“Indeed, you are right,” says she. “I am a red-hot Tory, sir. I scare Margaret Chew out of her sweet wits when I talk blood, blood, sir; and as to Miss Franks,--she hates to be called Becky,--when I say I hope to see Mr. Washington hanged, she vows he is too fine a man, and she would only hang the ugly ones. So take care, Mr. Stay-at-home, take care; I am no neutral.” “Thank thee,” I said, lifting my hat. “I like open enemies best.” “Oh, I will say a good word for you, when it comes to that, and you will need it. Sir Guy will have Ticonderoga soon, and Mr. Howe New York; so that, with my loyal cousins and the king in possession, we shall at least be in civilised society.” “There is a well-worn proverb,” said I, “about counting chickens. Where shalt thou be in New York?” “Cousin De Lancey has asked us to stay with them. When the king’s troops return to your rebel town we shall come back, I suppose.” “I am sorry,” I said. “All my friends are flitting like swallows. Poor Mr. Franks is to go, it seems, and the gay Miss Rebecca; but she likes the redcoats best, and another is of the same mind, I fear.” “I am not over-grieved to go myself,” said Darthea, “and we will not quarrel just now about the redcoats. Have you seen Mr. Warder to-day?” “I have not.” “Then I am the bearer of ill news. He is to join your new general in a week or two. He could not find you this morning. I think he was relieved to know I should tell you. How much he cares for you! It is not like a man friendship. It is like the way we weak girls care for one another. How can he be such a brave gentleman as he seems--as he must be? I should have thought it would be you who would have gone first. Why do you not go? Here is Miss Wynne’s pet girl-boy away to fight, and you--why do not you go?” I was puzzled, as well I might be. “Dost thou want me to go!” A quick light came into those brown eyes, and a little flush to the cheeks as she said,--oh, so very quickly,--“I want all my friends to do what seems to them right.” “I am glad to answer,” I said. “It seems to me my duty to be with the army; my friends have gone, and now Graydon, the last to leave, has also gone. I fancy people smiling to see me still at home--I who am so positive, so outspoken. But here is my father, with whom if I go I break for life, and here is my Aunt Gainor, who bursts into tears if I do but mention my wish to leave her.” “I see,” said Darthea, not looking at me; “now I understand fully; I did not before. But--will you think it strange if--if I say--I, a good and loyal woman--that you should go, and soon?” Then there was a long pause, and she added, “When will this cruel war end?” “God knows,” said I. “Thank thee; thou art right, Darthea.” Another pause as long came after, when she said abruptly, and in quite another voice, “You do not like Mr. Arthur Wynne; why do you not?” I was startled. One never knew when she would get under one’s guard and put some prickly question.