y here?" It is rather
chaotic in her mind.

"He was here. Wouter van Twiller was his real name. Then a line of Dutch
governers, after which the island was ceded to the British. It became
quite a Royalist town until the Revolutionary War. We had a 'scrap'
about tea, too," and Stephen laughs. "Old Castle Clinton was a famous
spot. And when General Lafayette, who had helped us fight our battles,
came over in 1824, he had a magnificent ovation as he sailed up the bay.
It's a splendid old place."

Everybody seemed to think so then. The birds were singing in the
sunshine, and the rural aspect was dear to the hearts of the older
people. They rose and walked about in the fragrant air. Now and then
some one bowed gravely to Stephen. There was a Sunday decorum over all.

They rambled up to the Bowling Green. Some quaintly attired elderly
people who had the _entree_ of the place were sitting about enjoying the
loveliness. One old Frenchman had a ruffled shirt-front and a very high
coat-collar that made him look like a picture, and knee-breeches.

Some one sprang up, and coming to the gate said: "Oh, Mr. Underhill, and
Miss Margaret! Is this your little sister? Do walk in and chat with us.
My sister Jane and I have come down to dine with the Morrises, and it
was so lovely out here. Isn't it a charming day?"

There was Miss Jane Barclay very fashionably attired, Miss Morris, and
her brother, who was very attentive to Miss Barclay, and a little
farther on Mrs. Morris, fat, fair, and matronly. She was reading "The
Lady of the Manor," and when the little girl found it afterward in a
Sunday-school library, Mrs. Morris seemed curiously mixed up with it.
Sunday papers at that period would have horrified most people.

"What a dear little girl!" said Mrs. Morris. "Come here and tell me your
name. Why, you look like a lily astray in a bed of buttercups. Is it
possible Mr. Stephen Underhill is your brother?"

"The eldest and the youngest," explained Stephen. "And this is my
sister, Miss Underhill."

Mrs. Morris bowed and shook hands. Then she made room on the settee for
the child.

"You haven't told me your name, my dear."

Mrs. Morris' voice was so soft, almost pleading. The little girl glanced
up and colored, and if the bank could have broken and let her money down
in the ocean, or some one could have stolen it and bought a new
Manhattan Island in the South Seas,--so that she could have had a new
name, she wouldn't have minded a