"ANDERSON."

II

"It is either Westminster Abbey for me or the gallows," he remarked to his wife that evening when they were quite alone.

"You have no apprehensions, I hope."

"There's many a slip——" he quoted.

"Come! Be an optimist. You have set your heart on it. So be brave."

"I have never lacked courage. At Saratoga while that scapegoat Gates sulked in his tent, I burst from the camp on my big brown horse and rode like a madman to the head of Larned's brigade, my old command, and we took the hill. Fear? I never knew what the word meant. Dashing back to the center, I galloped up and down before the line. We charged twice, and the enemy broke and fled. Then I turned to the left and ordered West and Livingston with Morgan's corps to make a general assault along the line. Here we took the key to the enemy's position and there was nothing for them to do but to retreat. At the same instant one bullet killed my good brown horse under me and another entered my leg. But the battle had been won."

"Never mind, my dear, the world yet lies before you."

"I won the war for them, damn 'em, in a single battle, and single-handed. Lord North knew it. The Rockingham Whigs, with Burke as their leader, knew it and were ready to concede independence, having been convinced that conciliation was no longer practicable or possible. Richmond urged the impossibility of final conquest, and even Gibbon agreed that the American colonies had been lost. I accomplished all that, I tell you, and I received—what?—a dead horse and a wounded leg."

There was a flash of the old-time general, but only a flash. It was evident that he was tiring easily. His old-time stamina had abandoned him.

"Why do you so excite yourself?" Peggy cautioned him. "The veins are bulging out on your forehead."

"When I think of it, it galls me. But I shall have my revenge," he gloated maliciously. "Clinton is going to attack Washington as soon as I have taken over my command. I shall outrival Albemarle yet."

"We may as well prepare to leave, then."

"There is no need of your immediate departure. You are not supposed to be acquainted with my designs. You must remain here. Later you can join me."

"But you are going at once?"

"Yes, I shall leave very soon now. Let me see." He paused to think. "It is over a week now since I was appointed. The appointment was to take effect immediately. I should report for duty at once."

"And I shall meet you——"

"In New York, very probably. It is too early yet to arrange for that. You will know where I am stationed and can remain here until I send for you."

While they were still engaged in conversation, a sound became very audible as of a horseman ascending the driveway. A summons at the door announced a courier from the Commander-in-chief to Major General Arnold. The latter presented himself and received a packet on which had been stamped the seal of official business. He took the document and withdrew.

It proved to be an order from His Excellency transferring the command of Major General Arnold on account of physical disability, which would not permit of service in the field, from the right wing of the American Army to Commander of the fortress at West Point. He was ordered to report for duty as soon as circumstances would permit and was again assured of His Excellency's highest respect and good wishes.

He handed the letter to Peggy without a word. He sat in deep meditation while she hastily scanned the contents.

"Tricked again," was her sole comment.

He did not answer.

"This looks suspicious. Do you think he knows?"

"No one knows."

"What will you do now? This upsets all your plans."

"I do not know. I shall accept, of course. Later, not now, we can decide."

"This means that I am going too."

"I suppose so. I shall have my headquarters there, and while they may not be as commodious as Mount Pleasant, still I would rather have you with me. We shall arrange for our departure accordingly."

"You will, of course, inform Anderson of the change?"

"He will hear of it. The news of the appointment will travel fast enough you may be sure. Very likely Knyphausen will now be recalled from New Jersey."

"So perishes your dream of a duchy!" she exclaimed.

"No. West Point is the most important post on the American side. It is the connecting link between New England and the rest of the colonies. It was the prize which Johnny Burgoyne was prevented from obtaining by me. It commands the Hudson River and opens the way to upper New York and Canada. It is the most strategic position in America, stored with immense quantities of ammunition and believed to be impregnable. Without doubt it is the most critical point in the American line."

"Bah! You need an army. Albemarle had an army. Marlborough had an army. Of what use is a fortress with a large force still in the field? It's the army that counts, I tell you. Territory, forts, cities mean nothing. It's the size of the army that wins the war."

"I know it, but what can I do?"

He conceded the point.

"Insist on your former post," she advised.

He thought awhile and began to whistle softly to himself as he tapped his finger tips one against the other.

"Listen," she continued. "There is some reason for this transfer at the eleventh hour. Are you dense enough not to see it? Some one has reached Washington's ear and whispered a secret. Else that order would never have been written."

"Washington believes only what is true. Always has he trusted and defended me from the vilifications of my enemies, knowing that these reports only emanated from jealous and unscrupulous hearts. My leg has caused this change of command; I know it."

She looked at him in scorn. She could not believe he could be so simple.

"Your leg! What has your leg to do with it? Once you are astride your horse you are safe. And don't you think for one minute that Clinton is a fool. He does not want you. I dare say if the truth were known, he has no respect for you either. It is your command which is of value to him, and the more authority you can master, the more valuable you become. Then you can dictate your own terms instead of bargaining them away."

"It would realize nothing to attempt a protest. A soldier asks no questions. Whatever I may be, I am still a soldier."

"As you will."

She shrugged her shoulders, and folded her arms.

"West Point it is," she observed, "but General Clinton may reconsider his proposition. I would not be too sure."

"I am sure he will be satisfied with West Point. With that post he might easily end the war. Anderson will write me soon again. I tell you I can dictate to them now. You shall have your peerage after all."

"I am not so sure."

"Have it your own way. I know what I am about and I know where I stand. At first it was a question only of my personal desertion. The betrayal of an army was a later development. But I could not become a deserter on a small scale. I have been accustomed all my life to playing signal roles. If I am to sell myself at all, it shall be at the highest price together with the greatest prize. I have only one regret, and that is that I am obliged to take advantage of the confidence and respect of Washington to render this at all possible."

"Don't let your heart become softened by tender condolences at this stage. Your mind has been set; don't swerve."

He looked at her and wondered how she could remain so imperturbable. Ordinarily she burned with compassion at the sight of misery and affliction. He could not understand for the life of him, how stoically she maintained her composure throughout this ordeal. Plainly her heart was set on one ambition. She would be a duchess.

But she did not know that he had maintained a continual correspondence with Sir Henry Clinton, or that West Point had long since been decided upon, as a possible contingency. Much she did know, but most of the details had been concealed from her. Not that he did not trust her, but he wished her to be no party to his nefarious work.

And so he was not surprised that she expressed a genuine disappointment over his change of command. In fact he had been prepared for a more manifest display of disapproval. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was at length to accompany him which caused her to be more benign in her appreciation of the transfer. For he knew that she detested the city and longed for the day when she might be far removed from it forever.

"You will, of course, make ready to leave Mount Pleasant?" he asked of her.

"Assuredly. I shall acquaint mother and father with the prospect this evening. They do not want me to leave. But I am determined."

"They should be here. It is not early."

"The ride is long. They will come."

III

The last night spent by the Arnolds and the Shippen family at Mount Pleasant was a happy one. The entire family was in attendance and the Arnold silver was lavishly displayed for the occasion. American viands cooked and served in the prevailing American fashion were offered at table—hearty, simple food in great plenty washed down by quantities of Madeira and sherry and other imported beverages.

Toasts and healths were freely drunk. After the more customary ones to the "Success of the War," to the "Success of General Washington," to the "Nation" there came the usual healths to the host and the hostess, and more especially to the "Appointment of General Arnold." The ceremonies were interspersed with serious and animated conversation on the political situation and the chances of the army in the field. Throughout the entire meal a marked simplicity, a purity of manner, and frank cordiality was manifest, all indicative of the charming and unaffected homelife of the Americans.

"Miss Franks would have been pleased to be with us," announced the General as the company awaited another service.

"Could you believe it, General," said Mrs. Shippen, "not once have we heard from that girl since she moved to New York," and she set her lips firmly. "That is so unlike her; I cannot understand it."

"But you know, Mother," explained Peggy, "that the mail cannot be depended upon."

"I know, my dear, but I think that she could send a line, if it were only a line, by messenger if she thought enough of us. You know it was at our house that she met the friends with whom she is now engaged."

"Our mail system is deplorable," Mr. Shippen remarked. "Only yesterday I received a letter which apparently had been sent months ago."

"I can understand that very readily," Arnold rejoined. "Often letters are entrusted to travelers. At times these men deposit a letter at some inn at the cross-roads for the next traveler who is bound for the same place as the epistle. It often happens that such a missive remains for months upon a mantelpiece awaiting a favorable opportunity. Then again sheer neglect may be responsible for an unusual delay. I myself have experience of that."

This explanation seemed to satisfy Mrs. Shippen for she dropped the subject immediately. The mode of travel then occasioned a critical comment from her until she finally asked when they intended to leave for West Point.

"Very likely I shall leave before the week is out," replied Arnold. "It is most important that I assume command at once. We shall prepare to depart tomorrow."

They talked far into the night, the men smoking while the ladies retired to the great drawing-room. Peggy played and sang, and took her mother aside at intervals for conference upon little matters which required advice. At a late hour, after taking affectionate leaves, the families parted. Peggy and her husband now abandoned themselves to their destiny—to glorious triumph or to utter ruin.

They closed the door upon their kinsfolk and faced the situation. Westminster Abbey or the gallows loomed before them.

IV

Late that same evening, alone before his desk, General Arnold penned the following ambiguous letter to John Anderson. West Point it was. That was settled. Still it was necessary that General Clinton be appraised immediately of the change of command together with some inkling of the military value of the new post. The business was such that he dared not employ his true name; and so he assumed a title, referring to himself throughout the note in the third person. The meaning of the message, he knew, would be readily interpreted.

