lineage was much stronger with the romantic young Pretender of his
generation than had been the rightfully closer tie between their more
selfish fathers, and princely favor gave him a prominent position among
those who arranged that brilliant melodrama of Glenfinnan and Edinburgh
and Preston Pans, which was to be so swiftly succeeded by the tragedy of
Culloden. The two friends were together through it all--in its triumph,
its disaster, its rout--but they became separated afterward in the
Highlands, when they were hiding for their lives. Cross, it seems, was
able to lie secure until his wife's relatives, through some Whig
influence, I know not what, obtained for him amnesty first, then leave to
live in England, and finally a commission under the very sovereign he had
fought. His comrade, less fortunate, at least contrived to make way to
Ireland and then to France. There, angered and chagrined at unjust and
peevish rebukes offered him, he renounced the bad cause, took the name of
Stewart, and set sail to the New World.

This was my patron's story, as I gathered it in later years, and which
perhaps I have erred in bringing forward here among my childish
recollections. But, it seems to belong in truth much more to this day on
which, for the first and last time I beheld Major Cross, than to the
succeeding period when his son became an actor in the drama of my life.

* * * * *

The sun was now well up in the sky, and the snow was melting. While I
still moodily eyed my young enemy and wondered how I should go about to
acquit myself of the task laid upon me--to play with him--he solved the
question by kicking into the moist snow with his boots and calling out:

"Aha! we can build a fort with this, and have a fine attack. Bob, make me