It was early autumn in Connecticut, and the maples had put on their most gorgeous robes of red and yellow. The weather had been mild for that region up to the middle of October, when a sudden light frost had flung its triumphant banner over hill and dale with a glow and glory seen to its greatest perfection in New England. The morning air was somewhat fresh, and Miss Bidwell, hearing Moppet's feet flying along the hall, opened the door of the sitting-room and called the child.

"You will need your tippet if you are going beyond the orchard, and I think perhaps your hood."

"Hood!" echoed Miss Moppet disdainfully, shaking her yellow curls over her shoulders until they danced almost of themselves; "I do not need to be muffled up as if I were a little girl, Miss Bidwell. You forget I was twelve years old yesterday," and she waltzed around the room, spreading her short skirt in a courtesy, to Miss Bidwell's admiring gaze.

"Indeed, I am likely to recollect when I myself arranged the twelve candles in your birthday cake."

"To be sure!" cried Moppet, with swift repentance, "and such an excellent, rich cake as it was, too. Do you think"—insinuatingly—"that I might have a slice, a very tiny slice, before I go forth with Betty to gather nuts in the Tracys' woods?"

"No," replied Miss Bidwell, laughing, "you will assuredly be ill if you touch one morsel before dinner. Run along, Miss Moppet, I see your sister waiting for you at the gate," and Moppet, with a jump and a skip, flew off through the side door and down the path, at the end of which stood Betty.

It was a very lovely Betty over whom the October sunshine played that morning, but to a keenly observant eye a different Betty from her who had danced at the De Lancey ball, now nearly three years past. This Betty had grown slightly taller, and there was an air of quiet dignity about her which suggested Pamela. But the beautiful merry eyes had deepened in expression, and it was, if anything, a still more attractive face than of old, although the fair unconsciousness of childhood had departed; and if mischief still lurked in the dimpled cheeks, that was because Betty's heart could never grow old; no matter what life might hold for her of joy or sorrow, she would always be to a certain extent a child. And well for her that it was so; do we not all know a few rare natures whose fascination dwells in this very quality?

The years had gone swiftly for Betty. Shortly after her parting with Yorke an opportunity had occurred for her return to Litchfield, and although Clarissa lamented her departure Betty was eager to fly home. Gulian had done his best to smooth over his ill-judged and ill-tempered effort to arrange her matrimonial affairs, and one of Betty's minor annoyances was her sister's evident disappointment at Yorke's rejection. Only once had she forgotten herself and flashed out upon Clarissa, peremptorily forbidding further discussion, and Clarissa had been positively aghast at the impetuous little creature who confronted her with flashing eyes and quivering lips, and had speedily warned Gulian never to broach the subject to Betty again. Peter was Betty's closest friend in those stormy days. The urchin had a shrewd perception of how matters stood, and many a time had Betty hugged him for very gratitude when he made a diversion and carried her off to some boyish haunt in the city or to the Collect, thereby giving her opportunity to regain the self-control and spirit necessary to appear as usual. For Betty was formed of gallant stuff. No matter if her heart ached to bursting for sight of Geoffrey, if her ears longed, oh, so madly, for the sound of his voice; she could suffer, aye, deeply and long, but she could also be brave and hide even the appearance of a wound. That Gulian, and even Clarissa, considered her a heartless coquette troubled her not at all, and so Betty danced and laughed on to the end of her sojourn in New York.

It had always been a source of thankfulness to her that she had been able to go home before Geoffrey's return from the expedition to South Carolina, for she sometimes doubted her own ability to withstand his personal appeal if again exerted. That he had returned and then, shortly after, gone upon another detail, she had heard incidentally from Oliver during one of her brother's flying visits to Litchfield on his way to New London with dispatches. Oliver had been greatly touched by Yorke's conduct in the matter of his escape, but if he suspected that Betty's lovely face had anything to do with the British officer's kindly blindness, he was too clever to hint as much, for which forbearance Betty thanked him in the depths of her heart. The only way in which he showed his suspicion was in the occasional bits of news concerning Yorke with which he favored her. At the battle of Cowpens Yorke had been wounded and taken prisoner, and it fell to Oliver Wolcott to arrange for his exchange. Then, for the first time, were Oliver's surmises changed to certainties, for one night when he had been attending the prisoner, whose wound was nearly healed, Yorke broke silence and in the frankest, most manly fashion demanded news of his little sweetheart, and told Oliver of his hopes and fears. Nothing could have appealed so directly to the brother as Yorke's avowal that Betty had refused him because of the coat he wore, and his eyes filled as he said, boyishly enough, "Egad, Yorke, she has all the Wolcott pluck and patriotism; though were this vexed question of independence settled, I wish with all my heart that you may yet conquer this unwilling maid whom I call sister."