Sir:—On the 24th of last month I received a note from you without date, in answer to mine; also a letter from your house in answer to mine, with a note from B. of the 30th of June, with an extract of a letter from Mr. J. Osborn. I have paid particular attention to the contents of the several letters. Had they arrived earlier, you should have had my answer sooner. A variety of circumstances has prevented my writing you before. I expect to do it very fully in a few days, and to procure you an interview with Mr. M—e, when you will be able to settle your commercial plan, I hope, in a manner agreeable to all parties. Mr. M—e assures me that he is still of opinion that his first proposal is by no means unreasonable, and makes no doubt, that, when he has a conference with you, you will close with it. He expects when you meet you will be fully authorized from your House and that the risks and profits of the co-partnership may be fully and clearly understood.

A speculation might at this time be easily made to some advantage with ready money, but there is not the quantity of goods at market which your partner seems to suppose, and the number of speculators below, I think, will be against your making an immediate purchase. I apprehend goods will be in greater plenty and much cheaper in the course of the season; both dry and wet are much wanted and in demand at this juncture. Some quantities are expected in this part of the country soon.

Mr. M—e flatters himself that in the course of ten days he will have the pleasure of seeing you. He requests me to advise you that he has ordered a draught on you in favor of our mutual friend, S—y for 1300, which you will charge on account of the tobacco.

I am, in behalf of Mr. M—e and Co., Sir, Your most obedient, humble servant, Gustavus.

To Mr. John Anderson, Merchant, New York.



CHAPTER III

I

In the meantime, Marjorie was tossing restlessly, nervously in her bed, enduring hours of disconsolate remorse and lonely desolation. She could not sleep. She cried her eyes wet with tears, and wiped them dry again with her handkerchief; then stared up at the black ceiling, or gazed out through the small window at the faint glow in the world beyond. Her girlish heart, lay heavy within her, distended almost to the breaking-point with grief, a grief which had sent her early to bed to seek solitude and consolation; that solitude which alone brings relief to a heart freighted with sorrow and woe. Now that Stephen had gone, she had time to think over the meaning of it all, and she began to experience the renewed agony of those terrible moments by the water's edge. It was so awful, so frightful that her tender frame seemed to yield beneath its load, she simply had to give way to the tears.

She could not sleep, and she knew it. Scrambling out of her bed and wrapping a mantle about her, she sat beside the window and peered into the night. There was not a breeze to break the solemn silence, not a sound to distract her from her reverie. Two black and uncanny pine trees stood like armed guards near by the corner of the house to challenge the interloper from disturbing her meditation. Overhead the stars blinked and glistened through the treetops in their lace of foliage and delicate branches, and resembled for all the world an hundred diamonds set in a band of filigree work. The moon had not yet risen, and all the world seemed to be in abject despair, bristling in horrid shapes and sights,—a fit dwelling-place for Marjorie and her grief-stricken heart.

Stephen had gone away that afternoon, perhaps never to return. For this she could not reproach him, for she allowed that she had given him every reason to feel offended. But she had hurt him, and very likely hurt him to the quick. She knew his sensitive nature and she feared the consequence. It was that thought more than the real contrition over her fault which had overwhelmed her. Her return for his many acts of kindness had been one of austere repulsion.

Now she felt acutely the bitterness of it all. That she had afforded him some encouragement, that she had cooperated in the first place to make the setting of it all quite perfect, that she had lent him her assurance that she was amicably disposed towards him, and that her action in regard to the miniature, while apparently innocent enough, was fraught with significance for Stephen in view of his intimate connections with the events of the past two years, that after all perhaps she had been entirely unreasonable throughout it all; these were the thoughts which excited, both in the truth of their reality and in the knowledge of the hopes they had alternately raised and blasted in Stephen, the bitter sorrow which was the cause of her mingled pain and regret.

What would he think of her now? What could he think? Plainly he must consider her a cold, austere being, devoid of all feeling and appreciation. He had given her the best that was in him and had made bold enough to appraise her of it. Sincerity was manifest in his every gesture and word, and yet she had made him feel as if his protestations had been repugnant to her. She knew his nature, his extreme diffidence in matters of this kind, his power of resolution, and she feared that once having tried and failed, he was lost to her forever.

And yet she knew that she grieved not for herself but for him. Her stern refusal had only caused him the greater pain. Stephen would, perhaps, misunderstand as he had misunderstood her in the past and it was the thought of the vast discomfiture she had occasioned in him that stung her with sorrow.

Her warm, generous heart now chided her for her apparent indifference. There was no other name for it. What could he deduce from her behavior except that she was a cold, ungrateful, irresolute creature who did not know her own mind or the promptings of her own heart! She had flung him from her smarting and wounded, after he had summoned his entire strength to whisper to her what she would have given worlds to hear, but which had only confounded and startled her by its suddenness.

And yet she loved him. She knew it and kept repeating it over and over again to her own self. No one before or since had struck so responsive a chord from her heart strings. There had been no other ideal to which she had shaped the pictures of her mind. Stephen was her paragon of excellence and to him the faculties of her soul had turned of their own mood and temper unknown even to the workings of her intellectual consciousness, like the natural inclination of the heliotrope before the rays of the rising sun.

Laying her head in the crook of her elbow she sobbed bitterly.

The thought that he was gone from her life brought inconsolable remorse. She knew him, knew the intimate structure of his soul, and she knew that a deep repentance would seize hold of him on account of his rash presumption. He would be true to his word: he would not breathe the subject again. Nay, more, he would ever permit her to disappear from his life as gradually as she had entered into it. This was unendurable but the consciousness that she had caused this bitter rupture was beyond all endurance still.

She lifted her head and stared into the black depths of the night. All was still except the shrill pipings of the frogs as they sounded their dissonant notes to one another in the far-off Schuylkill meadows. They, too, were filled with thoughts of love, Marjorie thought, which they had made bold enough to publish in their own discordant way, and they seemed to take eminent delight in having the whole world aware of the fact that it, too, might rejoice with them.

If it were true that she loved him, it were equally true that he ought to be apprised of it. There could be no love without a mutual understanding, for to love alone would be admiration and entirely one-sided. Let her unfold her soul to him in order that he might take joy for his portion ere his ardor had cooled into mere civility. For if it were licit to love, it were more licit to express it and this expression should be reciprocal.

She would tell him before it were too late. Her silence at the very moment when she should have acted was unfortunate. Perhaps his affection had been killed by the blow and her protestations would be falling upon barren soil. No matter! She would write and unfold her heart to him, and tell him that she really and truly cared for him more than any one else in the world, and she would beg him to return that she might whisper in his ear those very words she had been softly repeating to herself. Full repentance would take possession of her soul, and her heart would rush unrestrained to the object of its love, telling him that she was with him always, thinking of him, praying for him, and waiting for him. She would write him at once.

II

But she did not mail the letter. Hidden carefully in her room, it lay all the next day. Unworthy post-chaise to bear so precious a manuscript! She would journey herself to its destination to safeguard it, were it at all possible. A thousand and one misgivings haunted her concerning the safety of its arrival,—Stephen might have been transferred to some distant point, the letter itself might possibly fall into awkward hands, it might lay for months in the post bag, or fall into a dark corner of some obscure tavern, the roads were infested with robbers,—horrible thoughts, too horrible to record.

She did not know just how long it had taken her to compose it. The end of the candle had burned quite out during the process, and she lay deliberating over its contents and wondering just what else might be added. Twice she was on the point of arising to assure herself on the style of her confession, but each time she changed her mind, deciding to yield to her earlier thought. The darkness seemed to envelop her in fancy, and when she again opened her eyes the darkness had disappeared before the light. It was morning and she arose for the day.

Hour by hour she waited to tell her mother. It was only right that she should know, and she proposed to tell her all, even the very episode on the river bank. She needed counsel, especially during these lonely moments, and she felt that she could obtain it only by unfolding her heart unreservedly. Mother would know; in fact, she must have suspected the gravity of the affair. But how would she begin it? She longed for an opening, but no opening presented itself.

The meaning of his addresses she saw, or she thought she saw. Stephen loved her; his words were very effective. Indeed, he had made no mention of marriage, nevertheless she sensed that his ulterior purpose had been revealed to her fully. Perhaps it was this consummation which caused her heart to stand suddenly still; perhaps it was the vision of the new life which was opening before her. She would have to go away with him as his wife, away from her home, away from her beloved father and mother. The summers would come and go and she would be far distant from her own, in far-off New York, perhaps, or some other city better adapted for the career of a young man of ability. They might live in Philadelphia, near to her home, yet not in it. That would be preferable, yet the future could lend her no assurance. She would be his for life, and with him would be obliged to begin a new manner of living.

Such thoughts as these occupied her for the greater part of the day, and before she was really aware of it, her father had come home for the evening. She could not tell both at once; better to tell them in turn. It would be more confidential and better to her liking. Once the secret was common between them, it was easy to discuss it together, and so she decided that she would put it off until the morrow. Then she would tell mother, and let her mother talk it over with her father. Both then would advise her.

"Next week is going to see the greatest event in the history of the Church in America," Marjorie heard her father remark as he placed his hat upon the rack behind the door.

"What is it now?" inquired her mother who chanced to be in the sitting-room when he entered.

"The Congress is going to Mass."

"The Congress?" she exclaimed. "Praised be God!"

"What news, father?" asked Marjorie, hurrying into the room.

"The Congress, the President and the prominent men of the nation have been invited to take part in the solemn Te Deum next Sunday. It is the anniversary of the signing of the Declaration."

