aw's Operations," the second "Butler and
Indians," the third "St. Leger's Indians and Royal Greens." The paper
was signed by Uriah Beacraft.

After a few moments I folded this carefully prepared plan for deliberate
and wholesale murder and placed it in my wallet.

Sir George looked up at me with a question in his eyes. I nodded,
saying: "We have enough to arrest Beacraft. If you cannot persuade
Magdalen Brant, we must arrest her, too. You had best use all your art,
Sir George."

"I will do what I can," he said, gravely.

A moment later a light step sounded on the stairs; we both sprang to our
feet and removed our hats. Magdalen Brant appeared, fresh and sweet as a
rose-peony on a dewy morning.

"Sir George!" she exclaimed, in flushed dismay--"and you, too, Mr.
Ormond!"

Sir George bowed, laughingly, saying that our journey had brought us so
near her that we could not neglect to pay our respects.

"Where is Mr. Beacraft?" she said, bewildered, and at the same moment
caught sight of him through the open doorway, seated under the oak-tree,
apparently in delightful confab with Murphy and Mount.

"I do not quite understand," she said, gazing steadily at Sir George.
"We are King's people here. And you--"

She looked at his blue-and-buff uniform, shaking her head, then glanced
at me in my fringed buckskins.

"I trust this war cannot erase the pleasant memories of other days, Miss
Brant," said Sir George, easily. "May we not have one more hour together
before the storm breaks?"

"What storm, Sir George?" she asked, coloring up.

"The British invasion," I said. "We have chosen our colors; your kinsmen
have chosen theirs. It is a political, not a personal difference, Miss
Brant, and we may honorably clasp hands until our hands are needed for
our hilts."

Sir George, graceful and debonair, conducted her to her place at the
rough table; I served the hasty-pudding, making a jest of the situation.
And presently we were eating there in the sunshine of the open doorway,
chatting over the dinner at Varicks', each outvying the others to make
the best of an unhappy and delicate situation.

Sir George spoke of the days in Albany spent with his aunt, and she
responded in sensitive reserve, which presently softened under his
gentle courtesy, leaving her beautiful, dark eyes a trifle dim and her
scarlet mouth quivering,

"It is like another life," she said. "It was too lovely to last. Ah,
those dear people in Albany, and t