t time in his life--she kissed him on the forehead; and then
she let him go.

He rose now, and, silently as he had come, passed around the end of
the wide gallery.

Her gaze did not follow him. She sat still looking down the
golden-green slope where the leaves were dropping silently. She sat,
her chin in her hand, her elbows upon her knees, facing that future,
somber but splendid, to which she had devoted her son, and which in
later years he so singularly fulfilled.

That was the time when the mother of Meriwether Lewis gave him to his
fate--his fate, so closely linked with yours and mine.

CHAPTER II

MERIWETHER AND THEODOSIA

Soft is the sun in the summer season at Washington, softer at times
than any old Dan Chaucer ever knew; but again so ardent that anyone
who would ride abroad would best do so in the early morning. This is
true today, and it was true when the capital city lay in the heart of
a sweeping forest at the edge of a yet unconquered morass.

The young man who now rode into this forest, leaving behind him the
open streets of the straggling city--then but beginning to lighten
under the rays of the morning sun--was one who evidently knew his
Washington. He knew his own mind as well, for he rode steadily, as if
with some definite purpose, to some definite point, looking between
his horse's ears.

Sitting as erect and as easily as any cavalier of the world's best, he
was tall in his saddle seat, his legs were long and straight. His
boots were neatly varnished, his coat well cut, his gloves of good
pattern for that time. His hat swept over a mass of dark hair, which
fell deep in its loose cue upon his neck. His cravat was immaculate
and well tied. He was a good figure of a man, a fine example of the
young manhood of America as he rode, his light, firm hand half
unconsciously curbing the antics of the splendid animal beneath him--a
horse deep bay in color, high-mettled, a mount fit for a monarch--or
for a young gentleman of Virginia a little more than one hundred years
ago.

If it was not the horse of a monarch the young man bestrode, none the
less it was the horse of one who insisted that his stables should be
as good as those of any king--none less, if you please, than Mr.
Thomas Jefferson, then President of the United States of America.

This particular animal was none other than Arcturus, Mr. Jefferson's
favorite saddler. It was the duty as well as the delight of Mr.
Jefferson's private