"Isn't that remarkable?"

"It is remarkable," he repeated. "The French Ambassador has issued the invitations and all have signified their intentions of being present. Here is one of them." Taking from his pocket a folded paper, he handed it to Marjorie. She opened it at once and read aloud,

"Mr. Matthew Allison:—You are invited by the Minister Plenipotentiary of France to attend the Te Deum, which will be chanted on Sunday, the 4th of this month, at noon, in the new Catholic Chapel, to celebrate the anniversary of the Independence of the United States of America.

"Philadelphia, the Second of July. M. Gerard."

"The Congress going to Mass!" said his wife, apparently unable to comprehend fully the meaning of it all.

"The more one thinks of it the more strange it becomes. They branded Charles the First a Papist because he permitted his queen, who was born and bred a Catholic, to attend Holy Mass. Now we have our newly-formed government not alone countenancing Popery, but actually participating in a supposedly pagan and idolatrous form of worship."

"This marks the end of religious prejudice in this country," observed Marjorie. "At length all men are in all things equal, equal in the sight of God and man. Don't you think our leaders must realize this and are taking steps to prepare the minds of the people accordingly?"

"Yes," he replied, "and I don't know but what it is only right. We all go to the market together, trade our goods together, rub elbows together, clear the land together, fight together. Why shouldn't we live together in peace? Intolerance and bigotry are dead and buried. We have laid the foundations of the greatest country in the world."

"Thank God for that!" breathed Mrs. Allison.

"We are respected above all calculation," Mr. Allison continued. "Our Loyalty now is unquestioned."

"We may thank God for that, too."

"And Captain Meagher!" added Marjorie.

Her eyes beamed.

"Yes, you are right, girl," said her father. "We can thank Captain Meagher. The frustration and the exposure of that plot has increased our reputation an hundredfold. Heretofore, the Catholic population had been regarded as an insignificant element, but when the ambitions of the enemy to secure their cooperation were discovered, the value of the Catholics to the country suddenly rose."

"Our unity must have created a lasting impression," Marjorie remarked.

"Not alone our unity, but our loyalty as well. The government has learned that we have been ever true to the land of our birth, ever loyal to the country of our adoption. It has thoughtfully considered the value of our sacrifices, and has carefully estimated our contribution to the cause of freedom. When the charter of liberty assumes a more definite form our rights will specifically be determined. Of that I am reasonably certain. The enemy failed to allure us from our country in its time of need; our country will not abandon us in our time of need."

"Stephen did it," announced Marjorie.

"Stephen helped to do it," replied her father.

III

That same evening, during a stolen moment while her mother was busied with the turning of the buckwheat cakes, Marjorie crept to her father's knee and folded her arms over it.

"Daddy!" she looked up at him from her seated posture on the floor. "What would you say to a very eligible young man who had told you that he was very fond of you?"

"What would I say?" asked the father in surprise.

"Yes. What would you?"

"I would not say anything. I would have him examined."

"No, Daddy. This is serious," and she pushed his knee from her as she spoke.

"I am serious. If a man told me that he was very fond of me, I would question his sanity."

She laughed.

"You know what I mean. I mean if you were a girl and——"

"But I am not a girl."

"Well, if you were?"

"If I was what?"

"You know what I mean quite well. Would you hate him at first?"

"I hope not. I should want to strangle him, but I wouldn't hate him."

"And you would strangle him? For what?"

"For daring."

"Daring what?"

"You know."

He smiled.

"Oh, dear! Won't you listen to me? Tell me what to do."

"I could not tell you. You have not told me what has happened."

"I asked you what you would say to an attractive soldier who had told you that he loved you."

"Yes. And I told you that if he had told that to me, I would ask what ailed him."

"Oh, Daddy, you are too funny tonight. I can't reason with you."

She sat back on her heels and pouted.

He smiled and roused himself upright and put his arm around her and drew her to him.

"There! There! I know what you mean, daughter. It means that I shall have no say in the matter."

"Why?"

"You will do it all."

"No. I shall never leave you."

"Yes, you will. You will be happier. But why didn't Stephen ask me about it?"

"How did you know it was Stephen?" she looked at him in astonishment.

"Well enough."

"But how?" she repeated.

"I knew it all the time and your mother and I have been prepared for this occasion."

"But who told you?" Her eyes opened full and round in genuine wonder. Here was one surprise after the other.

"There was no need of any one telling me. I have been watching the pair of you, and sensed what the outcome would be some little while ago."

"But, Daddy. How should you know?"

He laughed outright.

"There! There! We are satisfied quite, I can assure you. I know what you are about to say; and your mother knows it too."

"But I have not yet told her. I meant to tell her today but did not. Then I thought of telling you and of whispering the whole story to her after we were upstairs."

She was serious, very serious, absorbed for the most part in her story although her mind was clouded with amazement at the want of surprise which was manifested. Her innocent mind apparently was unable for the time being to fathom the intricacies of this plot which seemed to be laid bare to every one concerned save her own self.

"Of course you will tell her, but you will find that she will consent to the proposal."

"What proposal?"

"Why, I suppose the proposal of your coming marriage."

"But!... But!... Daddy!... I never said anything about marriage."

"You did start to tell me that Stephen told you he was very fond of you?"

"Yes."

"And you told him the same."

"No, I didn't."

"But you will tell him."

A hush followed. She looked askance at him from the corner of her eye.

"And so after you two have told one another as much as that you may as well decide upon the date."

"But ... I ... I am not sure that I want to marry him."

"Well, that is your privilege, you know."

"And.... And ... perhaps he will never ask me again."

"Just wait a bit."

"And would you marry him?"

"I told you that I would not. I already have one wife...."

"Oh! You make me lose all patience," she cried rising from the floor and leaving him. "I shall confide in mother."

"Remember," he cautioned her in a somewhat serious strain. "Do not ask her to marry him."

She was gone.

The following day a letter was dispatched to the Headquarters at Morristown, New Jersey. In the meantime a very large doubt began to take form in the mind of one little girl concerning the manner of its reception. A thousand and one impossible situations were conceived, but there seemed nothing to do; he must now do it all. The possibility loomed ghost-like before her: he might never return. The wound which she had caused still smarted and ached. He might never return. Her eyes wandered and strayed among the multitude of objects before them; her lips had forgotten their usual smile. He might fail to receive her note and if he did he might disdain to acknowledge it. But no! He would not do that. There was naught else to do but wait. Oh! if the moments would only hurry!



CHAPTER IV

I

It was a great day for Philadelphia when the Continental Congress went to Mass. It was Independence Day, too, but this was of lesser importance in the estimation of the people, especially of the Catholic portion of them. Fully a quarter before the hour, the bell began to sound and the streets became like so many avenues of commerce with people standing in doorways, or leaning from their windows, or hurrying with feverish haste in the direction of the New Chapel of St. Mary's, the parish church of the city. There a number of them congregated in twos or threes to await the procession of notables, who would soon approach with great solemnity and dignity from the opposite corner of the street.

The celebration came about in this manner:

It was the desire of M. Gerard, the Minister Plenipotentiary of France, to commemorate the anniversary day of the Independence of the United States in a religious manner. Arrangements already had been made to hold Divine worship earlier in the morning at Christ Church, at which the guests of honor were invited to be present. At twelve o'clock the congregation would march to the Church of St. Mary, where a military Mass and a solemn Te Deum would be sung. The Reverend Seraphin Bandol, chaplain to the French Embassy, would celebrate the Mass and deliver a sermon appropriate to the occasion.

It had been fondly expected that the event would assume an international tone. Events had been moving with extraordinary rapidity towards the establishment of the Roman Catholic religion in the graces of the government, and this celebration might demonstrate the patriotic motives of the Catholic body beyond the shadow of a doubt. That a Congress, which of late had condemned in the strongest terms the practices of the Roman Catholic religion, could change in sentiment and action in so short a time, would be an unequivocal proof of the countenance and good will which the Catholic religion was beginning to acquire. At any rate the example set by the governing body of the new republic attending Mass in a Roman Catholic edifice, offering up their devout orisons in the language, service and worship of Rome, would be a memorable one, an augury of the new spirit of religious freedom which later would be breathed into the Constitution of these same States by these same men.

Precisely at ten minutes before the hour they came, walking in pairs, headed by John Hancock, the President of the Continental Congress, and His Excellency M. Gerard, the French Ambassador. Immediately after the Congress, marched the Supreme Executive Council of Philadelphia with Joseph Reed at its head. Then came the French Embassy, resplendent in its dress of blue and gold. Prominent civilians, military officers, men of repute in city and nation, followed slowly along the crowded thoroughfare and as slowly made their way into the small edifice. General Washington was not present, having been prevented by duty in the field.

Within, the little church murmured with low talking. Ordinarily, the congregation would have been absorbed in silent contemplation before the Presence of the Divine One, but the impressiveness of the occasion made the people depart from their usual fervor. The little church was only partly filled when the great procession arrived and every head instinctively turned in the direction of the entrance at the sound of their many footsteps. As they marched down the aisle every breath was held; then as they began to file into the pews reserved for them, the subdued murmur began again.

Marjorie and her father sat to the rear of the church in the company of the early arrivals. In fact the entire Allison family occupied the same pew, pressed, indeed, for room on account of the multitude which crowded its way into the church and into the small aisles. Round about them on every side sat the congregation, some of whom were already familiar to them, the majority of whom, however, were total strangers. From their appearance and demeanor it was not difficult to conclude, Marjorie thought, that more than one-half of them were non-Catholic.

