"What have I found?" thought Betty, but the next moment she saw that what she held was an officer's dark blue riding-cape fastened with brass buttons, on each of which was engraved a crown, and the cape was lined with British scarlet. "What have you got there?" said Moppet's voice, as she appeared at her side. "Why, 'tis Captain Yorke's cape that he muffled me in the day I fell into Great Pond--Oh, Betty, Betty, what is amiss?" Down on her knees fell Betty. She buried her face in the cape's folds, and tears rolled down her cheeks as she tried to say, "It is nothing, nothing, I am tired--I am--Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey, I think my heart is breaking." Miss Moppet opened her eyes to their widest; then slowly and deliberately she grasped the situation in "high Roman fashion." "Betty Wolcott, do I live to see you weep over a scarlet coat!" No answer; indeed, Betty scarcely heard the words. The flood-gates were let loose and the agony of days and months must have its way. "Betty!" this time the voice of reproving patriotism quavered somewhat. "I do believe you are worse than Pamela." But Betty sobbed on,--sobs that fairly racked her slender body. "Well, I don't care what anybody says,"--and Moppet flung the Whig cause to the wind as she cast herself down beside Betty,--"he's dear and handsome and brave; whether he be British or Yankee, I love him, and _so do you_, naughty, naughty Betty!" And with her head on Miss Moppet's sympathizing shoulder, and Miss Moppet's loving arms clasped around her neck, Betty Wolcott whispered her confession and was comforted. CHAPTER XVII A KNOT OF ROSE-COLORED RIBBON The sun rose bright and clear over the Bay of New York. It had been a somewhat gray dawn, but the fog and mist had gradually rolled away, and the day bid fair to be one of those which Indian summer occasionally gives in our northern climate. All around Fort George and the Battery the British troops were making ready for departure; the ships for their transportation to England lay out in the bay, for this was the 25th of November in the year of our Lord 1783. The streets in the upper part of the city were filled with a different kind of crowd, but one equally eager to be off and away. Many of the Tories and sympathizers with the Crown had found New York a most unpleasant dwelling-place since the signing of the treaty in which "The United States of America" were proclaimed to the world an independent Power, and Sir Guy Carleton, the British commander, had more trouble in providing transportation for this army of discontented refugees than for his own soldiers. However, the day was fixed, the ships ready to weigh anchor, and the Army of Occupation about to bid adieu to American shores forever.