ray home. If there had been any hesitation in Mrs.
Murray's patriotism before, it vanished entirely under the grave charm
of the Virginia leader. Henceforth she was heart and soul with the
Continental cause.

Two days later the British came. Mrs. Murray knew the danger that
threatened the Americans. Her woman's wit and woman's charm must save
the hour. So smiling she stood in the doorway, curtseying and inviting.
The day was hot; the officers thirsty. To the minds of the British,
contemptuous of the prowess of the troops in ragged blue and buff, what
difference would an hour or two make when the _coup de grace_ was so
easy to deliver? The lady was charming, _grande dame,_ and her husband
was known for devotion to King George. So they stayed and drank and
drank again, while the American forces were meeting on the site of the
present Longacre Square. A few days later came the Battle of Harlem
Heights, where the Continentals gloriously redeemed themselves. The wine
cups of Mrs. Murray made possible the victory of the "Bloody Buckwheat
Field." Had not a lady with powdered hair been standing before the door
of her house on Murray Hill, the signers of the Declaration of
Independence might, instead of hanging together, have hanged separately.

CHAPTER XII

_Confessions of an Exiled Bus_

After all, it was a hoary-haired scoundrel of a bus; a very reprobate of
a bus; an envious, evil-thinking, ill-conditioned, flagrantly thieving,
knavish blackguard of a bus. Under no circumstances am I proud of the
acquaintance. But then, in extenuation, be it said that it was never
anything but an acquaintance of Shadow-Land, conjured up, perhaps, by a
material repast that had been palatable and indigestible.

Have you read Alphonse Daudet's delightful "Tartarin of Tarascon"? Are
you acquainted with the "baobab villa," and the elusive Montenegrin
Prince, who had spent three years in Tarascon, but who never went out,
and who decamped with Tartarin's well-filled wallet; and the jaundiced
Costlecalde, and the embarrassingly affectionate camel, and the blind
lion from the hide of which grew the great man's subsequent fame, and
all the other whimsical creations of the novelist's pleasant fancy? The
book is one of my favourite books, one of the tomes that are taken to
bed to pave the way to restful, happy slumber. Perhaps that night it
had been the last volume to be tossed aside before turning out the
light, for as I slept, to use the