The inside of the church was adorned in splendid array with the emblems of France and the United States. In the sanctuary, on each side of the altar, stood two large flags of the allied nations, while across the choir gallery in the rear of the church, there stretched in festoons, the colors of the infant republic superimposed in the middle by a shield bearing the likeness of Louis XVI. On the altar bloomed a variety of cut flowers, arranged in an artistic and fanciful manner on the steps of the reredos amidst a great profusion of white unlighted candles. The three highest candlesticks on each side had been lighted, and the little tongues of living flame were leaping from them joyfully. Over the tabernacle a large crucifix raised aloft, while just before the door of the tabernacle rested the chalice with its white veil, arranged in the form of a truncated triangle, shielding it from view.

For several minutes after the honorable body had been seated there was a confusion of feet and forms as the members of the congregation surged into the church. The pews filled quickly, and the more tardy and less fortunate individuals sought places along the aisles and along the rear. Overhead the small organ gasped and panted the strains of a martial air, the uneven throbbing of its bellows emphasizing the fatigue and exhaustion of its faithful operator.

"Is that the French Ambassador?" whispered Marjorie to her father.

"With the brocade and lace. Yes. Next to him is Mr. Hancock, President of the Congress."

She looked and saw the noble head and dignified bearing of the statesman. He sat very erect and majestic, presenting an appearance of taste and refinement in his suit of silken black.

"There is Mr. Adams, John Adams, with the great powdered periwig. The tall thin man seated at his right is Thomas Jefferson, who wrote the Declaration. He is, without doubt, the scholar of the Congress."

Marjorie followed his whispering with evident interest. Never had she been in the company of such notable men.

"Who is that? See! He is turning sideways."

"Livingston. Robert Livingston. Then the great Robert Morris, whose financial aid made possible the continuance of the war. His personal sacrifice for the cause of independence will never be computed. He is Washington's best friend."

She peered through the crowd to catch a glimpse of the famous financier.

"Do not overlook our staunch Catholic member of the Congress, Charles Carroll. Lest he might be mistaken for any other man of the same name he made bold to affix after his name on the Declaration of Independence, 'of Carrollton.' A representative Catholic and a true patriot!"

She recalled this, having seen the name of "Charles Carroll of Carrollton" on the printed copy of the Declaration.

Mr. Allison again nudged his daughter with his elbow to attract her attention.

"Can you see that elderly man with the sharp-pointed features over across?" he asked.

She looked in the direction indicated but did not seem to be able to locate him.

"The second pew, third man from the aisle."

"Yes! Yes!" she exclaimed.

"That is Richard Henry Lee of Virginia, the author of the resolution 'That these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States.' That paved the way for the drawing up of the Declaration."

The makers of history were before her, and her eyes danced at their sober and grave demeanor. Here sat the Congress, not all of it, but a goodly portion of it, which had voted unanimously in favor of complete separation from the mother country. Here were those very men who had risked their all, their fortunes, their homes, their lives for their country's cause. Here they now assembled, visibly burdened with the cares and the apprehensions of the past few years, still uncertain of the future, but steadfastly determined to endure to the bitter end, either to hang together or to rise to glorious triumphs together. And here they sat or knelt in the temple of God to rededicate their fortunes to Him, to accept from His hands the effects of His judgments, but at the same time to implore Him to look with favor upon their efforts and to render possible of realization those desires which were uppermost in their hearts. Marjorie thought that they could not, they must not fail, they, who were animated by such sincere devotion and by such sentiments of genuine piety.

"Mr. Franklin isn't here?" she whispered.

"No," he softly answered. "I think he has not returned from France. He was there, you know, when the Alliance was concluded. Lafayette only joined Washington last month. Did you know that he brought with him a commission from the French King to General Washington, appointing him Lieutenant-General in the French army and Vice-Admiral of its navy?"

"No. I did not hear of it."

"I suppose Franklin is still over there. He would be here, although he himself is an atheist. He believes in no form of religious worship. I should not say that he is an atheist for he does believe in One God, but that is about all."

The murmur about the little church began to die away. Still the surging at the door continued until it seemed as if the small building would burst its sides with its great burden.

The tinkle of a little bell sounding from the door leading from the sanctuary announced that the Mass was about to begin. On the instant the congregation rose and remained standing until Father Bandol, preceded by the altar boys, had reached the foot of the altar and made the genuflection.

II

High up in the gallery the choir broke into the strains of the "Kyrie" of the Mass, while the priest in a profound bow before the altar made his confession of sins. Marjorie took out her prayer-book and began to follow the Mass, meditating upon the mysteries of Our Lord's life as commemorated in the Holy Sacrifice.

Ascending the altar, the priest passed at once to the right hand side where lay the Mass-Book, from which he read the Introit. He returned to the center and chanted in soft clear tones the "Gloria in Excelsis," the hymn of praise which the angels sang for the first time on Christmas night when Christ, the Lord, was born. This was taken up immediately by the choir. Meanwhile the congregation were seated during the singing of this hymn of praise to the Most High.

The prayers of the Mass, prayers for our rulers, prayers for peace were sung by the celebrant, the people kneeling in an attitude of prayer while their priest interceded to God in their behalf. Having finished the prayers for the people a Lesson from one of St. Paul's Epistles was read, after which the priest passed to the left side of the altar to sing a passage from the Gospel. The people now stood to profess their belief in the faith and teachings of Jesus Christ.

Marjorie and her father and mother recollected themselves quite during these solemn moments and no syllable of communication passed between them, all assisting at the service with prayer-books or beads, following every movement of the priest intelligently and with devotion.

The congregation were permitted to sit while the celebrant of the Mass offered the materials for the sacrifice, unleavened bread and the pure juice of the grape, to Almighty God, to adore Him above all other things, to thank Him for all the graces and blessings bestowed by Him on mankind, to satisfy His justice for the sins of man and to implore Him for whatever favors He might deign to bestow.

Soon the voice of Father Bandol resounded through the church with the opening tones of the Preface of the Mass, the responses to which were made by the members of the choir. Slowly and solemnly he chanted the notes of praise, ending with the "Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts." A sound from the bell gave the warning that the awful moment was about to arrive, the moment when the ambassador of Christ would exercise the power communicated to him from Jesus Himself through the Twelve and their successors, the power of changing the substance of bread and wine into the substance of the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ.

The people bent forward in an attitude of humble adoration. Marjorie buried her face in her hands on the top of the forward pew, pouring out her heart in praise and thanksgiving to her God and Master. In profound reverence she remained while the priest pronounced the mystical words "Hoc est enim corpus meum" over the species and effected the mystery of mysteries, the translation of Christ's Mystical Body to the elements of the earth, in the transubstantiation of the Mass. Now Her Lord was present before her; now the Divinity of His Person was but a few feet away, clothed, not in flesh and blood, but under the appearances of bread and wine; now Her Creator was with her, lying on the white corporal of the altar and she poured forth her soul to Him in accents of adoration and supplication.

"O my God!" she breathed. "I adore Thee through Jesus; I beg pardon through Jesus; I thank Thee through Jesus; I humbly ask every blessing and grace through Jesus. May I lead a holy life and die a good death. My Jesus! mercy! My Jesus! mercy! My Jesus! mercy!"

The prayers for the dead were read and the Pater Noster was chanted. A signal from the bell announced that the priest's communion was about to take place and that the distribution of the Sacred Body would be made to as many as desired to partake of it. It was Sunday and the majority of the Catholics present had been in attendance at an earlier Mass, on which account there were no communicants at this later one. The closing ceremonies were concluded with the reading of the Gospel of St. John, when Father Bandol turned towards the congregation to begin his address. Every member present sat upright in his seat and awaited the message which was about to fall from the lips of the priest.

III

"My dear brethren," he said, "we are assembled to celebrate the anniversary of that day which Providence had marked, in His eternal decrees, to become the epoch of liberty and independence to the thirteen United States of America."

There was a silence throughout the church which was breathless. Every eye was focused on the vested form before the altar.

"That Being whose almighty hand holds all existence beneath its dominion undoubtedly produces in the depths of His wisdom those great events which astonish the world and of which the most presumptuous, though instrumental in accomplishing them, dare not attribute to themselves the merit. But the finger of God is still more peculiarly evidenced in that happy, that glorious revolution which calls forth this day's festivity. He hath struck the oppressors of a free people—free and peaceful, with the spirit of delusion which renders the wicked artificers of their own proper misfortunes.

"Permit me, my dear brethren, citizens of the United States, to address you on this occasion. It is that God, that all powerful God, who hath directed your steps; who, when you were without arms fought for you the sword of justice; who, when you were in adversity, poured into your hearts the spirit of courage, of wisdom, and fortitude, and who hath, at length, raised up for your support a youthful sovereign whose virtues bless and adorn a sensible, a fruitful and a generous nation."

The French Ambassador bowed his head in profound acquiescence.

"This nation hath blended her interest with your interest and her sentiments with yours. She participates in all your joys, and this day unites her voice to yours at the foot of the altars of the eternal God to celebrate that glorious revolution which has placed the sons of America among the free and independent nations of the earth.

"We have nothing now to apprehend but the anger of Heaven, or that the measure of our guilt should exceed His mercy. Let us then prostrate ourselves at the feet of the immortal God, who holds the fate of empires in His hands, and raises them up at His pleasure, or breaks them down to dust. Let us conjure Him to enlighten our enemies, and to dispose their hearts to enjoy that tranquillity and happiness which the Revolution we now celebrate has established for a great part of the human race. Let us implore Him to conduct us by that way which His Providence has marked out for arriving at so desirable an end. Let us offer unto Him hearts imbued with sentiments of respect, consecrated by religion, humanity and patriotism. Never is the august ministry of His altars more acceptable to His Divine Majesty than when it lays at His feet homages, offerings and vows, so pure, so worthy the common offerings of mankind.

