Aaron hid for some weeks in Boston and then decided on a bold move. A letter from Samuel Swartwout in New York encouraged him. The Government was far too busy with its war to bother about a penniless exile. Even his creditors might be kept quiet for a time. So Aaron sold his few remaining books to Harvard College to secure passage money and sailed for New York. He took lodging on Nassau Street and hung before the door a modest tin sign bearing only his name. He inserted a line in the newspapers, saying, ' Aaron Burr has returned to this city and resumed the practice of law'. Then he settled back to await results.

These were highly gratifying at first. Clients flocked to him. People were curious; they reminded each other that, after all, he had been acquitted. Anyway, it was all years ago. Even the duel was no longer interesting, and whatever else little Burr might or might not be, no one had ever questioned his legal ability. The creditors stayed their hands while they waited to see whether he could make some money.

Aaron's spirits soared at once. On the strength ot two thousand dollars in fees he wrote exultantly to Theodosia. They would buy back Richmond Hill. Everything should be as it used to be. 'These dark hours through which we have passed will be all forgot, ' he wrote. 'They are forgot already. You and Gampy and I will yet realize our glorious future. I await your arrival with the utmost impatience. Kiss the boy for me and tell him that I have many little gifts with which to amuse him. As for you, hussy, I have bought you some topaz earrings. You will be a veritable houri in them.'

He mailed this letter on June thirtieth and walked buoyantly back to his dingy little law office.

The letter reached Theo two weeks later at Debordieu Island. She lay on the bed in the octagonal back room of the beach cottage. She lay utterly still, her unwinking gaze fixed upon the boards which formed the ceiling.

Joseph brought the letter to her. He knelt down beside the bed and put it gently in her hand. Her fingers did not move and it slipped to the sheet.

' It's from your father, Theo. 'His voice held a new softness, his heavy face was drawn and haggard.

'From Father?' she questioned vaguely. 'Read it to me'. She turned her head painfully on the pillow. Her eyes, no longer swollen with weeping, but expressionless as black glass, rested on him quietly.

'I don't want to read it,' he cried hoarsely. 'He doesn't know.'

She reached for the letter, holding it between her fingers. 'No, poor Father. He doesn't know about Gampy. He doesn't know Gampy's dead'. She gave a small high laugh. 'I didn't think I'd ever be able to say that. It doesn't seem to mean anything any more. Isn't that queer?'