hile Peter unstrapped her skates. As she
looked up, she saw Yorke and Philip Livingston talking with the boy who
had been hurlie for Kitty, and it crossed her mind to wonder where Kitty
had vanished. So she rose to her feet and walked leisurely along with
Peter toward the tan-yard and turned the corner of the furnace chimney.
As she did so, she almost stumbled against a man, who drew back
suddenly; on the other side stood Kitty, and Betty distinctly saw a
piece of white paper pass from Kitty's muff into the hand of the
stranger, whom she instantly recognized as the greasy fisherman who had
crossed the bridge half an hour before.

CHAPTER XII

A FACE ON THE WALL

Betty sat in her favorite seat, a low, three-legged cricket, on the side
farthest from the fire in Clarissa's little morning-room; it was the day
before Christmas, and Betty's fingers were busy tying evergreens into
small bunches and wreaths. Of these a large hamperful stood at her
elbow, and Peter was cutting away the smaller branches, with a face of
importance.

"So you have never kept Christmas before," said he, pausing in his
cheerful whistle, which he kept up under his breath like a violin
obligato to his whittling of boughs; "and you don't believe in Kris
Kringle and his prancing reindeers? My, what fun we boys had up in the
old Beverwyck at Albany last year," and Peter chuckled at the
recollection of past pranks. "Down here in the city it is chiefly New
Year day which is observed, but thank fortune Gulian is sufficiently
Dutch to believe in St. Nicholas."

"Yes?" murmured Betty, her thoughts far away as she wondered what
Moppet was doing up in the Litchfield hills, and whether Oliver had got
back safely to the army again. Surely, he had cautioned her not to
recognize him, but luckily her fortitude had not been put to proof. And
then she wondered what secret mission Kitty had been engaged upon that
day at Collect Pond. Somehow Kitty and she had been more confidential
since then; and one night, sitting by the fire in Betty's room, Kitty
had confessed that she too was a rebel--yes, a sturdy, unswerving rebel,
true to the Colonies and General Washington, and Betty's warm heart had
gone forth toward her from that very moment.

"Clarissa has a huge crock full of _olykeoks_ in the pantry," pursued
Peter, to whom the Dutch dainty was sufficiently toothsome; "and Pompey
has orders to brew a fine punch made of cider and lemons for the
servants, and