"Oh, I like your singing, I protest; and if you remain long enough in the valley, I shall claim a future exertion of the faculty, perhaps even a serenade. But beware of my father; if _he_ discovers this new virtue in you, rest assured, you will have to sing him Yankee Doodle and God Save Great Washington, all day long; and this too," she added with a mirthful smile, "without any hope of escaping from 'that grand picture of the Battle of Brandywine and--and Tom Loring dying.'--Ah, Mr. Hunter," she said, apologetically, for her eyes again glistened, and her lip quivered, as she pronounced the familiar name, "you have perhaps laughed at my father, perhaps you will laugh at me, when you behold our usual insanity on the subject of my brother. But he was one whom it was not easy to forget,--one long to be remembered by both sire and sister.--But I see you are displaying your generalship; you intend to beat a retreat, while the enemy is sleeping. Perhaps you are wise. Richard will have the carriage ready in a few moments." "Not so, Miss Loring: I will depart on foot, like a pilgrim, as will be best. An unlucky jolt in the carriage over a stone, might bring me under the tender mercies of the doctor again." And he touched his wounded arm significantly. "You are right," said Catherine, after a pause. "The distance is short; Richard shall escort you, for fear of accident; and Phoebe and myself will add to your retinue as far as the park-gate. Do you really consider yourself equal to the walk?" "I do," replied the young man; "but pray be not in such a hurry to discharge me. In a very few days,--perhaps as soon as I am able to resume the saddle, I must take up my line of march, (to borrow your military illustration;) from Hawk-Hollow, with but little expectation,--that is, I think so,--of ever seeing it again." "Must you, indeed? I thought you were to explore every cliff and brook in the county. However, I cannot blame you. I am afraid my father's strange conversation about 'those grand pictures,' must annoy you; and you are right to escape." "On the contrary, Miss Loring," said the painter, "I am sincerely desirous to gratify him in that fancy; and, though sorely convinced of my inability to paint him any picture worthy acceptance, yet, were my arm well, I should do my best to paint him something; and if I had but a portrait or miniature of your deceased brother for a few hours, to secure a likeness"---- "You must not think of it seriously, Mr. Hunter. It is but a whimsical fancy, which my father will soon forget. There is no portrait of my brother; he was but a boy of eighteen, and his likeness was never painted. Indeed, I wish it had been, for my father's sake."