The time for parting had come. The two men stood hand in hand, with
moistened eyes and slow-coming words, meeting for perhaps the last time in
this life; for the Major was to stop but an hour at Fort Johnson, and
thence hasten on to New York and to England, bearing with him weighty
despatches.

While they still stood, and the negro was tying Master Philip's hat over
his ears, my aunt entered the room, bearing in her arms the poor little
waif from the massacre. The child had been washed and warmed, and wore
over her dress and feet a sort of mantle, which the good woman had hastily
and somewhat rudely fashioned meantime.

"Oh, we came near forgetting her!" cried Philip. "Wrap her snug and warm,
Bob, for the journey."

The Major looked blank at sight of the child, who nestled in my aunt's
arms. "What am I to do with her?" he said to my patron.

"Why, papa, you know she is going to England with us," said the boy.

"Tut, lad!" spoke the Major, peremptorily; then, to Mr. Stewart: "Could
Sir William place her, think you, or does that half-breed swarm of his
fill the house? It seemed right enough to bring her out from the Palatine
country, but now that she's out, damme! I almost wish she was back again.
What a fool not to leave her at Herkimer's!"

I do not know if I had any clear idea of what was springing up in Mr.
Stewart's mind, but it seems to me that I must have looked at him
pleadingly and with great hope in my eyes, during the moment of silence