"No one knows. There was no demonstration of any kind. It differed much from the farewell of General Howe. Arnold left in disgrace, it would seem," said the Inn-keeper, as he moved away to give his attention to other business.

"And Peggy gone, too?" Stephen was genuinely surprised at this, for he rather expected that she would remain with her mother.

"I am sure that the majority of our people are greatly pleased at the change," said Mr. Allison. "I never saw one sink to such depths of contempt. He came to the city as Military Governor in a blaze of triumph, the most celebrated soldier in the army, whose rise to popular esteem was only accelerated by the knowledge of the harsh treatment received by him at the hands of Congress after the battle of Saratoga.

He was the idol alike of soldiers and civilians. Their hearts were his without the asking. That was two years ago. Today he left the city in the fullness of his years, in secret, after so many plaudits, in obloquy, after so much honor."

"It is a sad commentary on human nature," Stephen observed. "Yet in all things else I blame the woman. 'Cherchez la femme.'"

The room already was reeky from the clouds of tobacco smoke streaming upwards from the pipes of the several guests who were lounging in small groups about the room. There were several parties in as many corners, each wholly unconcerned about the other. The conversation of our trio was therefore private insofar as any privacy can be expected in an inn.

Only the boisterous individual made himself heard, and then only to the displeasure of the others.

Leaving the two at the Inn, Stephen bade them adieu and directed his journey in the direction of Second Street. Hastening his steps he soon reached the Germantown road, and as he turned the bend perceived the familiar outline of the Allison home. Little did he suspect, however, that the curtains of one of the upper windows concealed a lithe form and that his swift gait was being interpreted with a world of meaning. He laid his hand on the gate, and even then Marjorie had opened the door to meet him.

III

"First of all," she said, "how long may you remain? Will you dine with us, or what?"

"I shall be most pleased. I have several days. His Excellency has gone to Hartford to engage in conference. It was intended that I should accompany the staff. I begged leave, however, to return to Philadelphia."

They were seated on the sofa in the distant corner of the parlor. They were quite alone now for the first time, the mother having asked to be excused after many minutes with the announcement that since he would be pleased to remain, the supper must needs be prepared. No, Marjorie need not help her. She might entertain Captain Meagher.

"It's glorious to see you again," he said, sitting down beside her after Mrs. Allison had departed from the room.

"I am glad you have come," she replied softly, rubbing her hand across her ap.r.o.n as if to arrange it neatly.

"But you knew that I would come, didn't you?"

"I thought so."

"And yet I greatly feared that it would not be possible. Preparations are being made for the final campaign, and it is expected that the French will be asked to play an important part."

"It was very generous of His Excellency to grant you leave."

He began to smile.

"Could you guess how I obtained it?" he asked.

She turned to regard him.

"What have you done?" she asked soberly.

"Showed him your letter."

"Stephen!" she gasped as she drew back.

Neither spoke. He continued to smile at her apparent concern, while she stared at him.

"Do you mean it?" she asked; then quickly--"or are you teasing?"

"I did. I showed the letter to him, and asked if I might return to you."

"He read it?"

"There! There! I am joking. He did not read it, but I did have it in my hand, and I told him about you and that I was going back to take you with me."

Satisfied, she allowed herself to a.s.sume a more relaxed composure.

"You are going to destroy it, aren't you?"

He took it from his pocket and looked at it. She, too, glanced at it, and then at him.

"May I keep it? I treasure every word of it, you know."

"Did you but know how it was composed, you might ridicule me."

"I suppose you closed yourself behind some great veil to shut out the world from your view. Your mind toiled with thought until you were resolved upon the heroic. There was no scheme nor formula; your quill ran on and on in obedience to the flood of ideas which inspired it."

She lapsed into meditation; but she recovered herself immediately.

"No," she shook her head slowly though steadily. "At midnight with the aid of a little candle which burned itself out quite before the end."

He looked up sharply.

"That night?"

She nodded.

He put his arms around her and drew her close. She made no resistance, but allowed herself to fall into his embrace.

"Marjorie!" he whispered.

She yielded both her hands to his grasp and felt them compressed within it.

"You were not hurt at my seeming indiscretion?"

"I told you in my letter that I was not."

"Then you do love me?"

She drew back a little as if to glance at him.

"You know that I do," was the soft, rea.s.suring answer.

"Won't you let me hear you say it?" he pleaded.

Reaching out, she put both arms about him and offered her lips to his, whispering at the same time only what he was destined to hear.

Presently the old clock began to strike the hour of five.