, when Congress could not pay its bills, nor meet the national debt which alone exceeded forty million dollars,—when the medium of exchange would not circulate because of its worthlessness, when private debts could not be collected and when credit was generally prostrated, the Alliance proved a benefit of incalculable value to the struggling nation, not only in the enormous resources which it supplied to the army but in the general morale of the people which it made buoyant.

The capture of Burgoyne and the announcement that Lord North was about to bring in conciliatory measures furnished convincing proof to France that the American Alliance was worth having. A treaty was drawn up by virtue of which the Americans solemnly agreed, in consideration of armed support to be furnished by France, never to entertain proposals of peace with Great Britain until their independence should be acknowledged, and never to conclude a treaty of peace except with the concurrence of their new ally.

Large sums of money were at once furnished the American Congress. A strong force of trained soldiers was sent to act under Washington's command. A powerful fleet was soon to set sail for American waters and the French forces at home were directed to cripple the military power of England and to lock up and neutralize much British energy which would otherwise be directed against the Americans. Small wonder that a new era began to dawn for the Colonists!

When we remember the anti-Catholic spirit of the first years of the Revolution and consider the freedom of action which came to the Catholics as a consequence of the French Alliance, another and a striking phase of its influence is revealed. The Catholic priests hitherto seen in the colonies had been barely tolerated in the limited districts where they labored. Now came Catholic chaplains of foreign embassies; army and navy chaplains celebrating mass with pomp on the men-of-war and in the camps and cities. The French chaplains were brought in contact with all classes of the people in all parts of the country and the masses said in the French lines were attended by many who had never before witnessed a Catholic ceremony. Even Rhode Island, with a French fleet in her waters, blotted from her statute-book a law against Catholics.

IV

"What have we here, Marjorie?" asked Jim as he walked part of the way to meet her.

"Just a few ribs of pork. I thought that you might like them."

She gave Jim the basket and walked over to Mrs. Cadwalader and kissed her.

"Heaven bless you, Marjorie," exclaimed Nancy as she took hold of the girl's hands and held them.

"Oh, thank you! But it is nothing, I assure you."

"You kin bet it is," announced Jim as he removed from the basket a long side of pork. "Look 't that, Nancy." And he held it up for her observation.

Marjorie had been accustomed to render some relief to Jim and his wife since the time when reverses had first visited them. Her good nature, as well as her consideration of the long friendship which had existed between the two families, had prompted her to this service. Jim would never be in want through any fault of hers, yet she was discreet enough never to proffer any avowed financial assistance. The mode she employed was that of an occasional visit in which she never failed to bring some choice morsel for the table.

"How's the dad?" asked Jim.

"Extremely well, thank you. He has been talking all day on the failure of the French to take Newport."

"What's that?" asked Jim, thoroughly excited. "Has there been news in town?"

"Haven't you heard? The fleet made an attack."

"Where? What about it?"

"They tried to enter New York to destroy the British, but it was found, I think, that they were too large for the harbor. So they sailed to Newport to attack the garrison there."

"Yeh?"

"General Sullivan operated on the land, and the French troops were about to disembark to assist him. But then Lord Howe arrived with his fleet and Count d'Estaing straightway put out to sea to engage him."

"And thrashed 'm——"

"No," replied Marjorie. "A great storm came up and each had to save himself. From the reports Father gave, General Sullivan has been left alone on the island and may be fortunate if he is enabled to withdraw in safety."

"What ails that Count!" exclaimed Jim thoroughly aroused. "I don't think he's much good."

"Now don't git excited," interrupted Nancy. "That's you all th' time. Just wait a bit."

"Just when we want 'im he leaves us. That's no good."

"Any more news, girl?"

"No. Everything is quiet except for the news we received about the regiment of Catholic volunteers that is being recruited in New York."

"In New York? Clinton is there."

"I know it. This is a British regiment."

"I see. Tryin' t' imitate 'The Congress' Own?"

"So it seems."

"And do they think they will git many Cath'lics, or that there 're enough o' them here?"

"I do not know," answered Marjorie. "But some handbills have appeared in the city which came from New York."

"And they want the Cath'lics? What pay are they goin' t' give?"

"Four pounds."

"That's a lot o' money nowadays."

"That is all I know about it. I can't think what success they will have. We are sure of some loyalists, however."

"I guess I'll hev to git down town t' see what's goin' on. Things were quiet fur so long that I stayed pretty well t' home here. What does yur father think?"

"He is angry, of course. But he has said little."

"I never saw anything like it. What'll come next?"

He folded his arms and crossed his knee.

An hour later she stood at the gate taking her leave of Jim and Nancy at the termination of a short but pleasant visit.

"Keep a stout heart," she was saying to Jim, "for better days are coming."

"I know 't, girl. Washington won't fail."

"He is coming here shortly."

"To Philadelphia?" asked Nancy.

"Yes. So he instructed Captain Meagher."

"I hope he removes Arnold."

"Hardly. He is a sincere friend to him. He wishes to see Congress."

"Has he been summon'd?"

"No! Captain Meagher intimated to me that a letter had been sent to His Excellency from the former chaplain of Congress, the Rev. Mr. Duche, complaining that the most respectable characters had withdrawn and were being succeeded by a great majority of illiberal and violent men. He cited the fact that Maryland had sent the Catholic Charles Carroll of Carrollton instead of the Protestant Tilghman."

"Who is this Duche?"

"I do not know. But he has since fled to the British. He warmly counseled the abandonment of Independence."

"If that's his style, he's no good. Will we see the Gin'ral?"

"Perhaps. Then again he may come and go secretly."

"God help the man," breathed Nancy.



CHAPTER II

I

"Simply a written statement. A public utterance from you denouncing the Catholics would prove of incalculable value to us."

John Anderson had been for an hour or more in the company of the Military Governor. Seemingly great progress had been made in the recruiting of the regiment, much of which had, of necessity, been effected in a secret manner, for now the city was under the domination of the Continental forces. Anderson had made the most of his time and was in a fair way to report progress for the past month.

"Don't be a fool, Anderson. You know that it would be the height of folly for me to make any such statement. I can do no more than I am doing. How many have you?"

"Nearly an hundred."

"There are several miserable Papists in Congress. If they could be prevailed upon to resign, it would create a considerable impression upon the minds of the people."

"I did see Carroll."

"How did he receive you?"

"He replied to me that he had entered zealously into the Revolution to obtain religious as well as civil liberty, and he hoped that God would grant that this religious liberty would be preserved in these states to the end of time."

"Confound him! We cannot reach him, I suppose."

"So it appears. He is intensely patriotic."

"You have an hundred, you say? All common folk, I venture. We should have several influential men."

