The roads fork below West Point, and form two parallel routes to New York,--one following close to the Hudson, and the other, five miles back, taking the same direction. Barclugh had to rely on his chart and on his own judgment,--he thought the back road would be less frequented and consequently more to his liking,--so he chose the back road. Everything went along serenely this day with Barclugh. He passed the last American outpost by simply presenting his passport from Colonel Hamilton and entered the neutral territory infested by roving bands of “cow-boys,” and “skinners,” as they were termed. Arriving at the Croton River near sundown, Barclugh stopped at an inn kept by a Connecticut dame, whose husband, it was learned afterward, had gone to war to escape death at home from the length of his wife’s tongue. When Barclugh arrived in sight of the inn he had visions of a square meal; for his ride since sunrise had aroused the demands of nature. But as he dismounted, somewhat of a surprise awaited him at the doorsteps in the person of a smallish woman, having a weazened face, a short, whittled-off nose, little, steel-blue eyes and a large mouth. The lips were thin, colorless and compressed in such a manner that no man dared to dispute her ability to bear down and insist upon her own, sweet way. Without any preliminaries the woman commenced at Barclugh as soon as she saw him approach: “I don’t b’leeve I can care for any strangers. Are you from the eastward? All my rooms are full. If I keep you at all I shall have to give up my own bed. Dunno what to do. Have you ready money or orders? If you have ready money I might take you, but I would have to charge you more. Are you a stranger in these parts? The next inn? Oh, that is thirteen miles beyond. You couldn’t reach it to-night. If you did, you would not like it anyway. The people there haven’t any family tree. Have I anything to eat? Oh, yes, but I wasn’t brought up to do this kind of work. Since Joshua went to the war I have had to wash the dishes and I am spoiling my hands. You are from Paris, eh? I always did like to entertain real gentlemen. I like Frenchmen, too; they are so polite--I suppose you are hungry. It’s La Fitte? Why that’s real aristocratic. My maiden name was Hopper. I was born in Haddam, old Haddam in Connecticut. My father was selectman in that town for forty years, and he was deacon nigh on to the same. ’Pears to me I used to know some French people. Yes, their name was, lemme see--oh, yes, they could not have been any kin of yours. Their name was La,--La Porte. If I had only known that I was going to have a real gentleman to-night from Paris, I might had a nice chicken and some ham and eggs.--You are a financier, eh? Oh, that’s real nice. I s’pose you’re married? No? Well, how delighted I am that you have come this way; come right in. You know I haven’t heard from Joshua for nigh on to two years--the poor man may be dead. Have I any children? Oh, no, Joshua and I always