Yorke smiled, but he did not consider it necessary to add that Betty had once let compassion and gratitude get the better of her loyalty in the matter of a prisoner, to Oliver's own discomfiture.

There had been some changes in the Wolcott home: Pamela had gone forth from the mansion a bride, after Cornwallis had surrendered at Yorktown, and Josiah Huntington had worn a major's uniform on his wedding-day. Betty had scarcely recovered from that break in the home circle when Sally Tracy, with many blushes and much laughter, confessed that she, too, was about to follow Pamela's example, and that a certain Mr. James Gould, the gentleman from Branford, of whom Moppet had been so suspicious, was the lucky individual upon whom she intended to bestow her hand. Verily, with all these wedding-bells sounding, Betty began to feel that she was likely to be left alone, but who only laughed gayly when twitted with her fancy for maidenhood, and danced as merrily at Sally's wedding as if her heart had lain light in her bosom instead of aching bitterly for one whom she began to fear she should never see more.

Little did Betty guess that bright October morning, when she and Moppet went forth bent on a nutting excursion, that a courier was even now speeding on his way whose coming would change the tide of her whole existence. And when, as noon struck, Oliver Wolcott dismounted at the door of his home and, walking straight to his father's study, delivered a packet from General Wolcott to Miss Euphemia, his next move was a descent upon Miss Bidwell's parlor and a hasty demand for Betty. So when Moppet and Betty appeared, rosy with success and a fair-sized bag of nuts as the result of their joint labors, they found the household in a state of suppressed excitement, and lo! the cause was Oliver's approaching marriage.

"You see," explained Oliver, when he finally got Betty to himself for a walk in the orchard after dinner, "now that the treaty has been signed in Paris, the British will soon evacuate New York, and when our army enters, there will be grand doings to celebrate the event, and my father must ride at the head of the Connecticut troops on that day. I, too, Betty, God willing, shall be with the Rangers, and thinking the date will be about a month hence, Kitty and Madam Cruger have set our wedding-day as the 25th of November. I gave you Kitty's letter"—

"Yes, and a dear, kind letter it is. She bids me for her bridesmaid, Oliver, and says that Moppet and Peter will hold her train, after the new English fashion (which no doubt is her mother's suggestion, for I think Kitty does not much affect fancies which come across the water), and, oh, Oliver, I do indeed wish you joy," and Betty's eyes brimmed full of tears as she gave him her hand.

"I know you love Kitty," said Oliver, kissing her cheek, "and we can afford to forgive a wedding after the English mode, as, if I gain my Kitty, I care but little how she comes."

"Betty, Betty," called Moppet's voice from the upper path, "do come in if you and Oliver have finished your chat, for Miss Bidwell desires your opinion on some weighty matter connected with our journey to New York."

"I will come," answered Betty; then turning bank with, as careless an air as she could summon, "Do you happen to have heard aught of your quondam prisoner, Captain Yorke?"

"Yorke!" replied Oliver, avoiding her eye as be stooped to throw a stick from the path,—"Yorke! oh, aye, I did hear that he was invalided and went home several months ago. I fancy it was not so much his health (for he looked strong enough to my thinking the last time I met him) but more his disgust with the turn things were taking; for you know, Betty, since the surrender at Yorktown the British have been more insolent and overbearing than ever, and Yorke is too much a gentleman, no matter what his political color, to be dragged into quarrels which I hear are incessant in the city, and the cause of many duels."