"But they cannot be reached. I know well the need of a person of influence, which thought urged me to ask such a statement from you."

He looked at him savagely.

"Do you think I'm a fool?"

"'The fool knows more in his own house than a wise man does in another's.' I merely suggest, that is all."

"My answer is,—absolutely, No!"

There was silence.

"I know that Roman Catholic influence is beginning to reveal itself in the army. Washington is well disposed toward them and they are good soldiers. Time was when they were less conspicuous; but nowadays every fool legislature is throwing public offices open to them and soon France will exercise the same control over these states as she now wields across the seas."

"Would you be in league with France?" asked Anderson with a wavering tremor in his voice.

"God knows how I detest it! But I have sworn to defend the cause of my country and I call this shattered limb to witness how well I have spent myself in her behalf. I once entertained the hope that our efforts would be crowned with success, nevertheless I must confess that the more protracted grows the struggle, the more the conviction is forced upon me that our cause is mistaken, if not entirely wrong, and destined to perish miserably. Still, I shall not countenance open rebellion. I could not."

"You will continue to advise me. I am little acquainted with the city, you know, and it would be difficult for me to avoid dangerous risks."

Arnold thought for a minute, his features overcast by a scowl which closed his eyes to the merest chinks.

"I shall do no more than I have already done. I cannot permit myself to be entangled. There is too much at stake."

He was playing a dangerous game, inspirited by no genuine love for country but by feelings of wounded pride. He was urged on, not through any fears of personal safety but through misguided intimidations of a foreign alliance; not because of any genuine desire to aid or abet the cause of the enemy but to cast suspicion upon a certain unit within his own ranks. To be deprived of active duty in the field was to his warm and impulsive nature an ignominious calamity. To learn subsequently of the appointment of Gates to the second in command, the one general whom he despised and hated, was more than his irritable temperament could stand. The American cause now appeared hopeless to him, nevertheless he entertained no thought of deserting it. He had performed his duty in its behalf, as his wounded limb often reminded him, and it was only fitting that he, who alone had destroyed a whole army of the enemy, should be rewarded with due consideration. Congress had ever been unfriendly to him and he had resented their action, or their failure to take proper action, most bitterly. Throughout it all his personal feelings had guided to a large extent his faculty of judgment, and for that reason he viewed with mistrust and suspicion every intent and purpose, however noble or exalted.

He had been violently opposed to the alliance with France from the start. It was notorious that he abhorred Catholics and all things Catholic. To take sides with a Catholic and despotic power which had been a deadly foe to the colonists ten or twenty years before, during the days of the French and Indian wars, was to his mind a measure at once unpatriotic and indiscreet. In this also, he had been actuated by his personal feelings more than by the study of the times. For he loathed Popery and the thousand and one machinations and atrocities which he was accustomed to link with the name.

The idea of forming a regiment of Catholic soldiers interested him not in the numerical strength which might be afforded the enemy but in the defection which would be caused to the American side. His scheme lay in the hope that the Catholic members of Congress would be tempted to resign. In that event he would obtain evident satisfaction not alone in the weakness to which the governing body would be exposed but also in the ill repute to which American Catholics and their protestations of loyalty would fall.

Arnold deep down in his own heart knew that his motives were not unmixed. He could not accuse himself of being outrageously mercenary, yet he was ashamed to be forced to acknowledge even to himself that the desire of gain was present to his mind. His debts were enormous. He entertained in a manner and after a style far in excess of his modest allowance. His dinners were the most sumptuous in the town; his stable the finest; his dress the richest. And no wonder that his play, his table, his balls, his concerts, his banquets had soon exhausted his fortune. Congress owed him money, his speculations proved unfortunate, his privateering ventures met with disaster. With debts accumulating and creditors giving him no peace he turned to the gap which he saw opening before him. This was an opportunity not to be despised.

"About that little matter—how soon might I be favored?" the Governor asked, rising from his chair and limping with his cane across the room.

"You refer to the matter of reimbursements?" Anderson asked nonchalantly.

"I do."

He gazed from the window with his back turned to his visitor.

"I shall draw an order for you at once."

"You shall do nothing of the kind."

He looked fiercely at him.

"You are playing a clever game, are you not? But you have to cope now with a clever adversary."

He walked deliberately before him, and continued:

"Anderson," he said, "I want to tell you I know who you are and for what purpose you have been sent here. I know too by whom you have been sent. I knew it before you were here twenty-four hours and I want to tell you now before we continue that we may as well understand each other in a thorough manner. If you desire my assistance you must pay me well for it. And it must be in legal tender."

"Of course—but—but—the truth is that I am in no way prepared to make any offer now. I can communicate with you in a few days, or a week."

"Don't come here. You must not be seen here again. Send it to me or better still meet me."

"Can you trust the Shippens?"

"Absolutely."

"Why not there?"

"You mean to confer with me there?"

"If it is safe, as you say, where would be more suitable?"

"True. But I must have some money as soon as possible. The nation is bankrupt and my pay is long overdue. I cannot, however, persuade the creditors any longer. I must have money."

"You shall have it. At Shippen's then."

He rose and walked directly to the door.

"Next week."

He shut the door after him and hurried along the corridor. As he turned he came face to face with a countenance entirely familiar to him but momentarily lost to his consciousness by its sudden and unexpected appearance. In a second, however, he had recovered himself.

"Captain! I am pleased indeed."

He put out his hand.

Stephen thought for a moment. Then he grasped it.

"Mr. Anderson. What good fortune is this?"

"Complimentary. Simply paying my respects for kindness rendered."

"Have a care lest your zeal overwhelm you."

Anderson colored at the allusion.

"Thank you. I shall exercise all moderation."

Stephen watched him as he moved away, deliberating hurriedly on the advisability of starting after him. Whatever his mission or his purpose, he would not learn in this house certainly, nor from him nor from Arnold for that matter. If he was intent on securing information concerning this man he must do it in a surreptitious manner. There was no other method of dealing with him, he thought, and in view of such circumstances he deemed it perfectly legitimate to follow him at a safe distance.

The more he thought over it the more readily did he resolve to take action to the end that he might see more of him. Whatever mischief was afoot, and he had no more than a mere suspicion that there was mischief afoot, must reveal itself sooner or later. His object in all probability had already been accomplished, nevertheless his errand, if he was engaged on an errand, might be disclosed. He would follow him if for no other purpose than to learn of his destination.

