Often, as he stood nibbling grass he saw a strange looking youth limp across the Green with never a nod or greeting for him or any one else. Absorbed, stern of expression, and morose, this lad was destined to rise to prominence, the like of which could not be foreseen in one without influence, the son of a poor, hard working widow. This lame boy was none other than young Thaddeus Stevens, who, by industry and perseverance, gained his book-learning in Burlington and later graduated at Dartmouth College. Burlington was now a very different place from the logging camp Morgan first remembered. The old wharf, made of a few logs fastened together, at the foot of King’s Street, had given way to a fine new one; houses had taken the place of camps and were scattered as far as the Winooski. The College on the Hill, commanding the lake, gave distinction to the town, seeming to crown it with a cap of learning; Ira Allen’s iron foundries, mills and forges gave work to many, and linen, woolen and cotton mills had been built; an immense quantity of liquor was distilled. It was a busy and prosperous town, having grown greatly in importance since Ira Allen launched his first schooner, “Liberty,” a long while before. One day Stone brought to the stable an army officer. The military hat was set well upon the handsome head of the stranger, a cloak was flung with careless grace about his shoulder; spurs shone on his heels and a sword clanked, musically, at his side. Intuitively, Morgan liked this man. It was easy to see he was a fine, brave American soldier, with a cool and level head. His uniform was grand and inspiring to the horse, who still looked upon soldiers and the idea of war with quivering anticipation. “So this is the horse, eh?” the officer asked Stone, and Morgan knew by his soft tone and speech that he came from the same state as Mistress Lloyd--there was no mistaking a Marylander! As the stranger caught the halter his touch was so firm and friendly the horse knew instantly that here was his _master_. He arched his crest, pawed the ground prettily, and thrust his large, sensitive nostrils forward. Stone led him out into the bright sunshine; the officer examined him thoroughly--an operation Morgan had long since grown accustomed to, as he had changed owners so often. A flame of friendship sprang up between the two. “I can scarce credit his age to be twenty-two!” said the stranger. “He has such suppleness of joint, he moves with the action of a five-year-old!” Stone was pleased and proud of his horse; he said: “Those are his characteristics, Captain Dulaney!” Dulaney? Morgan’s memory awoke, vaguely. “And from what stock, did you say?” the officer enquired. Stone let him know all that was said concerning Morgan’s parentage. Then he continued: