rought it of my own accord,
sir, though with Miss Elizabeth's permission."

"Oh! so Miss Elizabeth _did_ give her permission, then?"

"Yes, sir. At least, she said it didn't matter, if I wished to."

"And you did wish to? Well, you're a good girl, and I thank you."

Whereupon Peyton took the bowl and sipped of the broth with relish.

"Thank you, sir," said Molly, who then moved a small light chair from
its place by the wall to a spot beside the sofa and within Peyton's
reach. "You can set the bowl on this," she added. "I must go back to
the kitchen." And, after another curtsey, she was gone.

The broth revived Peyton, and with all his pain and fatigue he had
some sense of comfort. The handsome, well warmed, well lighted parlor,
so richly furnished, so well protected from the wind and weather by
the solid shutters outside its four small-paned windows, was certainly
a snug corner of the world. So far seemed all this from stress and
war, that Peyton lost his strong realization of the fate that
Elizabeth's threat promised him. Appreciation of his surroundings
drove away other thoughts and feelings. That he should be taken and
hanged was an idea so remote from his present situation, it seemed
rather like a dream than an imminent reality. There surely would be a
way of his getting hence in safety. And he imbibed mouthful after
mouthful of the warm broth.

Presently old Mr. Valentine reappeared, from the east hall, looking
none the less comfortable for the supper he had eaten. A long pipe was
in his hand, and, that he might absorb smoke and liquor at the same
time, he had brought with him from the table, where the two ladies
remained, a vast mug of hot rum punch of Williams's brewing. He now
set the mug on the mantel, lighted his pipe with a brand from the
fire, repossessed himself of the mug, and sat down in the armchair,
with a sigh of huge satisfaction. It mattered not that this was the
parlor of Philipse Manor-house,--for Mr. Valentine, in his innocent
way, indulged himself freely in the privileges and presumptions of old
age.

Peyton, after staring for some time with curiosity at the smoky old
gentleman, who rapidly grew smokier, at last raised the bowl of broth
for a last gulp, saying, cheerily:

"To your very good health, sir!"

"Thank you, sir!" said the old man, complacently, not making any
movement to reciprocate.

"What! won't you drink to mine?"

"'Twould be a waste of words to drink the health of a