d digging into his pony; and that lady in a
riding-habit on Madame Esmond's little horse--can it be Madame Esmond?
No. It is too stout. As I live it is Mrs. Mountain on Madame's grey!"

"O Lor'! O Golly! Hoop! Here dey come! Hurray!"

Dr. Dempster and Mrs. Mountain having clattered into the yard, jumped
from their horses, and ran to the garden where George and Harry were
walking, their tall enemy stalking opposite to them; and almost ere
George Warrington had time sternly to say, "What do you here, Madame?"
Mrs. Mountain flung her arms round his neck and cried: "Oh, George, my
darling! It's a mistake! It's a mistake, and is all my fault!"

"What's a mistake?" asks George, majestically separating himself from
the embrace.

"What is it, Mounty?" cries Harry, all of a tremble.

"That paper I took out of his portfolio, that paper I picked up,
children; where the Colonel says he is going to marry a widow with two
children. Well, it's--it's not your mother. It's that little Widow Custis
whom the Colonel is going to marry. It's not Mrs. Rachel Warrington. He
told Madame so to-day, just before he was going away, and that the
marriage was to come off after the campaign. And--and your mother is
furious, boys. And when Sady came for the pistols, and told the whole
house how you were going to fight, I told him to fire the pistols off;
and I galloped after him, and I've nearly broken my poor old bones in
coming to you."

"What will Mr. Washington and those gentlemen think of my servant
telling my mother at home that I was going to fight a duel?" growled Mr.
George in wrath.

"You should have shown your proofs before, George," says Harry,
respectfully. "And, thank Heaven, you are not going to fight our old
friend. For it was a mistake; and there is no quarrel now, dear, is
there? You were unkind to him under a wrong impression."

"I certainly acted under a wrong impression," owns George, "but--"

"George! George Washington!" Harry here cries out, springing over the
cabbage garden towards the bowling-green, where the Colonel was stalking,
and though we cannot hear him, we see him, with both his hands out, and
with the eagerness of youth, and with a hundred blunders, and with love
and affection thrilling in his honest voice, we imagine the lad telling
his tale to his friend.

There was a custom in those days which has disappeared from our manners
now, but which then lingered.

When Harry had finished his artless story his