Peter looked down into that dearest of faces, gazing at him so frankly and with such interest, so very near his, and wondered what deed was noble or great enough to win a kiss from those lips. Several times that afternoon, it had seemed to him that he could not keep himself from leaning over and taking one. He even went so far now as to speculate on exactly what Leonore would do if he did. Fortunately his face was not given to expressing his thoughts. Leonore never dreamed how narrow an escape she had. “If only she wouldn’t be so friendly and confiding,” groaned Peter, even while absolutely happy in her mood. “I can’t do it, when she trusts me so.” “Well,” said Leonore, “perhaps when you’ve done staring at me, you’ll answer my question.” “I think they’ll do as we tell them,” smiled Peter. “But we’ll get word to-morrow about Dutchess and Steuben. Then we shall know better how the land lies, and can talk plainer.” “Will there be more ciphers, to-morrow?” “Yes.” To himself Peter said, “I must write Green and the rest to telegraph me every day.” “Now we’ll have a cup of tea,” said Leonore. “I like politics.” “Then you would like Albany,” said Peter, putting a chair for her by the little tea-table. “I wouldn’t live in Albany for the whole world,” said Leonore, resuming her old self with horrible rapidity. But just then she burnt her finger with the match with which she was lighting the lamp, and her cruelty vanished in a wail. “Oh!” she cried. “How it hurts.” “Let me see,” said Peter sympathetically. The little hand was held up. “It does hurt,” said Leonore, who saw that there was a painful absence of all signs of injury, and feared Peter would laugh at such a burn after those he had suffered. But Peter treated it very seriously. “I’m sure it does,” he said, taking possession of the hand. “And I know how it hurts.” He leaned over and kissed the little thumb. Then he didn’t care a scrap whether Leonore liked Albany or not. “I won’t snub you this time,” said Leonore to herself, “because you didn’t laugh at me for it.” Peter’s evening was not so happy. Leonore told him as they rose from dinner that she was going to a dance. “We have permission to take you. Do you care to go?” “Yes. If you’ll give me some dances.” “I’ve told you once that I’ll only give you the ones not taken by better dancers. If you choose to stay round I’ll take you for those.” “Do you ever have a dance over?” asked Peter, marvelling at such a possibility. “I’ve only been to one dance. I didn’t have at that.” “Well,” said Peter, growling a little, “I’ll go.” “Oh,” said Leonore, calmly, “don’t put yourself out on my account.” “I’m not,” growled Peter. “I’m doing it to please myself.” Then he laughed, so Leonore laughed too. After a game of billiards they all went to the dance. As they entered the hall, Peter heard his name called in a peculiar voice behind. He turned and saw Dorothy.