"There! Go now with Martin, and don't grieve too much, and tell your mother not to grieve too much. Your father was a brave soldier and a good Christian, and—and the best smith I ever saw; and doubtless she will meet him in heaven," said the colonel, mixing up his words rather oddly in his sincere desire to console Philip. "She is poorly off, eh? A little ready money, now—" "Oh no, Your Excellency; we are well-to-do," answered Philip, somewhat hastily, as the colonel put his hand in his pocket. "I thank you for the thought; but, so far as that goes, we need nothing." "That is well; I am glad to hear it," answered the colonel. "That isn't as bad as if she did not know where to turn for a meal for her children.—There, Martin!"—suddenly changing the subject. "Somebody has broken the cat's basin again. I must have a wooden one. See and provide one." Philip resolved in his mind that the colonel should have such a wooden basin as never lady-cat rejoiced in before. He made his bow, and followed Martin to his own apartment—a snug room in a tower of the old castle-like pile, in much better order than his master's. "There! Sit down, sit down!" said Martin, making Philip comfortable. "We will have our supper here, and then we can talk in peace. I have a good deal to say to you." The supper was produced, and a savoury one it was, but Philip's heart was too full for him to eat. Now that the last glimmering spark of hope was put out, he knew how carefully he had cherished it. "And so you came all the way over here to get news of your father, eh?" said Martin, after he had lighted his pipe. "And only to hear that there is no more hope of seeing him alive," said Philip, sadly. "Only that certainty is better for my mother than suspense, I might have saved my journey. We shall never see my father again till the sea gives up its dead." "I am not so sure of that," said Martin. Philip looked at him in surprise. "One does not tell all one knows even when he has Von Falkenstein for a master," continued Martin. He took a few more pulls at his pipe, and then added, "I don't think it by any means certain that your father is dead." Philip started from his chair. "Sit down, sit down!" said the old man. "I will tell you all I know, and then you can judge for yourself how much to believe. There was a man named Dandy who used to sell eggs, butter, and cheese in the British and Hessian camp while we were in Philadelphia. He was what they call a Tory, and a great scamp, like most of them. His neighbours found him out, so he had to leave his home, and he became a regular camp-follower. I saw him down at Yorktown, where we surrendered to the Yankees. Ah! They made it hot for us, I can tell you. I never saw hotter work." Philip was on fire with impatience, but he prudently refrained from interruption.