“But Jack!” she said. She did not like to see Jack with a pipe. He looked too like a sweet girl, with his fair skin and his yellow hair. I smoked on in mighty peace of mind, and soon she began again, being rarely long silent, “I hope you and your cousin will never meet, Hugh.” The suddenness of this overcame me, and I felt myself flush. “Ah!” she said, “I knew it. There is little love lost between you.” “There are things a man cannot forgive.” “Then may the good God keep you apart, my son.” “I trust not,” said I. “I can forgive an insult, even if I am Welsh and a Wynne; but oh, Aunt Gainor, those added weeks of misery, foulness, filth, and pain I owe to this man! I will kill him as I would kill any other vermin.” Then I was ashamed, for to say such things before women was not my way. “I could kill him myself,” said my aunt, savagely. “And now do have some more of this nice, good gruel,” which set me to laughing. “Let him go,” said I, “and the gruel too.” “And that is what you must do, sir. You must go. I am all day in terror.” And still I stayed on, pretty easy in mind; for my aunt had set a fellow on watch at Mount Airy, to let us know if any parties appeared, and we kept Lucy saddled. I sorely needed this rest and to be fed; for I was a mere shadow of my big self when I alighted at her door on that memorable 20th of February. The day before I left this delightful haven between jail and camp, came one of my aunt’s women slaves with a letter she had brought from the city, and this was what it said: “DEAR MISTRESS WYNNE: At last I am honoured with the permission to write and tell you that Mr. Hugh Wynne is alive. It was cruel that the general would not earlier grant me so small a favour as to pass an open letter; but Arthur found much difficulty, by reason, I fear, of your well-known opinions. He was on the way to the jail when he heard of Mr. Hugh Wynne’s having escaped, after dreadfully injuring the poor man who took such good care of him all winter. How it came that he lay five months in this vile abode neither Arthur nor I can imagine, nor yet how he got out of the town. “Arthur tells me that insolent rebel, Allan McLane, broke into your house and stole the beautiful sword the Elector of Hesse gave to General von Knyphausen, and what more he took the Lord knows. Also he left an impudent letter. The general will hang him whenever he catches him; but there is a proverb: perhaps it is sometimes the fish that is the better fisherman. “I have a queer suspicion as to this matter, and as to the mare Lucy being stolen. I am so glad it is I that have the joy to tell you of Mr. Hugh Wynne’s safety; and until he returns my visit, and forever after, I am, madam, “Your devoted, humble servant, “DARTHEA. “To Mad(e) Wynne, “At the Hill Farm, “Chestnut Hill.”