aunt Lucy, were wards of the patroon. I was in Albany, in the
legislature, that winter, and I knew them both very well; but
your aunt Lucy had been married some years before. She was
staying there that winter without her husband — he was abroad
somewhere."

Fleda was no stranger to these details, and had learned long
ago what was meant by "wards" and "the patroon."

"Your father was made a major some years afterwards," Mr.
Ringgan went on, "for his fine behaviour out here at the West
— what's the name of the place? — I forget it just now —
fighting the Indians. There never was anything finer done."

"He was brave, wasn't he, grandpa?"

"Brave! — he had a heart of iron sometimes, for as soft as it
was at others. And he had an eye, when he was roused, that I
never saw anything that would stand against. But your father
had a better sort of courage than the common sort — he had
enough of _that_ — but this is a rarer thing — he never was
afraid to do what in his conscience he thought was right.
Moral courage I call it, and it is one of the very noblest
qualities a man can have."

"That's a kind of courage a woman may have," raid Fleda.

"Yes — you may have that; and I guess it's the only kind of
courage you'll ever be troubled with," said her grandfather,
looking laughingly at her. "However, any man may walk up to