She had, despite her white hairs, a spice of romance yet left in her heart. And perhaps the memory of her own elopement, in the face of her parents' prohibition, went far toward softening her feeling in favor of the daring offender. But she shook her head sadly as she thought of her own boy, the secret of whose heart she had long suspected, although he had not given her his confidence; and her eyes moistened as she realized the downfall of the cherished castle she had been building for him, with this girl--of her own choosing--for his wife. Late one September day, Johnnie Strings brought word to Dorothy that Aunt Penine lay at death's door, and was craving to see her. It was decided that she had better accede to her aunt's request, and that Mary should go with her; and so, in pursuance of arrangements made by the pedler, they started on horseback the following morning, with that wary individual as escort, and rode directly to a certain tavern just inside the American lines, and known as "The Gray Horse Inn," where they procured a conveyance to carry them the remainder of the journey. Strings himself did not deem it wise to venture nearer than this to Boston, as he was expected to hold himself in readiness at the inn to receive some papers to be delivered to the Commander-in-Chief at Cambridge. It was late in the afternoon when the two girls, after having seen Aunt Penine and made peace with her, hurried down the street toward the place where their carriage was awaiting them. The day was gray, with clouds gathering slowly, when they had set out on foot from this point for their visit to Aunt Penine, their driver having considered it better that he should wait for them near the house of an acquaintance, whose true sentiments were known to only a few of his countrymen. And now, as they returned, a strong east-wind was making mournful soughings in the trees, and a downpour of rain seemed imminent from the solidly massed clouds overhead. As they came down the steps of the house, Mary noticed a man across the street, lounging under the elms, as though awaiting some one. His tall figure was well wrapped in a riding-cloak, whose folds he held in a way to conceal his lower features, while his hat, slouched over his forehead, made it still more difficult to obtain a clear view of his face. "Look at that man over there," she said nervously, clutching Dorothy's arm. "Yes, I see," Dorothy replied with no show of interest, as they started down the street. "What of him?" She was paying little heed to anything about her, for the meeting with Aunt Penine had aroused to new and acute paining the sense of her own great loss. This, thanks to the diversion afforded by her new surroundings, had begun to be a little dulled; for when one is young it is no easy matter for any sorrow, however heavy, to utterly crush out all the light and hope.