Second Street was now astir with a lively procession. There, every day when business was over, when the bank was closed, when the exchange was deserted, crowds of seekers came to enjoy the air and to display their rich garments. There might be found the gentlemen of fashion and of means, with their great three-cornered cocked hats, resting majestically upon their profusely powdered hair done up in cues, their light colored coats, with their diminutive capes and long backs, their striped stockings, pointed shoes, and lead-laden cuffs, paying homage to the fair ladies of the town. These, too, were gorgeous in their brocades and taffetas, luxuriantly displayed over cumbrous hoops, tower-built hats, adorned with tall feathers, high wooden heels and fine satin petticoats. It was an imposing picture to behold these gayly dressed damsels gravely return the salutations of their gallant admirers and courtesy almost to the ground before them.

Stephen searched deliberately for his man throughout the length of the crowded thoroughfare, standing the while on the topmost step of the Governor's Mansion—that great old-fashioned structure resembling in many details a fortification, with its two wings like bastions extending to the rear, its spacious yard enclosed with a high wall and ornamented with two great rows of lofty pine trees. It was the most stately house within the confines of the city and, with Christ Church, helped to make Second Street one of the aristocratic thoroughfares of the town.

It was with difficulty that Stephen discerned Anderson walking briskly in the direction of Market Street. He set off immediately, taking care to keep at a safe distance behind him. He met several acquaintances, to whom he doffed his hat and returned their afternoon greeting, while he pursued his quest with lively interest and attention. Market Street was reached, and here he was obliged to pause near a shop window lest he might overtake Anderson, who had halted to exchange pleasantries with a young and attractive couple. On they went again deliberately and persistently until at length it began to dawn upon Stephen that they were headed for the Germantown road, and for Allison's house.

What strange relation was arising between Marjorie and that man? Anderson was paying marked attention to her, he began to muse to himself, too much attention perhaps, for one whose whole existence was clouded with a veil of mystery. Undoubtedly he was meeting with some encouragement, if not reciprocation (perish the thought!), for he was persistent in his attention. Yet this man was not without charm. There was something fascinating about him which even Stephen must confess was compelling. What if she had been captivated by him, by his engaging personal qualities, by his prepossessing appearance, by his habit of gentle speech, by his dignity and his ease of manner! His irritation was justifiable.

There was little doubt now as to Anderson's destination. Plainly he was bent on one purpose. The more he walked, the more evident this became. Stephen would be assured, however, and pursued his way until he had seen with his own eyes his man turn into Allison's house. And not until then did he halt. Turning deliberately he began to retrace his steps.

II

"This looks like the kind of book. Has it the 'Largo'?"

Anderson sat on the music-stool before the clavichord turning over the pages of a volume that rested on the rack.

"Perhaps. I scarce think I know what it is. I have never heard it."

Marjorie was nearby. She had been musing over the keys, letting her fingers wander where they would, when he had called. He would not disturb her for all the world, nevertheless he did yield to her entreaties to take her place on the stool.

"You have never heard Handel? The 'Largo' or the greatest of all oratorios, his 'Messiah'?"

"Never!"

He did not reply to this. Instead he broke into the opening chords, the sweetly solemn, majestic harmony of the 'Largo'. He played it entirely from memory, very slowly, very softly at first, until the measured notes, swelling into volume, filled the room in a loud arpeggio.

"That is beautiful," she exclaimed with enthusiasm, "I should have said 'exquisite'. May I learn it?"

"Surely there must be a copy in the city. I shall consider it a favor to procure one for you."

"I should be delighted, I am sure."

He played it again. She regarded him from above. It was astonishing to note the perfect ease and grace with which he performed. The erect carriage, the fine cut of the head, the delicately carved features became the objects of her attention in their inverse order, and the richly endowed talents, with which he was so signally accomplished, furnished objects of special consideration to her reflective soul. He was exceedingly fascinating and a dangerous object to pit against the heart of any woman. Still Marjorie was shrewd enough to peer beneath his superficial qualities, allowing herself to become absorbed in a penetrating study of the man, his character, his peculiarities;—so absorbed, in fact, that the door behind her opened and closed without attracting her attention.

"I must obtain that copy," she announced as she turned towards her chair.

"Why, Father!" she exclaimed. "When did you come? Mr. Anderson, Father. You already know him."

"Well met, my boy. You are somewhat of a musician. I was listening."

"Just enough for my own amusement," laughed the younger man. "I know a few notes."

"Be not quick to believe him, Father. He plays beautifully."

Mr. Allison sat down.

"Accomplishments are useful ornaments. Nowadays a man succeeds best who can best impress. People want to see one's gifts."

"The greatest of talents often lie buried. Prosperity thrives on pretense."

"True. I'm beginning to think that way myself, the way things 're going."

"With the war?" he asked.

"With everything. I think Congress will fail to realize its boasts, and Arnold is a huge pretender, and——"

"He has lost favor with the people."

"Lost it? He never had it from the day he arrived. People do not like that sort of thing."

Anderson watched him intently and Marjorie watched Anderson.

"He may resign for a command in the army. I have heard it said that he dislikes his office."

"Would to God he did! Or else go over to the other side."

Anderson's head turned—the least little fraction—so that Marjorie could see the flash light up his eyes.

"He could not desert the cause now without becoming a traitor."

A pause followed.

"Men of lofty patriotism often disagree in the manner of political action. We have many Loyalists among us."

"Yet they are not patriots."

"No! They are not, viewed from our standpoint. But every colony has a different motive in the war. Now that some have obtained their rights, they are satisfied with the situation. I don't know but that we would be as well off if the present state of affairs were allowed to stand."

"What do the Catholics of the Colonies think?"

This was a bold question, yet he ventured to ask it.

"We would fare as well with England as with some of our own," answered Marjorie decisively.

Anderson looked at her for a minute.

"Never!" replied Mr. Allison with emphasis.

"See how Canada fared," insisted Marjorie.

"Tush!"

Anderson listened attentively. Here was a division of opinion within the same family; the father intensely loyal, the daughter somewhat inclined to analysis. A new light was thrown upon her from this very instant which afforded him a very evident satisfaction, a very definite and conscious enjoyment as well. To have discovered this mind of apparent candor and unaffected breadth was of supreme import to him at this critical moment. And he felt assured that he had met with a character of more than ordinary self-determination which might, if tuned properly, display a capacity for prodigious possibilities, for in human nature he well knew the chord of self-interest to be ever responsive to adequate and opportune appeal.

Marjorie might unconsciously prove advantageous to him. It was essential for the maturing of his plans to obtain Catholic cooperation. She was a devout adherent and had been, insofar as he had been able to discover, an ardent Whig. True, he had but few occasions to study her, nevertheless today had furnished him with an inkling which gave her greater breadth in his eyes than he was before conscious of. The remark just made might indicate that she favored foreign rule in the interest of religious toleration, yet such a declaration was by no means decisive. Still he would labor to this end in the hope that she might ultimately see her way clear to cooperate with him in his designs.