"God will not regret our joy, for He is the author of it; nor will He forget our prayers, for they ask but the fulfillment of the decrees He has manifested. Filled with this spirit, let us, in concert with one another, raise our hearts to the Eternal; let us implore His infinite mercy to be pleased to inspire the rulers of both nations with the wisdom and force necessary to perfect what He hath begun. Let us, in a word, unite our voices to beseech Him to dispense His blessings upon the counsels and the arms of the allies and that we may soon enjoy the sweets of a peace which will soon cement the Union and establish the prosperity of the two empires."

The same religious silence prevailed; indeed there sat many in the same immovable posture. But it was evident that the words were being received with pleasure and satisfaction. Signs of approval appeared on every face.

"It is with this view," the priest concluded, "that we shall cause that canticle to be chanted, which the custom of the Catholic Church hath consecrated, to be at once a testimonial of public joy, a thanksgiving for benefits received from heaven, and a prayer for the continuance of its mercies."

IV

He had done. As he stepped to the floor of the sanctuary and took his stand before the center of the altar a pronounced disturbance, accompanied by much coughing, made itself manifest. This was followed by a great rumble as the entire congregation rose to its feet to await the intonation of the Te Deum.

Pleasant and sweet rose Father Bandol's voice above the rustling in the opening notes of that most majestic of all hymns of praise:

"Te Deum laudamus: te Dominum confitemur."

And immediately the vast throng took up the melody and there reverberated throughout the church, escaping through the open doors and windows, across the streets and over the roof-tops, up to the topmost regions of the heavens, to the very gates of heaven itself, the strains of the Ambrosian hymn of thanksgiving and praise which the members of the American Congress sang to the God of Nations and of Battles in the little chapel of St. Mary's on the anniversary day of the signing of the greatest exposition of a freeman's rights ever penned by the hand of man.



CHAPTER V

I

The wayfarer on this July afternoon in the fifth year of American Independence might have passed on the main thoroughfare leading into the city of Philadelphia from the townships of Bristol and Trenton, a young and powerfully built officer astride a spirited chestnut mare. The countryside, through which he was journeying, stretched for miles around in peaceful solitude, teeming and delightful with that leafy and rich green livery which we are accustomed to associate with the idea of abundance. Overhead the sky was clear, from which the sun blazed down great billows of heat that hovered over the landscape, giving vigor and enthusiasm to the various forms of vegetable life, but at the same time causing the animal world to drowse and languish in discomfort.

It was plain to be seen that the horseman was an officer of the Continental Army. His mount, young and well groomed, gave every indication of a long ride, its nostrils dilated, its mouth moist with foam, its sides streaky with strings of sweat. Haste was desired, it was apparent, although in the more exposed portions of the roadway the mare was allowed to walk, her rider affectionately patting her neck or coaxing her along with an encouraging remark.

"Look, Dolly! There is some soft, tender grass to cool your lips. We shall take some."

And he turned the mare to the side of the road and allowed her to nibble at the greensward.

Soon they were again on their way, she munching the while on the last mouthful, now walking, now impatiently breaking into a canter; Stephen, holding her in check with his hand, looked far ahead at the roofs of the city beyond. Through his mind there passed in review the incidents of the day, the memory of his business just concluded, the speculation of the future of the army, the contemplation of his reception by Marjorie.

He had been away for more than a month. During that time he was engaged in business of the gravest nature. Many hours had been spent in the company of the Commander-in-chief before whom he had laid an account of his varied activities in the city. The proposed plan for the formation of the regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers, with all its ramifications and side issues, together with an account of his own adventures in its respect, was reported faithfully and accurately to his superior. The person of John Anderson, his suspicions concerning him, the strangely formed friendship of the spy with the Military Governor, were indicated with only that amount of reserve necessary to distinguish a moral from an absolute certitude. Events had moved with great rapidity, yet he felt assured that the real crisis was only now impending, for which reason he desired to return to the city so as to be ready for any service which might be required.

"Go along, girl. We want to reach home by noon."

Dolly heeded him and began to canter.

Washington had not taken kindly to his suggestion for the recall of General Arnold's command; in fact he had treated the proposal with a scorn worthy of his strong sense and dauntless courage. It was plain to be seen that His Excellency had placed much reliance and confidence in his favorite officer. It was impossible to create so much as a suspicion in the mind of him, who had been compelled to endure irksome suppression at the hands of a cabalistic and jealous military party, and who, for that very reason, took a magnanimous view of the plight of one beset with similar persecutions. General Arnold was in his eyes a brave and fearless leader, but one unfortunately annoyed and tormented by the machinations of an ungrateful and intolerant populace.

And so when it came to pass that the one General, whom he had admired and trusted, applied for an active command in the field, General Washington cordially granted the request. If the wounded limb would permit it, there was no doubt in the mind of His Excellency that General Arnold would prove the most heroic and able officer along the line. Lincoln was gone, having been forced to surrender with his entire army at Charleston only six weeks before. Green was engaged with the army in the Carolinas; Gates was a coward; Lee, a traitor. In the important operations which were soon to take place with the main army in the vicinity of New York, Arnold was the leader best qualified for the task. Washington took extreme delight in appointing him to the command of the Right Wing of his own army and the Second in Command of the Continental forces.

It was with genuine reluctance that he consented to listen to the strange story as unfolded by his aide-de-camp, Captain Meagher. That General Arnold should openly countenance rebellion was preposterous; to become a party to it was incredible. Yet the veracity of his aide was unquestionable, and the wealth of evidence which he had presented left little room for doubt. Still Washington's faith was unshaken. He felt assured that his favorite General would redeem himself when the proper time came. And every encouragement for this redemption would be afforded him.

West Point was open. He would recall the order appointing him to the command of the army and make him commander of the fortification there. The exigencies of the times required a man of rare ability and genius at this post. Should there prove to be a shadow of truth in the allegations of his aide, the change of command would simplify the situation from whatever viewpoint it might be regarded. The country might be preserved, and Arnold's ambition at the same time given another opportunity.

Stephen ruminated over these events as he rode leisurely along. A genuine satisfaction was derived from the knowledge that his chief's confidence in him was still unshaken. He felt that he had effected a change of post for the man whom, above all other men, Washington most admired and respected; nevertheless he felt that at the same time he was only executing a service which would ultimately prove to be of incalculable value to the army and the nation. Arnold troubled him, but in command of a fortress he would occasion infinitely less worry and apprehension than in a responsible position in the field.

Marjorie delighted him. At Morristown he had found her letter; and his plans for the immediate present underwent a decided alteration. He had been ordered to make the journey to Hartford in attendance upon General Washington, who had already completed arrangements with Count Rochambeau and Admiral Ternay of the French navy for a conference there in reference to the proposed naval operations of the combined fleets. With the letter in his hand he had sought and obtained a further leave of absence from his Commander-in-chief in order that his own campaign for the winning of the lady of his heart might be brought to a quick and decisive termination.

He had left the city, not hurt nor wounded as she had supposed, but somewhat disappointed at the manner of her expression. Her apparent coolness and unconcern he had ascribed rather to her extreme diffidence and shyness than to want of appreciation or sincerity. That she truly cared for him, he knew full well; that he would eventually win her to him was a faltering conviction. But, now, there was no further doubt. She had written him pages into which she had poured out her heart in generous and unmistakable accents, and which he had read and re-read with growing delight.

Washington could not refuse his request. He made no attempt to conceal the nature of his mission and obtained not alone His Excellency's gracious permission but his sincere wishes for success as well. With a heart buoyant with joy and anticipation he spurred on his mare and pushed her to her worth in the direction of the city and the object of his quest.

II

He rode into the city well aware that the first news to reach him would be that of the exodus of the Arnolds.

"You came straight through town, I suppose?"

"Yes," replied Stephen.

"And came here direct?" continued Mr. Allison.

"I quartered my mare, first. I thought immediately of the Inn as the place to gather the news. So I hastened hither."

"There's been heaps doin'," Jim remarked casually.

"Never saw such excitement since the day of the regiment," observed the keeper of the Inn, a well-mannered and well-educated gentleman, above middle age, who held the enviable position of inn-keeper and lawyer alike. Every inn-keeper of this age commanded much of respect in the community, for it was he who received the money of the people, and money commanded the necessities of life—a good bed, good things to eat, attentive servants; but Mr. Smith, the keeper of the Old London Coffee House, was the most respectable inn-keeper in the city, the proud possessor of a very pretty library and an excellent table where cleanliness and decency vied with dignity and self-respect.

"Arnold, you know, has left the city," volunteered Mr. Allison.

"Yes, I have surmised," was the reply.

"Gone, an' all belongin' to 'im."

"And closed his mansion?" Stephen inquired.

"Tight. Mrs. Arnold went with him. They left yesterday."

"But I thought——"

"To the army? I understand he had been appointed to field duty under Washington. Second in Command, they say. But that has been changed. He has gone to West Point."

Stephen did not answer.

"It seems," went on Mr. Allison, "that he has been seeking a change of post for several months. His leg still bothers him, however, and very likely prevented him from doing active duty in the field. On that account, it has been said, he was given charge of the fortress. It is an important post, nevertheless, and carries with it a certain amount of distinction."

