her back: "I
wouldn't mind a glass and a pipe with friend Williams afore trudging
back to the Hill."

He then walked over to the disconsolate Colden, and, with a very
gay-doggish expression, remarked in an undertone:

"Fine pair o' girls yonder, major?"

He had known Colden from the time of the latter's first boyhood visits
to the manor, and could venture a little familiarity.

"Girls?" blurted the major, startled out of his meditations.

The old country beau chuckled.

"We all know what's betwixt you and the niece. How about the aunt and
me taking a lesson from you two, eh?"

Even the gloomy officer could not restrain a momentary smile.

"What, Mr. Valentine? Do you seriously think of marrying?"

"Why not? I've been married afore, hain't I? What's to hinder?"

"Why, there's the matter of age." Colden rather enjoyed being
inconsiderate of people's feelings.

"Oh, the lady is not so old," said the octogenarian, placidly, casting
a judicial, but approving look at the commanding figure of Miss
Sally.

Then, as he had been for a considerable time on his legs, having
walked over from the Hill to the parsonage that afternoon, and as at
best his knees bent when he stood, he sat down on the settle by the
staircase.

Miss Sally, though she knew it useless to protest further against
Elizabeth's caprice, nevertheless felt it her duty to do so,
especially as Major Colden would probably carry to the family a report
of her attitude towards that caprice.

"Did you ever hear of such rashness, major? A young girl like
Elizabeth coming out here in time of war, when this neutral ground
between the lines is overridden and foraged to death, and deluged with
blood by friend as well as foe? La me! I can't understand her, if she
_is_ my sister's child."

"Why, aunt Sally, _you_ stay out here through it all," said Elizabeth,
not as much to depreciate the dangers as to give her aunt an
opportunity of posing as a very courageous person.

Miss Sally promptly accepted the opportunity. "Oh," said she, with a
mien of heroic self-sacrifice, "I couldn't let poor Grace Babcock stay
at the parsonage with nobody but her children; besides I'm not Colonel
Philipse's daughter, and who cares whether I'm loyal to the King or
not? But a girl like you isn't made for the dangers and privations
we've had to put up with out here since the King's troops have
occupied New York, and Washington's rebel army has held the country
above. I'm surpris