_Mrs. G_. And false, I trust it is. At least till it is proved otherwise, Helen must not hear of it.

_Annie_. And why?

_Mrs. Grey_. She needs no caution, and it were useless to add to the idle fear with which she regards them all, already. Some dark fancy possesses her to-day; I have marked it myself.

_Annie_. It is just two years to-morrow, mother, since Helen's wedding day, or rather, that sad day that should have seen her bridal; and it cannot be that she has quite forgotten Everard Maitland. Alas, he seemed so n.o.ble!

_Mrs. G_. Hush! Never name him. Your sister is too high-hearted to waste a thought on him. Tory! Helen is no love-lorn damsel, child, to pine for an unworthy love. See the rose on that round cheek,--it might teach that same haughty loyalist, could he see her now, what kind of hearts 'tis that we patriots wear, whose strength they think to trample. Where are you going, Annie?

_Annie_. Not beyond the orchard-wall. I will only stroll down the path here, just to breathe this lovely air a little; indeed, there's no fear of my going further now.

[_Exit_.

_Mrs. G_. Did I say right, Helen? It cannot be feigned. Those quick smiles, with their thousand lovely meanings; those eyes, whose beams lead straight to the smiling soul. Principle is it? There is no principle in this, but joy, or else it strikes so deep, that the joy grows up from it, genuine, not feigned; and yet I have found her weeping once or twice of late, in unexplained agony. Helen!

_Helen_. Oh mother! is it you? Thank G.o.d. I thought----

_Mrs. G_. What did you think? What moves you thus?

_Helen_. I thought--'tis nothing. This _is_ very strange.

_Mrs. G_. Why do you look through that window thus? There's no one there! What is it that's so strange?

_Helen_. Is it to-morrow that we go?

_Mrs. G_. To Albany? Why, no; on Thursday. You are bewildered, Helen!

surely you could not have forgotten that.

_Helen_. I wish it was to-day. I do.

_Mrs. G_. My child, yesterday, when the question was debated here, and wishing might have been of some avail, 'tis true you did not say much, but I thought, and so we all did, that you chose to stay.

_Helen_. Did you? Mother, does the road to Albany wind over a hill like that?

_Mrs. G_. Like what, Helen?

_Helen_. Like yonder wooded hill, where the soldiers are stationed now?

_Mrs. G_. Not that I know of? Why?

_Helen_. Perhaps we may cross that very hill,--no--could we?

_Mrs. G_. Not unless we should turn refugees, my love; an event of which there is little danger just now, I think. That road, as indeed you know yourself, leads out directly to the British camp.

_Helen_. Yes--yes--it does. I know it does. I will not yield to it. 'Tis folly, all.

_Mrs. G_. You talk as though you were dreaming still; my child. Put on your hat, and go into the garden for a little, the air is fresh and pleasant now; or take a ramble through the orchard if you will, you might meet Annie there,--no, yon she comes, and well too. It's quite time that I were gone again. I wish that we had nothing worse than dreams on hand. Helen, I must talk with you about these fancies; you must not thus unnerve yourself for real evil.

[_Exit_.

_Helen_. It were impossible,--it could not be!--how could it be?--Oh!

these are wild times. Unseen powers are crossing their meshes here around us,--and, what am I--Powers?--there's but one Power, and that--

----"He careth for the little bird, Far in the lone wood's depths, and though dark weapons And keen eyes are out, it falleth not But at his will."

[_Exit_.

PART SECOND

LOVE

DIALOGUE I.

SCENE. _A little glen in the woods near Fort Edward. A young British Officer appears, attended by a soldier in the American uniform; the latter with a small sealed pacquet in his hand_.

_Off_. Hist!

_Sol_. Well, so I did; but----

_Off_. Hist, I say!

_Sol_. A squirrel it is, Sir; there he sits.

_Off_. By keeping this path you avoid the picket on the hill. It will bring you out where these woods skirt the vale, and scarcely a hundred rods from the house itself.

[_Calling without_.]

_Sol_. Captain Andre--Sir.

_Off_. It were well that the pacquet should fall into no other hands.

With a little caution there is no danger. It will be twilight ere you get out of these woods--

_Sol_. I beg your pardon, Sir; but here is that young Indian guide of mine, after all, above there, beckoning me.

_Off_. Stay--you will come back to the camp ere midnight?

_Sol_. Unless some of these quick-eyed rebels see through my disguise.