Just then the smart rap of a whip-handle on the door announced a visitor, and Birket Dean walked in. “I was coming this way, Miss Lettice,” he said, after greeting them all, “and I brought along this letter that came for you on one of the boats.” “A letter?” Lettice eagerly held out her hand, and tore open the letter fastened with seals, for as yet envelopes were unknown. She gave her attention to the closely written pages, then looked up, and said animatedly: “Oh, brother! oh, Sister Betty, Rhoda wants me to come to Washington for a visit! I should so love to go to see the President and Mrs. Madison, and oh, do say I may go!” “Alone?” returned her brother William, smiling. “You wouldn’t expect me to leave Betty and the baby to take you, would you?” “Jamie could take me. You would like nothing better, would you, Jamie?” “I’d like to, yes; but--” “Oh, well, never mind; I can go as far as Baltimore with Aunt Martha, and she can find some one in whose charge to place me. I will see Aunt Martha this very evening.” “Will you ride over with me?” Birket asked eagerly. “Yes, if you will stay to supper. Here, Jamie, I know you are dying to see this, and as there are no secrets in it, you may as well have the pleasure of perusing it.” And Lettice tossed her letter to her brother James. It was a lovely ride down the road in the hush of an October evening; the landscape, taking on an autumnal hue, showed a soft envelopment of purple mist. To the right lay the blue bay, across which dimly appeared the spires of the little town of Annapolis. “It is truly a beautiful scene,” said Lettice, gazing around her. She looked like a bit of autumn herself in her scarlet jacket, and with the shining wing of a swamp blackbird in her hat. She had, it is true, some compunctions in accepting the wing, being of a most tender heart. Birket had given it to her, and quieted her protests by telling her how the thieving birds had stolen the corn and must be shot, if the crops must be protected. “Better that than to have them caught by a prowling beast, for we shoot them and they die instantly, otherwise who knows but that they may suffer tortures.” Lettice had stroked the bright feathers thoughtfully, saying, “Since he is dead, I may as well wear his feathers, but bring me no more, Birk; it makes me sad to see them.” “And how about the foxes?” Birket had said. “Ah, the foxes, they are thieves, too; but I always shut my eyes when the hounds pounce on them. ’Tis a pity the world is not big enough for us and them, too.” The conversation had taken place a day or two before, for Birket was a frequent visitor. His father’s plantation lay on the other side of Mr. William Hopkins’s, but on account of the wrigglings in and out of a little creek, it was easier reached by water than by land. “It is a truly lovely scene,” Lettice repeated. “And yet you want to leave it,” Birket returned reproachfully.