"We are losing vast numbers through the Alliance," volunteered Anderson.

"I suppose so," admitted Mr. Allison. "Many of the colonists cannot endure the thought of begging assistance from a great Roman Catholic power. They fear, perhaps, that France will use the opportunity to inflict on us the worst form of colonialism and destroy the Protestant religion."

"But it isn't the Protestants who are deserting," persisted Anderson. "The Catholics are not unmindful of the hostile spirit displayed by the colonists in the early days. They, too, are casting different lots."

"Not we. Every one of us is a Whig. Some have faltered, but we do not want them."

"And yet the reports from New York seem to indicate that the recruiting there is meeting with success."

"The Catholic regiment? I'll wager that it never will exist except on paper. There are no Tories, no falterers, no final deserters among the American Catholics."

"What efforts are being made in Philadelphia?" asked Marjorie.

"None—that I know of," was the grave reply. "I did hear, however, that an opportunity would be given those who are desirous of enlisting in New York."

Marjorie sat and watched him.

"I heard Father Farmer was invited to become its chaplain," observed Mr. Allison.

"Did he?"

"He did not. He told me himself that he wrote a kind letter with a stern refusal."

And so they talked; talked into the best part of an hour, now of the city's activities, now of the Governor, now of the success of the campaign, until Anderson felt that he had long overstayed his leave.

"I am sorry to leave your company." Then to Marjorie, "At Shippen's tomorrow?"

"Yes. Will you come for me? If you won't I daresay I shall meet you there."

"Of course I shall come. Please await me."

III

That there was a state of pure sensation and of gay existence for Marjorie in the presence of this man, she knew very well; and while she felt that she did not care for him, nevertheless she was conscious of a certain subtle influence about him which she was powerless to define. It has been said that not all who know their mind know their own heart; for the heart often perceives and reasons in a manner wholly peculiar to itself. Marjorie was aware of this and the utmost effort was required of her to respond solely to the less alluring promptings of her firm will.

She would allow him to see her again that she might learn more about him and his strange origin. Stephen had suggested to her the merest suspicion concerning him. There was the possibility that the germ of this suspicion might develop,—and in her very presence. The contingency was certainly equal to the adventure.

It was not required that she pay a formal call on Peggy. Already had that been done, immediately after the announcement of the engagement, when she had come to offer congratulations to the prospective bride upon her enviable and happy fortune. The note, which again had come into her possession upon Stephen's return of it, whose contents were still unknown to her, she had restored to Peggy, together with a full explanation of its loss and its subsequent discovery. One phase of its history, however, she had purposely overlooked. It might have proved embarrassing for her to relate how it chanced to fall into the hands of Stephen. And inasmuch as he had made no comment upon its return, she was satisfied that the incident was unworthy of the mention.

Anderson called promptly on the hour and found her waiting. They left the house at once and by mutual agreement walked the entire distance. This was preferable, for there was no apparent haste to reach their destination, and for the present no greater desire throbbed within them than the company of their own selves. For they talked continually of themselves and for that reason could never weary of each other's company.

The country about them was superb. The fields stood straight in green and gold on every side of the silvery road. Beside them as they passed, great trees reared themselves aloft from the greensward, which divided the road from the footpath, and rustled in the breeze, allowing the afternoon sunshine to reveal itself in patches and glimpses; and the air between was a sea of subdued light, resonant with the liquid notes of the robin and the whistle of the quail, intruders upon the uniform tranquillity of the hot Sunday afternoon.

"Does it not strike you that there are but few persons with whom it is possible to converse seriously?"

"Seriously?" asked Marjorie. "What do you call seriously?"

"In an intelligent manner, together with perfect ease and attention."

"I suppose that this is true on account of the great want of sincerity among men."

"That, as well as the impatient desire we possess of intruding our own thoughts upon our hearer with little or no desire of listening to those which he himself may want to express."

"We are sincere with no one but ourselves, don't you think? The mere fact of the entrance of a second person means that we must try to impress him. You have said that prosperity thrives on pretense."

"And I repeat it. But with friends all guile and dissimulation ceases. We often praise the merits of our neighbor in the hope that he in turn will praise us. Only a few have the humility and the whole-hearted simplicity to listen well and to answer well. Sincerity to my mind is often a snare to gain the confidence of others."

There was depth to his reasoning, Marjorie thought, which was riddle-like as well. It was amazing to her how well he could talk on any given topic, naturally, easily, seriously, as the case might be. He never seemed to assume the mastery of any conversation, nor to talk with an air of authority on any subject, for he was alive to all topics and entered into them with the same apparent cleverness and animated interest.

He stopped suddenly and exerted a gentle though firm pressure on her arm, obliging her to halt her steps. Surprised, she turned and looked at him.

"What is it?" she asked.

There was no response. Instead, she looked in the direction of his gaze. Then she saw.

A large black snake lay in graceful curves across their path several rods ahead. Its head was somewhat elevated and rigid. Before it fluttered a small chickadee in a sort of strange, though powerless fascination, its wings partly open in a trembling manner, its chirp noisy and incessant, its movement rapid and nervous, as it partly advanced, partly retreated before its enchanter. Nearer and nearer it came, with a great scurrying of the feet and wings, towards the motionless head of the serpent. Until Anderson, picking a stone from the roadside, threw a well-aimed shot which bounded over the head of the snake, causing it to turn immediately and crawl into the recesses of the deep underbrush of the adjoining field. The bird, freed from the source of its sinister charm, flew out of sight into safety.

"Thank God!" Marjorie breathed. "I was greatly frightened."

"Nothing would have saved that bird," was the reply. "It already was powerless."

Marjorie did not answer to this, but became very quiet and pensive. They walked on in silence.

Nearing the home of Peggy, they beheld General Arnold seated before them on the spacious veranda in the company of his betrothed. Here was intrusion with a vengeance, Marjorie thought, but the beaming face and the welcoming expression soon dispelled her fears.

"Miss Shippen," Anderson said, as he advanced immediately toward her to seize her hand, "allow me to offer my tender though tardy congratulations. It was with the greatest joy that I listened to the happy announcement."

"You are most kind, Mr. Anderson, and I thank you for it," was the soft response.

"And you, General," said Marjorie. "Let me congratulate you upon your excellent choice."

"Rather upon my good fortune," the Governor replied with a generous smile.

Peggy blushed at the compliment.

"How long before we may be enabled to offer similar greetings to you?" he asked of Mr. Anderson, who was assisting Marjorie into a chair by the side of Peggy.

