Then we hurried off to a field near by which we called "the rose-patch." Not far from this spot stood formerly an old mill where snuff was manufactured, and the rose-bushes that in bygone days had yielded their blossoms to scent the snuff were still living and flowering. But among the roses was an abundance of wild strawberries, and the two children soon lost all thoughts of the past in their enjoyment of the luscious fruit. But the old deserted house with its Revolutionary associations never ceased to have great attractions for us. Across the road from it, and nearer the creek, was a mound of cinders marking the spot where once stood the forge upon which our grandfather wrought the great iron chain which was stretched across the Hudson for the purpose of keeping British ships from sailing beyond it. Some links of this chain are now kept as relics in the Washington "Headquarters" at Newburgh. In later years Edward planned to write a story entitled "The Fair Captives of Brooklyn Heights," embodying some incidents in the lives of our Grandfather Williams' sisters, who lived there with their widowed mother. During the Revolution a number of British officers installed themselves at her house, and the old lady promptly locked up her daughters in order to prevent any possible love-making. One of the girls eluded her vigilance, however, married an officer, and fled with him to Canada. She returned after the war was over, but her mother, who had never forgiven the deception, refused to receive her, and she and her husband went to England to live. In our home at Moodna was always to be found a generous hospitality. Among our most loved and honored guests was Dr. Samuel Cox, who was for many years a prominent clergyman in New York and Brooklyn. My father had been a member of his church and they were lifelong friends. Often, in summer, he and his family spent weeks at a time with us, and we children, as well as our elders, were always charmed listeners to his conversation. He had a fine memory, and it was remarkably well stored with classic poetry. Sometimes he would entertain us with selections from the "Iliad," but more often, when other guests were present and Edward and I were seated on the piazza steps, on warm moonlight evenings, he would repeat whole cantos from "Marmion" or "Lady of the Lake," or perhaps some fine passages from "Paradise Lost."