"'twas too dear a stake for me to lose." But as the words left his lips,
to his astonishment and delight, with all a child's frankness, Betty
gave him her hand.

"Nay, you won the race fairly, and Betty Wolcott craves your pardon."

"Oh, my eye!" shouted Peter, as he flung himself between them; "'t was
the prettiest race of the season, was it not, Kitty? Do, do try a game
with the rest of us, and I'll be your hurlie myself."

A hurlie, be it known, was a small boy or man who, in the fashion of a
ball-game of the day, propelled the balls along the icy surface of the
pond with a long, sharp-pointed stick, and the race was accorded to
whoever first caught the ball,--often a trial of both speed and
endurance when the course was a long one.

"Are you deserting me, Peter?" put in Kitty playfully; "the other
hurlies are busy with the De Lancey party; we must have two or three at
least."

Yorke moved a step forward; his first impulse was to offer his services
to Kitty, as he had done before, but some fine instinct warned him not
to jeopardize his half-reconciliation with Betty, and before he could
speak, Philip Livingston whistled to a tall, slight lad who was standing
looking at them from the bank close at hand. In response the lad ran
down, leaped on the ice, and said pleasantly,--

"Your pleasure, sir. Did you call me?"

"Can you drive a ball for me?" asked Philip; "if so, I'll promise you a