So the conversation went on until Betty Clevering, her face like a budding rose, came forward again. "This letter," she said, holding up the missive, "is one of friendship merely; in it I find absolutely nothing against our cause, save a curse on the war that keeps the writer from--from her he loves." "Dear me, to see her blush one would think it were Betty's love-letter, not Joscelyn's." "How shy she looks!" "Betty, was it writ so tenderly that you, who are but an outsider, are abashed to read it? Truly, I wish Master Singleton would give lessons in love writing. My man talks so much of General Washington and his doings that he quite forgets to put in the love passages." "And 'tis for those that a woman reads her letters," said Mistress Strudwick. "The 'I love yous' and 'dears' and 'kisses' scattered through the pages mean more to her heart than the announcement of a victory. In faith, old woman as I am, I always read the last sentence first, knowing it will be the sweetest, if so the writer is in his senses." "That is why I wanted so much to read Joscelyn's letter. I knew Eustace would never plot against his own town any more than she would, but an ardent love-letter makes good reading, no matter to whom it may be writ," laughed Dorothy Graham, breaking a glowing rose from a nearby bush, and holding it playfully against Betty's cheek, looking archly at her companions as she tapped first one and then the other with her finger, whereupon the laugh again arose, for some had long ago guessed at Eustace's passion. Meantime, Joscelyn, drawing somewhat apart, took the strange letter from her dress and broke the wafer. The missive covered but one scant page, but those who watched as she read saw her face grow pale and her lip tremble. MISTRESS JOSCELYN CHESHIRE, in Hillsboro'-town: Richard Clevering, with ten of his comrades, taken at Monmouth field, lies in one of the prison-ships in Wallabout Bay. If he is aught to you,--you know best whom _he_ loves,--bestir yourself for an exchange, for only that can save him from the sure death that lurks in those accursed hulks. I, one of the guard that carried him there, promised him that you should know, and at the risk of discovery and punishment I thus keep my promise. He is brave and generous. It were a pity to let him die. JAMES COLBORN. NEW YORK, this tenth day of July, 1778. Even in the far southern towns the infamy of those prison-ships had been told, and with a sudden gesture of compassion the girl stretched her arms toward the opposite house. "Aunt Clevering, poor Aunt Clevering!" and thrusting the letter into Mistress Strudwick's hands, she exclaimed: "Here read it--read it aloud, then take it over yonder--I cannot." And gathering Betty close in her arms she listened while the letter was read to the sorrowing women. "Who are the others? Called he no names?" "Oh, mayhap one is my son!"