Mr. Underhill made a brief explanation of his antecedents, and his removal to the city,--then mentioned hearing of them from Mr. Brockner.

"You are very good to hunt us up," she said, with a touching tremble in her voice. "I don't think now I could tell anything about my father's relatives. He was killed at the battle of Harlem Heights, and my only brother was taken prisoner. The Ferrises, my mother's people, owned a great farm here-about. But much of it was laid waste, and a little later the old homestead burned down. This house was built for us before the British evacuated the city. My brother had died in prison of a fever, and there were only my mother and us two girls."

Hanny was sitting quite close by her. She reached over and took the wrinkled hand gently.

"Do you mean you were alive then--a little girl in the Revolutionary War?" she exclaimed in breathless surprise.

"Why, I was nine years old," and she gave a faded little smile. "I doubt if you're more than that."

"I am a little past eight," said Hanny.

"And the battle was just over yonder," nodding her head. "We all hoped so that General Washington would win. My father was very patriotic and very much in earnest for the independence of the country. The armies were separated by Harlem Plains, and General Howe pushed forward through McGowan's Pa.s.s, the rocky gorge over yonder. But our men forced them into the cleared field, and if it had not been for a troop of Hessians they would have driven the British off the field. But I believe Washington thought it best to retreat. I've heard it was almost a victory, still it wasn't quite. But we were wild with apprehension, for we could hear the noise and the firing. And then the awful word came that father was killed."

"Oh!" cried the little girl, and she laid her soft cheek on the wrinkled hand. What if she had been alive then!--and she looked over at _her_ father with tears in her eyes.

"It was a sad, sad time. Some of the Ferrises were on the King's side.

You know a great many people believed the rebels all wrong and said they never could win. My Uncle Ferris was bitterly opposed to father's espousing the Federalists' cause."

"But you didn't want England to win, did you?" inquired the little girl, wide-eyed.

"We were so full of trouble. Mother was very bitter, I remember, and folks called her a Tory. Then brother, who was only seventeen, was taken prisoner. Uncle Ferris said it would be a good lesson for a hot-headed young fellow, and that two or three months in prison would cool his ardor. But he was taken sick and died before we knew he was really ill.

Then our house burned down. Mother thought it was set on fire. Oh, my child, such quant.i.ties of things as were in it! My mother had never gone away from the old house because grandmother was a widow. Then the land was divided, and this smaller house built for mother and us. The British took possession of the city, and it was said uncle made money right along. But the English were very good to us, and no one ever molested us after that. Dear, we used to think it almost a day's journey to go down to the Bowling Green."

The little girl was listening wide-eyed, and drew a long breath.

"There have been many changes. But somehow we seem to have gone on until most everybody has forgotten us. You might like to see sister Jane, though she's quite deaf and hasn't her mind very clear. I don't know,"--hesitatingly.

"Do you live all alone here?" Mr. Underhill asked.

"Not exactly alone; no. We sold the next-door lot four years ago to some Germans, very nice people. The mother comes in and helps with our little work and looks after our garden, and sleeps here at night. The doctor thought it wasn't safe to be left here alone with sister Jane. It made it easy for them to pay for the place. It's nearly all gone now. But there'll be enough to last our time out," she commented with a soft sigh of self-abnegation.

"And you have no relatives, that is, no one to look after you a bit?"

"Well, you see grandmother made hard feelings with the relatives. She didn't think the colonies had any right to go to war. And after father's death mother felt a good deal that way. They dropped us out, and we never took any pains to hunt them up. We never knew much about the Underhills. I must say you are very kind to come," and her voice trembled.

Just then the door opened and Miss Underhill sprang up to take her sister's arm and lead her to a chair. She was taller and stouter, and the little girl thought her the oldest-looking person she had ever seen.

Her cap was all awry, her shawl was slipping off of one shoulder, and she had a sort of dishevelled appearance, as she looked curiously around.

Lois straightened her up, seated her, and introduced her to the visitors.

"I'm hungry. I want something to eat, Lois," she exclaimed in a whining, tremulous tone, regardless of the strangers.

Miss Underhill begged to be excused, and went for a plate of bread and b.u.t.ter and a cup of milk.

"Perhaps you'd like to see our old parlor," she said to her guests, and opened the door.

