"Harry does write. He sends letters to a friend in London, who re-mails them to father. About three times a year father gets a London letter, and that satisfies him. And he so little suspects Harry's presence in America that the boy has passed his father on the street without the slightest recognition on father's part; for he has more disguises than you could believe possible. I have seen him as a poor country doctor, buying medicines for his settlement; as an old schoolmaster, after a few books and slates at Rivington's; and a week ago, I met him one day shouting to the horses which were pulling a load of wood up Golden Hill. And he has no more transitions than a score of other young men who serve their country in this secret and dangerous manner. I can assure you General Washington's agents go in and out of New York constantly, and it is beyond the power of England to prevent them." "Suppose in some evil hour he should be suspected! Oh, Agnes!" "There are houses in every street in the city where a window or a door is always left open. Harry told me he knew of sixteen, and that he could pass from one to the other in safety." "Suppose he should be noticed on the river, at your landing or any other." "He can swim like a fish and dive like a seal and run like a deer. The river banks that look like a tangle to you and me, are clear as a highway to Harry. And you know it is the East river that is watched; no one thinks much about the water on this side; especially so near the fort. I do not think Harry is in any great danger; and he will be mainly on the river now for some months." "I wish I had not said a word, Agnes, I am so sorry! So sorry!" "We are always sorry when we doubt. I felt that you were mistrusting me, and I promised Harry, on his last visit, to tell you the truth before he came again. I have been waiting for you all week. I should have told you to-day, even if you had not said a word." "I shall never forgive myself." "I was wrong also, Maria. I ought, at the first, to have trusted you fully." "Or not trusted me at all, Agnes." "You are right, Maria." A great chagrin made Maria miserable. A little faith, a little patience, and the information she had demanded in spirit unlovely and unloving, would have come to her by Harry's desire, and with the affectionate confidence of Agnes. But neither of the girls were fully satisfied or happy, and the topic was dropped. Both felt that the matter would have to rest, in order to clear itself, and Agnes was not unconscious of those mute powers within, which, if left to themselves, clear noiselessly away the debris of our disputes and disappointments. She proposed a walk in the afternoon; she said she had shopping to do, and if there was any news, they would likely hear it from some one.