was to excel all other gayeties, and to
be an event long remembered, including a regatta, a tournament, and a
dance. Decorated barges left Knight's Wharf in the afternoon, full of
handsomely attired guests, who were carried to Old Fort, and escorted by
troops to the beautiful and spacious lawn of Walnut Grove. The English
fleet lay at anchor, flying their colors, and the transport ships were
crowded with spectators.

The tournament, with its two sets of knights ready to do battle for
their favorite ladies, sounds like a chapter out of the Middle Ages. New
York had abounded in gayeties, but this eclipsed anything yet attempted.
The apartment had been decorated by the British officers, foremost among
them young Andre, little dreaming then what fate had in store for him,
and how his life would end.

After the tournament, with its stilted magnificence, came a dance, a
display of fireworks, a supper with twenty-four slaves in Oriental
costumes, with silver collars and gilt armlets. The walls were hung with
mirrors, and thousands of wax tapers reflected the brilliance of silken
gowns and jewels, of scarlet and gold uniforms, of fair women and brave
men that made the Mischianza a glittering page of history.

It was true that many beside the Tory ladies graced the occasion. There
had been an undeniable friendliness between both Americans and British,
and many a heart won and lost, as it was said six hundred or more
deserters from Clinton's army found their way back to Philadelphia and
made worthy citizens, some of them indeed entering the American army.

Captain Nevitt had importuned Madam Wetherill to attend, for he was
resolved Primrose should see the pageant. Polly Wharton had, as she
admitted, nine minds out of the ten to go, as Thomas Wharton, the owner
of Walnut Grove, was her uncle. But her brother was in the American
army, and her heart really went with her country.

"As if a little dancing could matter!" said Phil Nevitt. "Nay, Miss
Polly, I doubt not but that some day I shall see you at the court of our
King, and perhaps dance with you in a palace. And I want Primrose to go,
but Madam Wetherill will not, though Major Andre himself sent the
invitation. He is such a charming, generous fellow that he can do more
with his winning air than many with their swords. But Primrose I must
take. She is such a pretty, saucy, captivating rebel that it is charming
to tease her. And, if you will go, her aunt will give in, I know