twain.

A few lanes led up to places, the outline of streets, and lost
themselves in the fields. Cottages had been built to face nearly every
way. Here and there was an old colonial house of greater pretensions,
some of them at the end of a long driveway lined with stately trees.
Here also were the remnants of orchards, meadows where cows were
pasturing, thickets of shrubbery with bread-and-butter vine running over
them, showing glossy green leaves.

Mr. Whitney paused at a queer, long, one-story house with a high-peaked
roof in which were set three small dormer windows. There was a little
dooryard in front, a Dutch hall door with an iron knocker, a well near
by with the old oaken bucket General Morris had immortalised, and back
of the house a picturesque ravine through which ran a clear stream of
water that presently found its way out to the Passaic. Willows bent over
it, elms and maples stood, tall and handsome, like guardian sentinels.

A little old woman sat sewing by the window.

"We haven't time to stop," said Mr. Whitney. "Hanny, that lady is your
hero's grandmother, and the mother of General Watts Kearny. He not only
distinguished himself in the Mexican War, but also in the War of 1812.
Then he was Governor of Vera Cruz and the City of Mexico."

"And the hero of no end of stories," added Ben. "Jim and I were wild
over them a few years ago. Why do people keep saying we have no romance
in our own country, because we have no ruined old castles? Why, Mexico
itself is a land of historical romance!"

"What a lovely cool dell!" exclaimed Dele. "Just the place to take your
book on a hot summer day."

"I believe your young hero Philip was born in New York. But this is the
old home, one of the landmarks."

Opposite was a rather pretty place,--a rambling brick house with sharp,
pointed roofs, and a long stretch of evergreens. It was beautiful in
this soft atmosphere. The birds made a swift dazzle now and then, and
filled the air with melody.

"Up here is a hedge of hawthorn that was brought over from England by a
Yorkshireman living up above. It is out of bloom now; but another year
you can come over early in May and see the 'hawthorn blossoms white'
that poets never tire of praising."

Dele broke off a sprig for herself, and one for Hanny. The spaces were
larger, the houses farther apart. On the west side was a tree-nursery
and garden, and two quaint old frame-houses that hardly looked large
enough for any one