h Miss Langdon. De Courval, rising, bowed to the
anticipative partner, and said, "No; the President may want me." And
again the low notes of the violin set the small puppets in motion. Of a
sudden, heard through the open door across the hall, came a voice
resonant with anger. It was Washington who spoke. "Why, Colonel
Pickering, did he say nothing of moment? He was my friend Peyton
Randolph's nephew and adopted son, my aide, my Secretary. I made him
Attorney-General, Secretary of State. I would have listened, sir. Never
before have I allowed friendship to influence me in an appointment." The
voice fell; he heard no more, but through it all the notes of the violin
went on, a strange accompaniment, while the children moved in the
ceremonious measures of the minuet, and Rene crossed the room to escape
from what he was not meant to hear. A full half hour went by while De
Courval sat amazed at the words he had overheard. At last the Secretary
of War, entering the hall, passed out of the house.

Then De Courval asked a servant in the gray and red of the Washington
livery to take the papers to the President. Hearing him, Washington,
coming to the door, said: "Come in, sir. I will see you." The face De
Courval saw had regained its usual serenity. "Pray be seated." He took
the papers and deliberately considered them. "Yes, they are of
importance. You did well to wait. I thank you." Then smiling kindly he
said, "Here has been a matter which concerns you. The despatch you were
charged with taking was captured at sea by an English frigate and sent
to us by Mr. Hammond, the British minister. It has been nine months on
the way. I never, sir, had the least doubt of your honor, and permit me
now to express my pleasure. At present this affair of the despatch must
remain a secret. It will not be so very long. Permit me also to
congratulate you on your new tie to this country. Mistress Wynne has
told Mrs. Washington of it. Will you do me the honor to dine with us at
four to-morrow? At four."

Coming out of the room with De Courval, he paused in the hall, having
said his gracious words. The violin ceased. The little ladies in
brocades and slippers came to the drawing-room door, a pretty dozen or
so, Miss Langdon, Miss Biddle, Miss Morris, and the Custis children.
They courtesied low, waiting expectant. Like most shy men, Washington
was most at ease with children, loving what fate had denied him. He was
now and then pleased, as they knew,