"Duels!" cried Betty, as the color left her checks; "oh, I hope he—that is—I hope nobody whom I know has been engaged in one."

"Not I," returned Oliver, with a mischievous glance. "So you might even be sorry for a foe, eh, Betty?" But Betty went flying up the path and did not deign to reply.

Miss Moppet, childlike, was perfectly overjoyed at the prospect of a wedding in which she was to play a part, and flew from her aunt to Miss Bidwell and Betty, then back to her aunt again in a twitter of excitement at the combination of a journey and festivity as well. General Wolcott's letter to his sister was full of important news. As the seat of Congress was Annapolis, General Wolcott, who was a member of that body, had decided to close the manor house for the winter and take a house in New York for his family, and he sent minute and particular directions for leaving all home affairs in the hands of Miss Bidwell and Reuben until their return to Litchfield in the spring. Oliver's intended marriage had hastened this decision, and there would be barely time to settle matters and reach New York in season for the wedding. They were to stop with Clarissa, who had written most pleading letters, and after that visit would take possession of their new quarters.

Most of the afternoon was spent in plans for their journey, with Oliver as escort, and many a sigh rose almost to Betty's lips as these recalled that other journey when her heart had been as light as Moppet's was now. But she put all thought aside with a resolute heart, and finally receiving directions from Miss Euphemia in regard to a chest of winter clothing packed safely away in the garret, she concluded to give Moppet's restless hands some occupation, and bade the child accompany her upstairs.

The old garret looked familiar enough. Even the wooden stools which had served as seats for her and Sally Tracy in the old childish days stood in the same corner under the dormer window, through which the sun was even now pouring its setting rays. The chest was unlocked, and presently a goodly pile of clothing lay upon the floor ready to be carried below.

"Let me have my worsted jacket, and my flannel wrapper (indeed, I do believe they are too small for me; can I find others in New York, Betty?), and this pretty hood of Pamela's. Betty, Betty, do you think Miss Bidwell could cut this one smaller for me? May I just run down and ask? I will return at once."

"Yes," said Betty, intent upon counting a heap of stockings; "please fetch me a pair of scissors when you come up again."

Off flew Moppet, marking her progress down the garret stairs by various exclamations as she dropped the jacket and tripped on the wrapper, but, finally reached the bottom in safety, Betty went on overlooking the chest; there were many articles to select from, and a red skirt of Moppet's which did not appear to be forthcoming. She ran her hand down to the very bottom of the chest, and feeling some garment made of smooth cloth with a gleam of red in it, dragged it forth and held it up to the light. As she did so, her hand struck something hard and round.

"What have I found?" thought Betty, but the next moment she saw that what she held was an officer's dark blue riding-cape fastened with brass buttons, on each of which was engraved a crown, and the cape was lined with British scarlet.

"What have you got there?" said Moppet's voice, as she appeared at her side. "Why, 'tis Captain Yorke's cape that he muffled me in the day I fell into Great Pond—Oh, Betty, Betty, what is amiss?"

Down on her knees fell Betty. She buried her face in the cape's folds, and tears rolled down her cheeks as she tried to say, "It is nothing, nothing, I am tired—I am—Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey, I think my heart is breaking."

Miss Moppet opened her eyes to their widest; then slowly and deliberately she grasped the situation in "high Roman fashion."

"Betty Wolcott, do I live to see you weep over a scarlet coat!"

No answer; indeed, Betty scarcely heard the words. The flood-gates were let loose and the agony of days and months must have its way.

"Betty!" this time the voice of reproving patriotism quavered somewhat. "I do believe you are worse than Pamela." But Betty sobbed on,—sobs that fairly racked her slender body.

"Well, I don't care what anybody says,"—and Moppet flung the Whig cause to the wind as she cast herself down beside Betty,—"he's dear and handsome and brave; whether he be British or Yankee, I love him, and so do you, naughty, naughty Betty!"

And with her head on Miss Moppet's sympathizing shoulder, and Miss Moppet's loving arms clasped around her neck, Betty Wolcott whispered her confession and was comforted.