"Is it you, Fair?" demanded the Major. "Come in--come in! I am merely going over old letters. They can wait. The men who wrote them are all dead." He turned in his chair. "Have you just come in?" "Yes, sir." "Unity was here awhile ago. She went through the glass door--down to the quarter, I suppose." "I will stay here for a while, sir, if I may. Don't let me disturb you. I will take a book." "You do not disturb me," answered the Major. "I was reading a letter from Hamilton, written long ago--long ago. "I met Deb in the driveway and we walked to the house together. Poor little maid! She is mightily distressed because she thinks there's a lack of Christmas cheer. I wish, sir, that she might have a merry Christmas." "We'll do our best, Fair. Unity shall make it bright." "The servants, too,--I give mine the usual feast at Greenwood, and I'm going down to the quarter for half an hour." "The Carys make good masters. In that respect all here, too, goes on as usual. As for Deb, the child shall have the happiest day we can give her." He took from a drawer a small morocco case and opened it. "She'll have from Dick a horse and saddle, and I give her this." He held out the case, and Cary praised the small gold watch with D.C. marked in pearls. "The only thing," continued Major Edward wearily, "is that she cannot go to Roselands. She has cried her heart out over that." "You declined the invitation for her?" "Yes. I made Dick do so. She is growing into womanhood. It will not answer." "Then, sir, Colonel Churchill must know--" "He doesn't 'know,'" said the Major doggedly. "Nobody really knows. We may be all pursuing a spectre. I told Dick enough to make him see that Deb should not be brought into contact--" There was a silence. Cary studied the fire, and Major Churchill unfolded deftly with his one hand a yellowing paper, glanced over it, and laid it in a separate drawer. "An order from General Washington--the André matter. Deb shall not visit Roselands again. Dick and I are not going to have both of Henry's children"--The Major's voice broke. "Pshaw! this damned weather gives a man a cold that Valley Forge itself couldn't give!" He unfolded another paper. "What's this? Benedict Arnold! Faugh!" Rising, he approached the fire and threw the letter in, then turned impatiently upon the younger man. "Well, Fairfax Cary?" "Is it still," asked Cary slowly, "your opinion that she does not know?" "She?" "Mrs. Rand." Major Edward dragged a chair to the corner of the hearth and sat heavily down. He bent forward, a brooding, melancholy figure, a thin old veteran, grey and scarred. The fire-light showed strongly square jaw, hawk nose, and beetle brows. When he spoke, it was in a voice inexpressibly sombre. "I have seen my niece but three times since September. If you ask me now what you asked me then, I shall answer differently. I do not know--I do not know if she knows or not!" "I think, sir, that I have a clue. The hour when he passed Red Fields--"