"Oh! Love rules his own kingdom and I am an alien."

He drew himself near to the Governor and the conversation turned naturally and generally to the delicious evening. The very atmosphere thrilled with romance.



CHAPTER III

I

Stephen was sitting in his room, his feet crossed on a foot-rest before him, his eyes gazing into the side street that opened full before his window. He had been reading a number of dispatches and letters piled in a small heap in his lap; but little by little had laid them down again to allow his mind to run into reflection and study. And so he sat and smoked.

It seemed incredible that events of prime importance were transpiring in the city and that the crisis was so soon upon him. For nearly three months he had been accumulating, methodically and deliberately, a chain of incriminating evidence around the Military Governor and John Anderson, still he was utterly unaware of its amazing scope and magnitude. Perfidy was at work all around him and he was powerless to interfere; for the intrigue had yet to reach that point where conviction could be assured. Nevertheless, he continued to advance step by step with the events, and sensed keenly the while, the tension which was beginning to exist but which he could not very well point out.

He had kept himself fully informed of the progress of affairs in New York, where the recruiting was being accomplished in an undisguised manner. The real facts, however, were being adroitly concealed from the bulk of the populace. Information of a surprising nature had been forwarded to him from time to time in the form of dispatches and letters, all of which now lay before him, while a certain Sergeant Griffin had already been detailed by him to carry out the more hazardous work of espionage in the city of the enemy. The latter was in a fair way to report now on the progress of the work and had returned to Philadelphia for this very purpose.

Irish Catholics had been found in the British Army at New York, but they had been impressed into the service. Sergeant Griffin had spoken to many deserters who avowed that they had been brought to the colonies against their own will, declaring that they had been "compelled to go on board the transports where they were chained down to the ring-bolts and fed with bread and water; several of whom suffered this torture before they could be made to yield and sign the papers of enlistment." In confirmation of this declaration, he had in his lap a letter written to General Washington by Arthur Lee, June 15, 1777, which read: "Every man of a regiment raised in Ireland last year had to be shipped off tied and bound, and most certainly they will desert more than any troops whatsoever." To corroborate this claim he had obtained several clippings, advertisements that had appeared in the New York newspapers, offering rewards for the apprehension of Irish soldiers who had deserted to the rebels.

The same methods he learned were now being employed in the recruiting of the Catholic regiment. Blackmail had been resorted to with splendid results. In several instances enormous debts had been liquidated in favor of the recruits. Even commissions in the army of His Majesty had been offered as a bounty. There was success, if the few hundred faces in the ranks could be reckoned as a fair catch, yet the methods of recruiting did not begin to justify the fewness of the numbers.

Just how this idea had taken root, he was at a loss to discover. Certainly not from the disloyalty manifested by the Catholic population during the war. The exploits of the famous "Congress' Own" Regiments might, he thought, have contributed much to the enemy's scheme. It was commonly known that two regiments of Catholics from Canada, raised in that northern province during the winter of 1775-76, had done valiant service against the British. A great number of the Canadian population had welcomed the patriots under Generals Schuyler, Montgomery and Arnold upon their attempted invasion of the country, and had given much assistance towards the success of their operations. Inasmuch as many had sought enlistment in the ranks as volunteers, an opportunity was furnished them by an act of Congress on January 20, 1776, authorizing the formation of two Canadian regiments of soldiers to be known as "Congress' Own." The First was organized by Colonel James Livingston; the Second by Colonel Moses Hazen. Both of these regiments continued in active service for the duration of the war, and both obtained a vote of thanks from the American Congress upon its termination.

Herein, then, must lay the germ of the project of the British Regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers.

He sat and considered.

"You tell me, then," he said quietly, "that this is the state of affairs in New York."

"Yes, sir," replied the soldier.

There was a further silence.

II

The progress of the work in the city of Philadelphia had been less evident to him. Certain it was that Anderson was directing his undivided attention to the furtherance of the plan, for which task he had been admirably endowed by Nature. That Arnold, too, was greatly interested in the success of the plot, he already suspected, but in this he had no more than a suspicion, for he could not discover the least incriminating objective evidence against him. There were several whose names had been associated with the work; yet these, too, had revealed nothing, when confronted with a direct question. And whatever influence he might have had, whatever lurking suspicions he might have accumulated from the contributory details, these when simmered down amounted to little or nothing. The plan had not progressed to the extent required. There was nothing to do but to await further developments.

This man Anderson was ingenuous. The most striking characteristic about him, that towards which and in support of which every energy and every talent had been schooled and bent, was an intrepid courage. A vast and complicated scheme of ambition possessed his whole soul, yet his disposition and address generally appeared soft and humane, especially when no political object was at stake.

During the four or five months spent in the city, he had made a host of friends among all classes of people. His agreeable manner and his fluency of speech at once gained for him the confidence even of the most phlegmatic. No man was endowed with more engaging qualities for the work, if it may be assumed that he was engaged solely in the recruiting of a Tory Regiment from among the supporters of the Whigs. Everything seemed to declare that he was associated with the work. And because he was associated with it, it progressed.

The names of several who had yielded allegiance to the opposite side were in the hands of Stephen. The Major of the new regiment was a Catholic, John Lynch. So were Lieutenant Eck, Lieutenant Kane, and Quartermaster Nowland. These were at present in New York, whither they had journeyed soon after the British occupation of the city. Of the hundred-odd volunteers, who were supposed to constitute the company, little could be learned because of the veil of secrecy which had from the very beginning enshrouded the whole movement.

Pressure had been brought to bear on several, it was discovered, with the result that there was no alternative left them but to sign the papers of enlistment. In this Anderson had been materially aided by the Military Governor's intimate knowledge of the fortunes and prospects of the bulk of the citizenry. To imply this, however, was one thing; to prove it quite another. For whatever strength the accusation might bear in his own mind, he could not forget that it was still a mere suspicion, which must be endorsed by investigation if the people were to be convinced. And Stephen was unprepared to offer the results of his investigation to a populace which was too indolent and hasty to investigate them as facts and to discriminate nicely between the shades of guilt. Anderson was loved and admired by his countrymen and more especially by his countrywomen. Everything, it seemed, would be forgiven his youth, rank and genius.

Even Marjorie had been captivated by him, it appeared. The relationship which was beginning to thrive between them he disliked, and some day he would make that known to her. How attentive he had been to her was easily recognizable, but to what degree she returned this attention was another matter. What she thought of this stranger and to what extent he had impressed her, he longed to know, for it was weeks since he had laid eyes on her; and the last two attempts made by him to see her had found her in the company of Anderson, once at Shippen's, and again on a ride through the country. True, he himself had been absent from town for a brief time, immediately after his court-martial, when he returned to headquarters to file a report with his Commander-in-chief, and the few moments spent with her upon his return was the last visit. Undoubtedly he was a stranger to her now; she was absorbed with the other man.