There were two rooms on this side of the house. The back one was used for a sleeping chamber. She threw the shutters wide open, and a little late sunshine stole over the faded carpet that had once been such a matter of pride with the two young women. There were some family portraits, a man with a queue and a ruffled shirt-front, another with a big curly white wig coming down over his shoulders, and several ladies whose attire seemed very queer indeed. There was a black sofa studded with bra.s.s nails that shone as if they had been lately polished, a tall desk and bookcase going up to the ceiling, bra.s.s and silver candlesticks and snuffers' tray, as well as a bright steel "tinder box" on the high, narrow mantel. A big mahogany table stood in the centre of the room, polished until you could see your face in it. But there was an odd tall article in the corner, much tarnished now, but ornamented with gilt and white vines that drooped and twisted about. Long wiry strings went from top to bottom.

"I suppose you don't know what that is!" said Miss Lois, when she saw the little girl inspecting it. "That's a harp. Young ladies played on it when we were young ourselves. And they had a spinet. I believe it's altered now and called a piano."

"A harp!" said the little girl in amaze. Her ideas of a harp were very vague, but she thought it was something you carried around with you.

She had heard the children sing

"I want to be an angel And with the angels stand; A crown upon my forehead, A harp within my hand,"

and the size of this confused her.

"But how could you play on it?" she asked.

"You stood this way. You could sit down, but it was considered more graceful to stand. And you played in this manner."

She fingered the rusted strings. A few emitted a doleful sort of sound almost like a cry.

"We've all grown old together," she said sorrowfully. "It was considered a great accomplishment in my time. I believe people still play on the harp. We had a great many curious things, but several years ago a committee of some kind came and bought them. We needed the money sadly, and we had no one to leave them to when we died. There was some beautiful old china, and a lady bought the fan and handkerchief that my grandmother carried at her wedding. The handkerchief was worked at some convent in Italy and was fine as a cobweb. My mother used it, and then it was laid by for us. But we never needed it," and she gave a soft sigh.

She had glided out now and then to look after Jane, who was eating as if she was starved. And in the broken bits of talk Mr. Underhill had learned by indirect questioning that they had parted with their land by degrees, and with some family valuables, until there was only this old house and a small s.p.a.ce of ground left.

Miss Jane was anxious now to see the visitors. But she was so deaf Lois had to repeat everything, and she seemed to forget the moment a thing was said. Dobbin whinnied as if he thought the call had been long enough.

Mr. Underhill squeezed a bank-note into the hand of Miss Lois as he said good-by. "Get some little luxury for your sister," he added.

"Thank you for all your friendliness," and the tears stood in her eyes.

"Come again and bring your sister Margaret," she said to the little girl.

They drove over westward a short distance. The rocky gorge was still there, and at its foot was one of the first battle-fields of this vicinity. Hanny looked at it wonderingly.

"Then Washington retreated up to Kingsbridge," began her father. "They found they could not hold that, and so went on to White Plains, followed by some Hessian troops. They didn't seem very fortunate at first, for they were beaten again. Grandmother can tell you a good deal about that.

And a great-uncle had his house burned down and they were forced to fly to a little old house on top of a hill. My father was a little boy then."

The little girl looked amazed. Did he know about the war?

"It seems such a long, long time ago--like the flood and the selling of Joseph. And was grandmother really alive?"

"Grandmother is about as old as Miss Lois."

"Miss Lois doesn't look so awful old, but the other lady does. I felt afraid of her."

"Don't think of her, p.u.s.s.y. It's very sad to lose your senses and be a trouble."

"You couldn't," was the confident reply after much consideration. She didn't see how such a thing could happen to him.

"I hope I never shall," he returned, with an earnest prayer just under his breath.

Dobbin insisted upon going home briskly. He was thinking of his supper.

The little girl was so sorry not to have Benny Frank to talk over her adventures with. Margaret and her mother were basting shirts; John was drawing plans on the dining-room table. He had found a place to work at house-building and was studying architecture and draughting. A man had come in to see her father, so she was left quite alone. The Deans and several of the little girls on the block had gone visiting. She walked up and down a while, thinking how strange the world was, and what wonderful things had happened, vaguely feeling that there couldn't be any to come in the future.

At the end of the week she and Margaret went up to White Plains, as grandmother was anxious to see them.