ommerce, now ruined by the exactions of
privateers and ships of war. Both parties wailed over this intolerable
union of insult and injury; but always the President stood for peace,
and, contemplating a treaty with England, was well aware how hopeless
would be a contest on sea or land with the countries which, recklessly
indifferent to international law, were ever tempting us to active
measures of resentment. For De Courval the situation had, as it seemed,
no personal interest. There has been some need, however, to remind my
readers of events which were not without influence upon the fortunes of
those with whom this story is concerned.

Schmidt was earnestly desirous that they should still remain in the
country, and this for many reasons. De Courval and he would be the
better for the cool autumn weather, and both were quickly gathering
strength. Madame de Courval had rejoined them. The city was in mourning.
Whole families had been swept away. There were houses which no one
owned, unclaimed estates, and men missing of whose deaths there was no
record, while every day or two the little family of refugees heard of
those dead among the middle class or of poor acquaintances of whose
fates they had hitherto learned nothing. Neither Schmidt nor Rene would
talk of the horrors they had seen, and the subject was by tacit
agreement altogether avoided.

Meanwhile they rode, walked, and fished in the Schuylkill. Schmidt went
now and then to town on business, and soon, the fear of the plague quite
at an end, party strife was resumed, and the game of politics began
anew, while the city forgot the heroic few who had served it so well,
and whom to-day history also has forgotten and no stone commemorates.

One afternoon Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come, let us have a longer
walk!"

Margaret, eager to join them, would not ask it, and saw them go down the
garden path toward the river. "Bring me some goldenrod, please," she
called.

"Yes, with pleasure," cried De Courval at the gate, as he turned to look
back, "if there be any left."

"Then asters," she called.

"A fair picture," said Schmidt, "the mother and daughter, the bud and
the rose. You know the bluets folks hereabouts call the Quaker
ladies,--oh, I spoke of this before,--pretty, but it sufficeth not. Some
sweet vanity did contrive those Quaker garments."

It was in fact a fair picture. The girl stood, a gray figure in soft
Eastern stuffs brought home by our ships. One arm