As I knew not when we should leave, nor how busy I might be while still in the city, I thought it well to talk to my aunt of my father’s sad condition, and of some other matters of moment. Of the deed so strangely come into my possession she also spoke. It seemed to be much on her mind. I still told her I cared little for the Welsh lands, and this was true. Nevertheless I discovered in myself no desire to be pleasant to Mr. Arthur Wynne, and I began to suspect with my aunt that more than Darthea, or stupid jealousy, or the memory of a blow, might be at the bottom of his disposition to injure me. It may seem strange to those who read what a quiet old fellow writes, that I should so frankly confess my hatred of my cousin. Nowadays men lie about one another, and stab with words, and no one resents it. Is the power to hate to the death fading out? and are we the better for this? It may be so. Think of the weary months in jail, of starvation, insult, and the miseries of cold, raggedness, filth, and fever. Think, too, of my father set against me, of the Mischianza business,--but for that I blame him not,--and, last, of his involving me in the vile net of Arnold’s treason. I could as soon forgive a snake that had bit me as this reptile. “Mr. James Wilson has the deed,” said my aunt; “and of that we shall learn more when Mr. Cornwallis is took, and you come home a general. And now go and see Darthea, and let me hear how many will be to dine, and send me, too, a half-dozen of good old wine from my brother’s cellar--the old Wynne Madeira. Decant it with care, and don’t trust that black animal Tom. Mind, sir!” Darthea lived but a little way from my aunt’s, and with my heart knocking at my ribs as it never had done at sight of levelled muskets, I found my way into Mistress Peniston’s parlour, and waited, as it seemed to me, an age. It was a large back room with an open fireplace and high-backed chairs, claw-toed tables bare of books or china, with the floor polished like glass. Penistons and De Lanceys, in hoop and hood, and liberal of neck and bosom, looked down on me. It was all stiff and formal, but to me pleasantly familiar. Would she never come? Then I heard a slow step on the stair, and the rustle of skirts, and here was Darthea, pale and grave, but more full in bud, and, I thought, more lovely in her maturing womanhood. She paused at the doorway, and made as it were to greet me with a formal curtsey, but then--how like her it did seem!--ran forward and gave me both her hands, saying: “You are welcome, Mr. Wynne. I am most glad to see you. You are all for the South, I hear. Is it not so?” I said yes, and how delightful it was to be here if but for a day or two; and then, being pretty vain, must tell her of my good fortune. “I am glad of my friend’s success, but I wish it were with the other side. Oh, I am a mighty Tory yet,” shaking her head. “I have seen your Mr. Washington. What a fine man! and favours Mr. Arnold a trifle.”