"Hope he gits along better with 'em up there 'n he did here," remarked Jim. "He won't hev the s'ciety folks t' bother 'im now."

"When did he leave?"

"No one knows. There was no demonstration of any kind. It differed much from the farewell of General Howe. Arnold left in disgrace, it would seem," said the Inn-keeper, as he moved away to give his attention to other business.

"And Peggy gone, too?" Stephen was genuinely surprised at this, for he rather expected that she would remain with her mother.

"I am sure that the majority of our people are greatly pleased at the change," said Mr. Allison. "I never saw one sink to such depths of contempt. He came to the city as Military Governor in a blaze of triumph, the most celebrated soldier in the army, whose rise to popular esteem was only accelerated by the knowledge of the harsh treatment received by him at the hands of Congress after the battle of Saratoga. He was the idol alike of soldiers and civilians. Their hearts were his without the asking. That was two years ago. Today he left the city in the fullness of his years, in secret, after so many plaudits, in obloquy, after so much honor."

"It is a sad commentary on human nature," Stephen observed. "Yet in all things else I blame the woman. 'Cherchez la femme.'"

The room already was reeky from the clouds of tobacco smoke streaming upwards from the pipes of the several guests who were lounging in small groups about the room. There were several parties in as many corners, each wholly unconcerned about the other. The conversation of our trio was therefore private insofar as any privacy can be expected in an inn. Only the boisterous individual made himself heard, and then only to the displeasure of the others.

Leaving the two at the Inn, Stephen bade them adieu and directed his journey in the direction of Second Street. Hastening his steps he soon reached the Germantown road, and as he turned the bend perceived the familiar outline of the Allison home. Little did he suspect, however, that the curtains of one of the upper windows concealed a lithe form and that his swift gait was being interpreted with a world of meaning. He laid his hand on the gate, and even then Marjorie had opened the door to meet him.

III

"First of all," she said, "how long may you remain? Will you dine with us, or what?"

"I shall be most pleased. I have several days. His Excellency has gone to Hartford to engage in conference. It was intended that I should accompany the staff. I begged leave, however, to return to Philadelphia."

They were seated on the sofa in the distant corner of the parlor. They were quite alone now for the first time, the mother having asked to be excused after many minutes with the announcement that since he would be pleased to remain, the supper must needs be prepared. No, Marjorie need not help her. She might entertain Captain Meagher.

"It's glorious to see you again," he said, sitting down beside her after Mrs. Allison had departed from the room.

"I am glad you have come," she replied softly, rubbing her hand across her apron as if to arrange it neatly.

"But you knew that I would come, didn't you?"

"I thought so."

"And yet I greatly feared that it would not be possible. Preparations are being made for the final campaign, and it is expected that the French will be asked to play an important part."

"It was very generous of His Excellency to grant you leave."

He began to smile.

"Could you guess how I obtained it?" he asked.

She turned to regard him.

"What have you done?" she asked soberly.

"Showed him your letter."

"Stephen!" she gasped as she drew back.

Neither spoke. He continued to smile at her apparent concern, while she stared at him.

"Do you mean it?" she asked; then quickly—"or are you teasing?"

"I did. I showed the letter to him, and asked if I might return to you."

"He read it?"

"There! There! I am joking. He did not read it, but I did have it in my hand, and I told him about you and that I was going back to take you with me."

Satisfied, she allowed herself to assume a more relaxed composure.

"You are going to destroy it, aren't you?"

He took it from his pocket and looked at it. She, too, glanced at it, and then at him.

"May I keep it? I treasure every word of it, you know."

"Did you but know how it was composed, you might ridicule me."

"I suppose you closed yourself behind some great veil to shut out the world from your view. Your mind toiled with thought until you were resolved upon the heroic. There was no scheme nor formula; your quill ran on and on in obedience to the flood of ideas which inspired it."

She lapsed into meditation; but she recovered herself immediately.

"No," she shook her head slowly though steadily. "At midnight with the aid of a little candle which burned itself out quite before the end."

He looked up sharply.

"That night?"

She nodded.

He put his arms around her and drew her close. She made no resistance, but allowed herself to fall into his embrace.

"Marjorie!" he whispered.

She yielded both her hands to his grasp and felt them compressed within it.

"You were not hurt at my seeming indiscretion?"

"I told you in my letter that I was not."

"Then you do love me?"

She drew back a little as if to glance at him.

"You know that I do," was the soft, reassuring answer.

"Won't you let me hear you say it?" he pleaded.

Reaching out, she put both arms about him and offered her lips to his, whispering at the same time only what he was destined to hear.

Presently the old clock began to strike the hour of five.



CHAPTER VI

I

"Father! Father! Where are you? Arnold has betrayed! He has betrayed his country!"

Breathless, Marjorie rushed into the hallway, leaving the door ajar behind her. It was late in the afternoon of a September day. The air was soft and hazy, tempered with just the chill of evening that comes at this time of the year before sundown.

More than two months had passed, months crowded with happiness which had filled her life with fancy. Her engagement to Captain Meagher had been announced, quietly and simply; their marriage was to take place in the fall. Day after day sped by and hid themselves in the records of time until the event, anxiously awaited, yet equally dreaded, was but a bare month distant. It would be a quiet affair after all, with no ostentation or display; but that would in no wise prevent her from looking her prettiest.

And so on this September afternoon while she was visiting the shops for the purpose of discovering whatever tempting and choice bits of ware they might have to offer, she thought she heard the blast of a trumpet from the direction of the balcony of the old Governor's Mansion. Attracted by the sound, which recalled to her mind a former occasion when the news of the battle of Monmouth was brought to the city by courier and announced to the public, she quickened her steps in the direction of the venerable building. True, a man was addressing the people who had congregated beneath the balcony. Straining every faculty she caught the awful news.

Straightway she sped homewards, running as often as her panting breath would allow. She did not wait to open the door, but seemed to burst through it.

"What was that, child?" her father asked quickly as he met her in the dining-room.

"Arnold ... Arnold ..." she repeated, waiting to catch her breath.

"Has betrayed, you say?"

"West Point."

"My God! We are lost."

He threw his hands heavenwards and started across the floor.

"What is it, Marjorie?" asked the mother, who now stood in the passageway, a corner of her apron held in both hands, a look of wonder and suspicion full upon her.

"No, Father!" the girl replied, apparently heedless of her mother's presence, "West Point is saved. Arnold has gone."

"Let him go. But West Point is still ours? Thank God! He is with the British, I suppose?"

"So they say. The plot was discovered in the nick of time. His accomplice was captured and the papers found upon him."

"When did this happen?"

"Only a few days ago. The courier was dispatched at once to the members of Congress. The message was delivered today."

"And General Arnold tried to sell West Point to the British?" commented Mrs. Allison, who had listened as long as possible to the disconnected story. "A scoundrel of a man."

"Three Americans arrested a suspicious man in the neighborhood of Tarrytown. Upon searching him they discovered some papers in the handwriting of Arnold containing descriptions of the fortress. They took him for a spy."

"I thought as much," said Mrs. Allison. "Didn't I tell you that Arnold would do something like that? I knew it. I knew it."

"Thank God he is not one of us," was Mr. Allison's grave reply. "His act would only serve to fan into fury the dormant flames of Pope Day."

"This is an act of vengeance," Marjorie reflected. "He never forgot his court-martial, and evidently sought his country's ruin in revenge. Adversities he could contend with; humiliation he could not endure."

The little group presented a varied scene. The girl, young, tender, was plainly animated with a strong undercurrent of excitement which thrilled her entire frame, flushing her cheeks and sparkling in her eyes. Her tender years, her inexperience with the world, her guileless mind and frank open manner had not yet prepared her for the enormity of the crime which had of a sudden been flashed full upon her. For the moment realization had given way to wonder. She sensed only the magnitude of the tragedy without its atrocious and more insidious details. On the other hand there was the father, composed and imperturbable, to whom the disclosure of this scheme of the blackest treason was but another chapter added to the year of disasters which was just coming to a close. His more astute mind, schooled by long experience with the world and its artifices, had taught him to view the transit of events with a certain philosophy, a sort of pragmatic philosophy, with reference to the causes and the results of events and how they bore on the practical utility of all concerned; and finally the mother, who in her devout and pious way, saw only the Holy Will of God working in all things for His own praise and glory.

"And they found the dispatches in his own writing?" the father asked deliberately.

"In his stockings, beneath the soles of his feet."

Again there was silence.

"He is a prisoner?"

"Of course. He was arrested for a spy. They say he is an Adjutant in the British army. He was in full disguise."

"Hm!"

Mr. Allison set his lips.

"I think," continued Marjorie, "that it was the effect of a stroke of good fortune. He was taken by three men who were lying in wait for robbers. Otherwise he might have continued his journey in safety and the plot would have succeeded."

"Thank God and His Blessed Mother!" breathed Mrs. Allison as she clasped her hands together before her in an attitude of prayer.

"And Arnold?" methodically asked Mr. Allison.

"He escaped to the British lines. I do not know how, but it seems that he has departed. The one important item, which pleased and interested the people, was the capture of the spy and the frustration of the plot."

The father left the chair and began to pace the room, his hands behind him.

"It is a bad blow. Too bad! Too bad!" he repeated. "I do not like it, for it will destroy the courage and confidence of our people. Arnold was the idol of the army, and I fear that his defection will create a great change of heart."

"The army will be better off without him," said Mrs. Allison.

"I agree with you," was the reply. "But the people may decide in a different manner. There is reason for worry."