Still Stephen wished that he might see her. An insatiable longing filled his whole soul, like the eternal cravings of the heart for communion with the Infinite. There was certain situations where a man or woman must confide in some person to obtain advice or sympathy, or simply to unload the soul, and there was no one more becoming to Stephen than this girl. She understood him and could alleviate by her sole presence, not through any gift properly made, but by that which radiated from her alone, the great weight which threatened to overwhelm his whole being. Simply to converse with her might constitute the prophecy of a benign existence.

He determined to see her that very evening.

III

"Marjorie," said Stephen, "of course you've a perfect right to do exactly as you like. But, you know, you did ask my opinion; didn't you?"

"I did," said Marjorie, frowning. "But I disagree with you. And I think you do him a grave injustice."

She had been seated in a large comfortable chair in the middle of the side yard when he entered. A ball of black yarn which, with the aid of two great needles, she was industriously engaged in converting into an article of wearing apparel, lay by her side. Indeed, so engrossed was she, that he had opened and closed the gate before her attention was aroused. She rose immediately, laying her knitting upon the chair, and advanced to meet him.

"I haven't seen you in ages. Where have you been?"

He looked at her.

"Rather let me ask that question," was his query by way of reply. "Already twice have I failed to find you."

They walked together to the chairs; she to her own, he to a smaller one that stood over against them.

"That you called once, I know. Mother informed me."

"You were similarly engaged on both occasions."

He brought his chair near to her.

"With Mr. Anderson?"

She smiled straight in his face.

"Of course."

He, too, smiled.

"Well!" then after a pause, "do you object?"

He did not answer. His fingers drummed nervously on the arm of his chair and he looked far up the road.

"You do not like him?" she asked quickly.

"It would be impossible for me to now tell you. As a matter of fact, I myself have been unable to form a definite opinion. I may let you know later. Not now."

A deep sigh escaped her.

"I should imagine you could read a man at first sight," she exclaimed.

"I never allowed myself that presumption. Men are best discovered at intervals. They are most natural when off their guard. Habit may restrain vice, and passion obscures virtue. I prefer to let them alone."

She bit her lip, as her manner was, and continued to observe him. How serious he was! The buoyant, tender, blithesome disposition which characterized his former self, had yielded to a temper of saturnine complexion, a mien of grave and thoughtful composure. He was analytic and she began to feel herself a simple compound in the hands of an expert chemist.

"I am sorry to have caused you a disappointment."

"Please, let me assure you there is no need of an apology."

"And you were not disappointed?"

A smile began to play about the corners of her small mouth. She tried to be humorous.

"Perhaps. But not to the extent of requiring an apology."

"You might have joined us."

"You know better than that."

"I mean it. Peggy would have been pleased to have you."

"Did she say so?"

"No. But I know that she would."

"Alas!" He raised his arm in a slight gesture.

She was knitting now, talking as she did. She paused to raise her eyes.

"I think you dislike Peggy," she said with evident emphasis.

"Why?"

"I scarce know. My instinct, I suppose."

"I distrust her, if that is what you mean?"

"Have you had reason?"

"I cannot answer you now, for which I am very sorry. You will find my reasoning correct at some future time, I hope."

"Do you approve of my friendship with her?"

She did not raise her eyes this time, but allowed them to remain fixed upon the needles.

"It is not mine to decide. You are mistress of your own destinies."

Her face grew a shade paler, and the look in her eyes deepened.

"I simply asked your advice, that was all."

The words hit so hard that he drew his breath. He realized that he had been brusque and through his soul there poured a kind of anger first, then wounded pride, then a sense of crushing pain.

"I regret having said that," he tried to explain to her. "But I cannot tell you what is in my mind. Since you do ask me, I fear Peggy greatly, but I would not say that your friendship with her should cease. Not at present, anyhow."

"Well, did you approve of my going there with Mr. Anderson?"

"With him? No."

"Can you tell me the reason?"

And then he explained briefly to her of his reasons for disliking this man and of the veil of suspicion and of mystery with which he was surrounded. He did not think him a suitable companion for her, and wished for her own good that she would see no more of him.

There was no reply to his observations. On the contrary Marjorie lapsed into a meditative silence which seemed to grow deeper and deeper as the moments passed. Stephen watched her until the suspense became almost beyond endurance, wondering what thoughts were coursing through her mind.

At length he broke the silence with the words recorded at the beginning of the chapter; and Marjorie answered him quietly and deliberately.

She continued with her knitting.

IV

A great melancholy fell upon him, if it were indeed possible for him to become more dispirited, against which he was powerless to contend. There was revealed to him on the instant a seeming predilection on the part of Marjorie for this man, Anderson. The longer they conversed, the deeper did that conviction grow. This made him careless and petulant. Now a feeling of deep regret stole over him because he had been so unsympathetic. In presence of her feeling of grief and disappointment, his pity was aroused.

"I deeply regret the pain I have caused you," he said to her quietly and kindly. "It was altogether rude of me."

She bit her lip violently, tremulously, in an effort to restrain the flood of emotion which surged within, which threatened to burst forth with the pronunciation of the merest syllable.

She did not reply, but fumbled with the knitted portion of her garment, running its edges through her fingers.

"I had no intention of speaking of him as I did," he went on. "I would not, did you not ask me."

"I am not offended."

"Your composure reveals to me that you have been hurt."

"I did not mean that you should know it."

"Very likely. But you could not disguise the fact. I shall give you the assurance, however, that the subject shall not be a topic for discussion by us again. He must not be mentioned."

"Please! I—I——"

"It was solely for yourself that I was concerned. Believe me when I say this. Insofar as I myself am concerned, I am wholly disinterested. I thought you desired to know and I told you as much as it was possible for me to tell. You must ask me no more."

"He has not revealed this side of his character to me and I have been in his company on several occasions. Always has he been kind, gentlemanly, sincere, upright."

Her eyes were centered full upon him, those large brown eyes that seemed to contain her whole being. Whether she was gay or sad, jocose or sober, enthusiastic or despondent, the nature of her feelings could be communicated solely by her eyes. She need not speak; they spoke for her.

"You are right in believing every man virtuous until he has proved himself otherwise," he replied. "There should be one weight and one measure. But I regulate my intercourse with men by the opposite standard. I distrust every man until he has proved himself worthy, and it was that principle which guided me, undoubtedly, in my application of it to you."

"Do you consider that upright?"

