“I wish you all good fortune,” she said, including both of us in her glance, though I knew she spoke for Nathaniel’s ears alone. “We shall meet again. I feel it. No doubt you’ll go bravely off to Canada to struggle against Burgoyne’s army, and it might be we’ll encounter each other on the road. I must make sure my little ward is taken to friends in Albany or New York if there should be need, and there are not many roads from Canada to Albany.” She smiled at both of us, as innocent and trustful as a kitten.

“But won’t your uncle see to that?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I hope so, but Ellen is an innocent! You cannot imagine what an innocent she is! She was taken by the Indians when she was little, and so she is learning to live all over again. She is like a wild creature, and I fear she will not make the journey unless I’m there to make it with her. Her teachers, too, will be reluctant to let her go without me, for fear she might come to some harm.”

“You’re as kind as you are beautiful!” Nathaniel said huskily.

She touched his sleeve lightly. “No, no! There’s nothing kind about picking up a waif in the street and seeing she’s properly clothed and educated.”

The glances that passed between them seemed to me revolting. “We must be going,” I told Nathaniel.

“See,” she said, ignoring me and drawing an envelope from her velvet muff, “I’ve written a letter that perhaps you’ll carry with you, in case you go to Canada.” She handed it to Nathaniel, who took it fumblingly and stared at her like a fool. Then she added: “It’s a small world, and it might readily happen you could do a kindness for Ellen, somehow or somewhere. Some day I might even be in St. John’s myself—or across the river from it. I have—I have property there. And you must pass through St. John’s to reach Albany.”

“You’ll be in St. John’s!” Nathaniel whispered.

Her eyes caressed him. “I’m delaying your departure,” she said softly, “so you must see me to my chair.” Her blue eyes slid toward me, almost maliciously.

On that I clambered, growling, into the chaise and settled myself beside Mr. Leonard, expecting to find him annoyed at the delay. Yet he was not. “A fine young man, your brother,” he whispered faintly, as if half asleep.

“Yes,” I said; but what I thought was that Nathaniel needed a good rope-ending to rid his mind of foolish matters, like his admiration for the English and this parting softness for a Frenchified lady like Marie de Sabrevois.