"What was the effect of Lee's attempted treason?" spoke up Marjorie. "The people loathe him, and he will die an outcast."

"There is no punishment too severe for Lee. He has been from the start nothing but a selfish adventurer. But the cases are not parallel. Lee was never popular with the army. Arnold, you must remember, was the most successful leader in the field and the officer most prized by the Commander-in-chief."

"Nevertheless he will sink as fast as he climbed, I think. The country must not tolerate a traitor."

"Must not! But will not the circumstance alter the case? I say that unless the proofs of Arnold's treason are irrefutable, the people will be slow to believe. I don't like it. I don't."

There was some logic in his argument which began to impress Marjorie. Arnold could exercise a tremendous amount of influence over the army. Whether the strings of loyalty which had united their hearts with his would be now snapped by his act of perfidy was the mooted question. As a matter of fact a spirit of mutiny already was beginning to make itself manifest. The soldiers of Pennsylvania who were encamped on the heights of Morristown marched out of camp the following January and set out for Philadelphia. They were rebuked by Washington, who sent a letter by General Wayne, whereupon they returned to their posts. Later in the same month another mutiny occurred among the New Jersey troops, but this, too, was quickly suppressed. Just how much responsibility for these uprisings might be traced to the treason of Arnold can not be estimated. There is no question, however, that his act was not wholly unproductive of its psychological effects.

"I feel so sorry for Peggy," Marjorie sighed.

"The young wife has a sore burden thrown upon her. A sorry day it was when she met him," was Mrs. Allison's comment.

"Strange, I never suspected Peggy for a moment," Marjorie said. "I had been raised with her and thought we knew each other. I am sorry, very sorry."

"We do not know how much she is concerned with this," announced Mr. Allison, "but her ambition knew no restraint or limitation. She has her peerage now."

"And her husband?"

"The grave of a traitor, the sole immortality of degraded ambition, religious prejudice, treason and infamy."

"God help him!" exclaimed Mrs. Allison.

II

In July, 1780, General Arnold had been placed in command of West Point; two months later he was safe on board the British sloop-of-war, Vulture. He had attempted to betray his country; he received in exchange six thousand pounds sterling, together with a brigadiership in the British Army.

From the time he left Philadelphia until the morning of his flight he had kept up a continual correspondence with John Anderson. Information was at length conveyed to him that Sir Henry Clinton was in possession of advices that the American Commander-in-chief contemplated an advance on New York by way of King's Bridge. Clinton's scheme would allow the army of General Washington to move upon the city, having collected all his magazines at the fortification at West Point, but at a given moment Arnold was expected to surrender the fort and garrison and compel the army of Washington to retire immediately or else suffer capture in the field.

Still Arnold felt that everything was not quite settled between Sir Henry and himself, and wrote accordingly, advising that a written guarantee be forwarded or delivered in person to him by an officer of Sir Henry's staff of his own mensuration. He was informed by way of reply that the necessary meeting might be arranged, and that the emissary would be the Adjutant-General of the British Army.

Accordingly the British sloop Vulture moved up the river as far as Stony Point, bearing the Adjutant-General. Arnold had fixed on the house of Joshua Smith as the place for the meeting. On the night of the twenty-first of September, he sent a boat to the Vulture which brought the emissary shore. In a thick grove of cedars, in the shroud of the blackest night, Arnold waited the return of the rowboat, its oars muffled with sheepskins, its passenger on board. The latter sprang lightly to the shore, his large blue watchcoat and high boots alone visible. As he climbed the bank and approached the grove, he threw back his cloak and revealed the full British uniform of a general officer.

"Anderson?" Arnold exclaimed. "You?"

"No! Andre, Major Andre," was the reply.

"Hm! I thought as much. I suspected you from the moment I met you in Philadelphia."

"Come. Let us finish. I must return before daybreak."

"Where is your disguise? I advised you to come in disguise."

He understood the piercing glance.

"I have come thus under General Clinton's orders," was the reply. "My safety lies in open uniform."

"Let it go at that. Here! I have with me the plans of West Point, together with a full inventory of its armament and stores and a roster of its garrison."

Andre took the papers and glanced at them as best he could by means of the lantern light.

"But I do not see here a written promise to surrender the fortress?"

"No! Nor, by Heaven, you shall not receive it," Arnold snapped. "I have given my word. That is enough. I have already placed myself in your hands by these plans and inventories made in my own handwriting. This is all.... No more."

"General Washington visits here on Saturday?"

"Yes."

"The surrender must take place that night."

Arnold looked fiercely at him. This was one matter which seemed intolerable. To betray his country was treason; to betray his sole friend and benefactor was unknown to him by any name in the English language. He refused absolutely. Andre insisted, and the discussion became violent.

Neither became aware of the dawn which was about to break through the thicket of fir-trees which bounded the opposite bank of the Hudson. Still the details had not been arranged; the matter of Arnold's reward was still unsettled. There had been various promises of compensation, maintenance of military rank, a peerage or a viceroyalty in one of the colonies, but Andre was empowered to offer no more than compensation and military rank. With the dawning light, the boatmen became alarmed and refused to take Andre back to his ship, with the result that the two conspirators were obliged to pass the time until the next night in the house of Joshua Smith.

It so happened that the day brought to pass an unforeseen accident. Livingston, the Colonel of "Congress' Own," in command of the batteries on the opposite side of the river at Verplanck's Point, opened fire upon the Vulture, compelling her to drop down the river. It was necessary, therefore, for Major Andre to proceed by land down the opposite shore until he had met with his vessel, and so late at night he departed, his uniform and coat exchanged for a disguise, the six papers in Arnold's handwriting crammed between his stockings and feet.

It also happened, by a strange irony of fate, that a party of American soldiers had set out that very morning to intercept a band of robbers who had infested the roadways of this neighborhood, and who had rendered the highways impassable because of their depredations. Near Tarrytown, three of this party confronted a passing traveler, and leveling their muskets at him, ordered him to halt. They were obeyed on the instant, and because of the suspicious manner of the stranger, a complete search of him was made. The set of papers was found in their hiding place, and he was placed under arrest, and sent to North Castle. There the papers were examined, and instead of being sent to General Arnold himself, were forwarded to His Excellency, who was known to be lodged at West Point. At the same time a complementary letter was sent to General Arnold, informing him of what had taken place.

He was at breakfast when the news was brought him. The letter was crumbled in his hand as he hastily arose from the table and rushed to Peggy's room where he acquainted her of his fate. She screamed and fainted. He stooped to kiss his sleeping child; then rushing from the house was soon mounted and on his way to the place where he knew a barge had been anchored. Jumping aboard he ordered the oarsmen to take him to the Vulture, eighteen miles down the river. Next morning he was safe within the enemy's lines at New York.

III

The minute details of the attempted plot had not filtered into Philadelphia when a demonstration had begun in celebration of its frustration. Spontaneously and exuberantly the citizens of the city gathered in the public square and for several hours the joy-making continued with unabated energy and enthusiasm. Like a flash it seemed that the full realization of what this news had meant broke like a rushing tide upon their consciousness. The country had been threatened; but the danger had been averted.

In a few hours the streets were mad with hundreds of people singing and shouting and marching in unrestrained glee. Bulletins had been posted in the public square acquainting the people of the great facts, yet this did not begin to equal the amount of news which had been relayed from mouth to mouth and grew in detail and magnitude as it went. Chains, trays, broken iron were dragged in rattling bundles up and down the streets amid the laughs and cheers of the mass of humanity that had swarmed upon the roadways and sidewalks.

Marjorie and her father were among the early arrivals on Market Street. Little by little items of information came to them as they alternately talked with their many acquaintances. Out of the many and varied accounts one or two points had stood out prominently—Arnold had attempted to surrender the fortress while Washington was lodged there in the hope that complete disaster would befall the American cause; he had completed negotiations with the British emissary; who was known as Major Andre, whom the people of Philadelphia associated with the person of John Anderson, a frequent visitor of the Arnolds during their stay in the city; the officer had been taken prisoner by the American forces and the papers found upon him; while Arnold and his wife had escaped to the British forces in the city of New York.

When the gayety seemed to have attained its climax, a procession began to wend its way through the howling crowd. There was no attempt at regular formation, the multitude trailing along in whatever order seemed most desirable to them. In the midst of the line of march, two gaunt figures towered aloft over the heads of the marchers, the one bearing a placard upon which was scrawled the name "Arnold the traitor," the other, "Andre the spy." These were carried with great acclaim several times around the city until the procession rested at the square, where amid cheers and huzzas they were publicly burned. This seemed to satisfy the crowd, for they gradually began to disperse. The hour was late and Marjorie and her father journeyed homewards, passing the watchman at the corner as he announced the hour, "Eleven o'clock and Arnold is burned."

The state bordering on frenzy into which the mob had been cast was responsible, for the most part, for the violence of the celebration, nevertheless there stood many sober and composed individuals apart from the ranks who had looked on in silent acquiescence during the riotous proceedings. Arnold had fallen to the lowest ebb of infamy and contempt so that even his past services were entirely forgotten. There was no palliation. There were no extenuating circumstances. The enormity of his crime alone mattered. His name could not be mentioned without a shudder.

Mount Pleasant was not permitted to remain idle. It soon was seized by the city authorities and rented to Baron Steuben, the disciplinarian of the American Army and the author of its first Manual of Arms. The household furniture, too, had been removed and offered for sale at public auction, while the coach and four was bought by a trader at the Coffee House. Arnold's presence in the city was now no more than a memory—a memory, indeed, but a sad one.