"Do not misunderstand me. I do not form a rash judgment of every person I meet. As a matter of fact I arrive at no judgment at all. I defer judgment until after the investigation, and I beware of him until this investigation has been completed."

"You are then obliged to live in a world of suspicion."

"No. Rather in a world of security. How often has the knave paraded under the banner of innocence! The greatest thieves wear golden chains."

"I could not live after such manner."

She became impatient.

"Were you thrown into daily relation with the world you would soon learn the art of discrimination. The trusty sentinel lives a life of suspicion."

At length a truce was silently proclaimed. Composure reigned. The unpleasant episode had to all appearances been obliterated from their minds. There was even a touch of that old humor dancing in her eyes.

"Some one has said," she observed, "that 'suspicion is the poison of friendship.'"

"And a Latin proverb runs, 'Be on such terms with your friend as if you knew he may one day become your enemy.' Friendship, I realize, is precious and gained only after long days of probation. The tough fibers of the heart constitute its essence, not the soft texture of favors and dreams. We do not possess the friends we imagine, for the world is self-centered."

"Have you no friends?"

Now she smiled for the second time, but it was only a smile of humor about the corners of her mouth.

"Only those before whom I may be sincere."

He was serious, inclined to analysis, one might say.

"Can you expect to find sincerity in others without yourself being sincere?"

"No. But my friend possesses my other soul. I think aloud before him. It does not matter. I reveal my heart to him, share my joys, unburden my grief. There is a simplicity and a wholesomeness about it all. We are mutually sincere."

"Your test is severe."

"But its fruits imperishable."

"I cannot adopt your method," was the deliberate reply as she began to gather together her ball and needles.

"Let's leave it at that."

And they left it.

V

Long after he had gone she sat there until it was well into the evening, until the stars began to blink and nod and wrap themselves in the great cloak of the night, as they kept a silent vigil over the subdued silence which had settled down upon the vast earth and herself.

The longer she sat and considered, the more melancholy did she become. Stephen was displeased with her conduct and made no effort to conceal it, inflicting only the greater wound by his ambiguous and incisive remarks. His apparent unconcern and indifference of manner frightened her, and she saw, or she thought she saw a sudden deprivation of that esteem with which she was vain enough to presuppose he was wont to regard her. And yet he was mistaken, greatly mistaken. Furthermore, he was unfair to himself and unjust to her in the misinterpretation of her behavior. His displeasure pained her beyond endurance.

In her relations with John Anderson, she had been genuinely sincere both with herself and with Stephen. The latter had asked her to help him; and this she was trying to do in her own way. That there was something suspicious about Anderson, she knew; but whether the cause lay in his manner of action or in the possession of documentary evidence, she could not so much as conjecture. What more apt method could be employed than to associate with him in the hope that at some time or other important information might be imparted to her? She did not intend to play the part of the spy; still if that was the role in which she hoped to find Anderson, she was ready to assume a similar role for the very purpose of outwitting him and defeating him on his own ground. If Stephen would only trust her. Oh, dear! And she wrung her hands in abject despair.

Little by little her experiences of the summer just past came before her with a vividness which her experience with Stephen served only to intensify. First, there was the night of the Governor's Ball. He had come into her life there, filling a vacancy not realized before. Hitherto, she had been quite content in the company of almost any one, and especially with those of the sterner sex. But with the advent of this dashing young officer she began to experience a set of new sensations. The incompleteness of her life was brought before her.

He seemed to perfect her being, sharing her pleasures, lessening her woes, consoling her heart. Still, there was one office that he had failed to perform; he was not obsequious. Not that he was ever wanting in attention and deferential courtesy, or that he ever failed to betray a warmth of feeling or a generous devotion; but his manner was prosaic, thoroughly practical both in action and in expression. He spoke his thoughts directly and forcibly. He was never enthusiastic, never demonstrative, never warm or impulsive, but definite, well-ordered, positive. It was quite true that he was capable of bestowing service to the point of heroism when the occasion required, but such a quality was not spontaneous, because his heart, while intensely sympathetic, appeared cold and absolutely opposed to any sort of outburst. He was too prudent, too wise, too thoughtful, it seemed, acting only when sure of his ground, turning aside from all obstacles liable to irritate or confuse him.

Then John Anderson came and initiated her into a newer world. He appeared to worship her, and tried to make her feel his devotion in his every act. He was gallant, dignified, charming, lavishing attention upon her to the point of prodigality. He said things which were pleasant to hear, and equally as pleasant to remember. What girl would not be attracted by such engaging personal qualities; but Marjorie decided that he was too much of the Prince Charming whose gentle arts proved to be his sole weapons for the major encounters of life.

Hence she was not fascinated by his soft accomplishments. He interested her, but she readily perceived that there was not in him that real depth which she had found in Stephen. True, he made her feel more like a superior being than as a mere equal; he yielded ever to her slightest whim, and did not discomfort her with weighty arguments. But her acumen was such that she was enabled to penetrate the gloss and appraise the man at his true value. The years spent at her mother's knee, the numberless hours in her father's shop where she came in contact with many men, her own temperament, prudent by nature, enabled her to perceive at a glance the contrast between a man of great and noble heart clothed in severe garments, and the charlatan garbed in the bright finery of festal dress.

And now the boomerang against which she was defending herself struck her from a most unexpected angle. That Stephen should misunderstand her motives was preposterous; yet there was no other inference to be drawn from the tone of his conversation during the few distressful minutes of his last visit. In all probability, he had gone away laboring under the hateful impression that she was untrue, that she had permitted her heart to be taken captive by the first knight errant who had entered the lists. And what was more, the subject would never again be alluded to. He had promised that; and she knew that he was absolute in his determinations. His groundless displeasure disconcerted her greatly.

Whether it became her to take the initiative in the healing of the breach which she felt growing wide between them, or simply to await the development of the course of action she had chosen to pursue, now became a problem to her perplexed mind. So much depended upon the view he would take of the whole situation that it was necessary for him to understand from the very beginning. She would write him. But, no! That might be premature. She would wait and tell him, so great was her assurance that all would be well. She would tell him of her great and impassionate desire to be of assistance to him; she would put into words her analysis of this man's character, this man about whom he himself had first cast the veil of suspicion; she would relate her experience with him. She smiled to herself as she contemplated how pleased he would be once the frown of bewilderment had disappeared from his countenance.

"Marjorie! Dost know the hour is late?"

"Yes, Mother! I am coming directly."

It was late, though she scarce knew it. Gathering her things, she brought the chairs into the house.



