hen,
she had risked everything to aid my escape. She had done no more
since--all might have arisen from the same impersonal motive. But what
could that motive be? A mere love of adventure, the reckless audacity of
youthful spirits, a secret sympathy with the cause of the Colonies, or a
desire to outwit Grant? I could not believe her purpose unworthy, that
she would sink her womanhood into mere trickery. She disliked Grant,
despised him as she had just cause, yet it was not to anger him that she
had helped me. Somewhere there was a reason, and a valid one, for her
action.

And, on the other hand, what could make it impossible for her to confess
the truth? A love for some one else? It was not Grant, at least, and no
other name had ever been mentioned. She insisted that she was a sham, a
fraud; that when I really knew her I might despise her. She had not
spoken this as a joke, but in sober earnestness. What could be the
meaning? I had suggested that she was a British spy, and she had made no
denial, and yet it was impossible to believe such a charge true. All I
had witnessed of her acts would seem rather to connect her with the
Colonies. Yet there were matters unexplained--the mysterious night
riding, the attack on me, and my first night's imprisonment at Elmhurst.
No attempt had been made to clear up these affairs, and I might construe
them as I pleased. Yet there was nothing convincing, as I knew not how
far Eric might be concerned. Perhaps all that appeared strange about the
conduct of the sister could be explained by a few moments' conversation
with the brother. I determined to search him out as soon as I was safely
within the lines, and hear his story.

It was already daylight when I arrived at this conclusion, and, in the
gray desolation of dawn, drew up on the bluff summit to gaze down into
the river valley. It was a scene of quiet beauty, reflecting little of
the ravages of war. My vantage of height gave me a wide vista, embracing
the silvery stream, and a long stretch of meadow land, dotted with
farmhouses, and intersected by roads. In the middle distance small
villages faced each other across the stream, and toward these most of the
roads converged,--proof of the existence of a ford. I could not be
mistaken as to the town--Burlington on the Jersey shore, and opposite
Bristol. I should be safe enough in the latter, even if we had no outpost
stationed there. I knew homes along those shaded streets, where food
wou