"He would never escape the fury of that crowd," Mr. Allison observed to his daughter as the two journeyed homewards.

"They would surely put him to death."

"If they ever lay hands on him—they might perhaps cut off his wounded leg, but the rest of him they would burn."

She considered.

"I can scarce believe it—it seems too awful."

"Well! I never could see much good in a bigot. A man with a truly broad and charitable soul has no room in him for base designs. Arnold would crucify us if he could, yet we have lived to see him repudiated by his own."

"It does seem after all that God takes care of His own. Even the sparrow does not fall to the ground."

Plainly the spirit of the evening had awakened a serious vein of thought in the two. They could take no delight in a tragedy so intimately interwoven with pity and compassion. The fate of the two principal actors, the courageous Arnold and the ambitious Andre, erstwhile known as Anderson, could not fail to touch their hearts. Their lot was not enviable; but it was lamentable.

"And John Anderson, too," said Marjorie, "I cannot believe it."

"When the truth is known, I am of the opinion that he will be more pitied and less condemned. Arnold was the chief actor. Andre a mere pawn."

"How brilliant he was! You remember his visits? The afternoon at the piano?"

"Yes. He was talented. But to what purpose?"

"I am sorry."

And so were the many.



CHAPTER VII

I

"Stephen, wilt thou take Marjorie here present for thy lawful wife, according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Church?"

Audibly and distinctly resounded the voice of Father Farmer throughout the little church as he read from the Roman Ritual the form of the sacrament of Matrimony.

"I will," answered Stephen deliberately.

"Marjorie, wilt thou take Stephen here present for thy lawful husband, according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Church?"

"I will," was the soft response.

The two then joined their right hands and repeated one after the other the pledge by which they took each other for man and wife; Stephen first, then Marjorie.

"I, Stephen, take thee Marjorie for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better; for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

Solemnly and reverently the priest raised his right hand over them as he pronounced the blessing.

"Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium, in nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen."

The ring having been blessed before them, Stephen placed it on Marjorie's finger saying the prescribed words, after which they awaited the prayers of the priest. Father Farmer turned to the altar and at once began the Nuptial Mass, according to the ceremony of the Catholic Church, and pronounced over them the Nuptial Blessing.

This made an end of the marriage ceremony.

It would be difficult to describe the feelings of Marjorie as she turned from the sanctuary and made her way down the aisle of the little church. Her hand lay on Stephen's arm, but it seemed to her as if she were hanging from it. She was happy; that, of course. But she thought, too, that she was extremely nervous, and the more she thought over herself, the more she felt that she appeared extremely self-conscious.

The church was quite filled with friends, yet she dared not look up to measure its capacity, but guarded her eyes with the strictest custody. The organ was playing an appropriate march which she tried to follow in her mind in order that she might thereby absorb the greater part of her attention. Stephen was with her, for she could feel him, although she was quite certain that she never laid an eye on him during the whole time. Her people were there, so were her many friends and acquaintances, and Stephen's relatives and friends as well, but these, too, were absent as far as her concentration of mind was concerned. Only one thought was uppermost in her mind and that was to leave the church as soon as possible, for she felt that every eye was focused upon her.

It had been intended that the affair should be charmingly simple, both on account of the sad and melancholy days through which the country was passing and the natural tendencies of the parties concerned to avoid all semblance of display. Their names had been published at three public masses; the Catholic Church required that. They had been married by Father Farmer with a nuptial high mass. The wedding breakfast would be served at the home of the bride. But the number of invited guests would be limited strictly to the members of the family and one or two intimate friends so as to include Jim Cadwalader and Sergeant Griffin. Furthermore there would be no honeymoon on account of the uncertainty which invariably had defined the duration of Stephen's stay in the city.

It was only when the little party, Marjorie and Stephen's sister, her maid of honor, and Stephen and Sergeant Griffin, his best man, had settled down into the coach, that Marjorie for the first time became composed. A great sigh of relief escaped from her as she sat back, her bouquet in her hand, and looked at the dispersing crowd. She could not tell yet whether she was happy or not; the excitement had not subsided enough to allow her to regain her self-possession and equanimity. Stephen was by her side. That was about all she knew,—or cared.

Stephen was in his characteristically reticent mood. Already had he observed that he would have endured another Valley Forge with greater pleasure than the ordeal of a wedding ceremony. Still he was nicely dressed for the occasion, wearing for the first time a new full dress uniform of buff and blue. The interested spectator might have discerned, too, that he wore for the first time a new insignia of rank; for he was now a Major of the Continental Army, having received that promotion, upon the recommendation of His Excellency, for distinguished service, together with a warm message of congratulation upon his approaching marriage. Nevertheless he was unmoved through it all, betraying but one concern, and that was administration to the most trivial wants of his blushing and timid bride.

It was the time of joy, of pure, unalloyed joy, yet he could not banish altogether from his mind the memories of the past two years, years crowded with events in his life and that of his beloved. There was, indeed, much to be thankful for, and notwithstanding his exceedingly great glee and the day of gladness which had dawned for him flooding his heart with exultation and complacent satisfaction, still a prayer of praise poured forth from his lips to the Giver of every best and perfect gift.

The American Revolution had unfolded a wonderful story, a story of anti-Catholicism, of persecution and prejudice which had resolved itself step by step into a state of complete freedom of action and religious liberty. The Church was at length free, free to gather her children into congregations where she might speak to them and instruct them without any fear. Now she was at liberty to fulfill her mission of winning souls to Christ. True, her children were widely scattered, a bare twenty-five thousand out of a population of about three millions, whose wants were administered to by no more than twenty-five priests. Yet out of this contemptible little body there emerged a people, honorable, respectable, and of such consequence as to deserve commendation from the First President for "the patriotic part which you took in the accomplishment of their Revolution and the establishment of your government," as well as causing to be inserted in the Constitution of the new republic the clause that "no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification for any office or public trust under the United States." There was of course much to be desired; but the foundations had been laid, and the prospect for the future was auspicious.

And so they rode through the city streets joyfully, merrily, light-heartedly. Conversation, interspersed with laughter and jocularity, literally ran riot, so impatiently did each attempt to relate what was uppermost in his or her mind. The ceremony, the music, the procession, the multitude obtained their due amount of comment, until the arrival of the coach at the door of the Allison home put an end to the session.

II

"A health, ladies and gentlemen, to the bride. May she live long and never form the acquaintanceship of sorrow!"

Stephen's father had arisen from his chair and with his goblet held before him addressed the company.

It was drunk with evident pleasure. Then Mr. Allison arose.

"To Major Meagher, that his brilliant career be only the commencement of a life of extraordinary achievement!"

This was followed by a round of applause. Stephen smiled and bowed his head, but it was plain to be seen that his father's chest had expanded more than an appreciable trifle. Marjorie was happy and whispered a word to her newly formed sister-in-law who was seated by her side. It was a jolly group who had surrounded the table, all bent on doing honor to the happy couple, but none appeared more so than Jim Cadwalader and his wife, Nancy.

"I tell you," said Jim, "they're a right fine pair."

"I am afraid, Jim, you have not forgiven me quite for excluding you from that meeting," Stephen suggested.

"I'm the proud'st man this side o' the river t' think I gave y' me clothes. Y'd never got on widout me."

There was an outburst of laughter.

"You would have been captured, had you gone in there. I saved you."

"Yes, an' the girl, there, did it. Don't ye furgit that, either. I'll tell on y'," replied Jim, nodding his head emphatically. "She got me caught."

"Jim!" Marjorie exclaimed loudly.

"Now do not lay the blame on her," Stephen cautioned with a smile. "You yourself were only too anxious to get there. You wanted to see yourself in a new uniform."

"I did, then. I was terr'bly anxious t' see meself in a red suit, wasn't I?"

The company enjoyed this exchange of repartee and laughed continually. Jim ever enjoyed the distinction of being tormented by the members of whatever gathering he was in, yet it was never known when he was powerless of providing for himself.

And so they talked far into the morning. They sat in groups of twos and threes, long after the table had been cleared, while the willing helpers, the good neighbors, plied themselves industriously out in the kitchen with the cleaning of the dishes and the restoration of the house again to its proper order. Marjorie and her mother looked in through the doorway from time to time at the progress of the work, only to be banished as quickly by the cohort of willing toilers. For once in their lives the girl and her fond mother mingled entirely with the guests and took their full measure of enjoyment with the company.

As the guests departed one after the other, leaving behind them many benedictions and choice wishes for the bride and groom, the house settled down to its accustomed quietude and uniformity with the immediate family, Jim and his wife alone remaining. Jim, like every recognized master in his own household, sat with his one leg across the other, enjoying his tobacco, while his less aristocratic helpmate took care that the kitchen affairs were given their due amount of attention. With abatement of the excitement and commotion the members of the family betook themselves upon various journeys, the father to look at his fire so as to give it, if needed, a few generous pokes; the mother, to the kitchen to add a touch here and there to the arrangement of its utensils; Marjorie to her room in order that she might once more robe herself in her plainer and more habitual apparel. The festivities were at an end and the practical things of life again asserted their stern reality.

III

At length Stephen and Marjorie were alone, alone in their own little world of fancies and dreams. They were standing by the upstairs window looking out at the little fence where they had stood together more than two years before on the afternoon of his arrest. Stephen recalled his impressions of her then, yet she was more beautiful now, he thought. She had changed her gown of white for one of pink, and as she stood there, her lips a little parted in a tiny smile, her soft cheeks heightened in color, her bright eyes looking out into the memories of the past, she seemed for all the world to Stephen like an enchanted being.

THE END