CHAPTER IV

I

Week after week sped by, summer ripened into fall, and fall faded into winter. All was monotony: the bleak winter season, the shorter days, the longer evenings, the city settling down into a period of seclusion and social inaction. There would be little of gayety this year. No foreign visitors would be entertained by the townsfolk. There would be no Mischienza to look forward to. It would be a lonely winter for the fashionable element, with no solemn functions, with no weekly dancing assemblies, with no amateur theatricals to rehearse. Indeed were it not for the approaching marriage of Peggy Shippen to the Military Governor, Philadelphia would languish for want of zest and excitement.

The wedding took place at the home of the bride on Fourth Street. The elite of the city, for the most part Tories, were in attendance. Mrs. Anne Willing Morris, Mrs. Bingham—all the leaders were there. So were Marjorie, John Anderson, Stephen, the Chews and Miss Franks from New York. The reception was brilliant, eclipsing anything of its kind in the history of the social life of the city, for Mrs. Shippen had vowed that the affair would establish her definitely and for all time the leader of the fashionable set of the town.

The center of attraction was of course Peggy; and she carried herself well, enduring the trying ordeal with grace and composure. And if one were to judge by the number and the quality of the gifts which loaded down one whole room, or by the throng which filled the house to overflowing, or by the motley crowd which surged without, impatient for one last look at the bride as she stepped into the splendid coach, a more popular couple was never united in matrimony. It was a great day for all concerned, and none was more happy nor more radiant than Peggy as she sat back in the coach and looked into the face of her husband and sighed with that contentment and complacency which one experiences in the possession of a priceless gem.

Their homecoming, after the brief honeymoon, was delightful. No longer would they live in the great slate roof house on Second Street at the corner of Norris Alley, but in the more elegant old country seat in Fairmount, on the Schuylkill,—Mount Pleasant. Since Arnold had purchased this great estate and settled it immediately upon his bride, subject of course to the mortgage, its furnishings and its appointments were of her own choice and taste.

It rose majestically before them on a bluff overlooking the river, a courtly pile of colonial Georgian architecture whose balustraded and hipped roof seemed to rear itself above the neighboring woodland, so as to command a magnificent broad view of the Schuylkill River and valley for miles around.

"There! See, General! Isn't it heavenly?"

She could not conceal her joy. Arnold looked and smiled graciously with evident satisfaction at the quiet homelike aspect of the place.

Peggy was on the stone landing almost as soon as she emerged from the coach,—eager to peep inside, anxious to sit at last in her own home. Although she had already seen all that there was to see, and had spent many days previous to the marriage in arranging and planning the interior so as to have all in readiness for their return on this day, still she seemed to manifest a newer and a livelier joy, so pleasant and so perfect did all appeal.

"Oh, General! Isn't this just delicious?" And she threw her arms around his neck to give him a generous hug.

"Are you happy now?" he questioned.

"Perfectly. Come let us sit and enjoy it."

She went to the big chair and began to rock energetically; but only for a minute, for she spied in the corner of the room the great sofa, and with a sudden movement threw herself on that. She was like a small boy with a host of toys about him, anxious to play with all at the same time, and trying to give to each the same undivided attention. The massive candelabra on the table attracted her, so she turned her attention to that, fixing one of its candles as she neared it. Finally, a small water color of her father, which hung on the wall a little to one side, appealed to her as needing adjustment. She paused to regard the profile as she straightened it.

The General observed her from the large chair into which he had flung himself to rest after the journey, following her with his eyes as she flitted about the great drawing-room. For the moment there was no object in that space to determine the angle of his vision, save Peggy, no other objective reality to convey any trace of an image to his imagination but that of his wife. She was the center, the sum-total of all his thoughts, the vivid and appreciable good that regulated his emotions, that controlled his impulses. And the confident assurance that she was happy, reflected from her very countenance, emphasized by her every gesture as she hurried here and there about the room in joyous contemplation of the divers objects that delighted her fancy, reanimated him with a rapture of ecstasy which he thought for the moment impossible to corporeal beings. The mere pleasure of beholding her supremely happy was for him a source of whole-souled bliss, illimitable and ineffable.

"Would you care to dine now?" she asked of him as she approached his chair and leaned for support on its arms. "I'll ask Cynthia to make ready."

"Yes, if you will. That last stage of the trip was exhausting."

And so these two with all the world in their possession, in each other's company, partook of their first meal together in their own dining-room, in their own private home.

II

"'Thou hast it now,—king, Cawdor, Glamis, all——'" remarked Arnold to his wife as they made their way from the dining-room into the spacious hallway that ran through the house.

"Yet it was not foully played," replied Peggy. "The tourney was fair."

"I had thought of losing you."

"Did you but read my heart aright at our first meeting, you might have consoled yourself otherwise."

"It was the fear of my letter; the apprehension of its producing a contrary effect that furnished my misgiving. I trembled over the consent of your parents."

"Dost know, too, that my mother favored the match from the start? In truth she gave me every encouragement, perhaps awakened my soul to the flame."

"No matter. We are in the morning of our bliss; its sun is about to remain fixed. Wish for a cloudless sky."

They were now in the great drawing-room which ran the full depth of the building, with windows looking both east and west. In the middle of the great side wall lodged a full-throated fireplace above which rose imposingly an elaborately wrought overmantel, whose central panel was devoid of any ornamentation. The door frames with their heavily molded pediments, the cornices, pilasters, doortrims and woodwork rich in elaboration of detail were all distinctive Georgian, tempered, however, with much dignified restraint and consummate good taste.

"We can thank the privateer for this. Still it was a fair profit and wisely expended, wiser to my mind than the methods of Robert Morris. At any rate it is the more satisfactory."

"He has made excellent profits."

"Nevertheless, he has lost as many as an hundred and fifty vessels. These have affected his earnings greatly. Were he not so generous to an ungrateful people, a great part of his loss might now have been retrieved."

"I have heard it said, too, that he alone has provided the sinews of the revolt," said Peggy.

"Unquestionably. On one occasion, at a time of great want, I remember one of his vessels arrived with a cargo of stores and clothing, whose whole contents were given to Washington without any remuneration whatsoever. And you, yourself, remember that during the winter at Valley Forge, just about the time Howe was evacuating the city, when there were no cartridges in the army but those in the men's boxes, it was he who rose to the emergency by giving all the lead ballast of his favorite privateer. He has made money, but he has lost a vast amount. I made money, too, just before I bought this house. And I have lost money."

"And have been cheated of more."

"Yes. Cheated. More generosity from my people! I paid the sailors their share of the prize money of the British sloop that they as members of the crew had captured, that is, with the help of two other privateers which came to their assistance. The court allowed the claims of the rival vessels but denied mine. I had counted upon that money but found myself suddenly deprived of it. Now they are charging me with having illegally bought up the lawsuit."