“Then the next time he favours you with an invitation, Bob, be kind enough to thank him.  I want no empty baronetcy, nor do I ever think of returning to England to live.  Were all I had on earth drummed together, it would barely make out a respectable competency for a private gentleman in that extravagant state of society; and what is a mere name to one in such circumstances?  I wish it were transferable, my dear boy, in the old Scotch mode, and you should be Sir Bob before you slept.”

“But, Willoughby, it may be useful to Robert, and why should he not have the title, since neither you nor I care for it?” asked the considerate mother.

“So he may, my dear; though he must wait for an event that I fancy you are not very impatient to witness—­my death.  When I am gone, let him be Sir Robert, in welcome.  But, Bob—­for plain, honest Bob must you remain till then, unless indeed you earn your spurs in this unhappy war—­have you any military tidings for us?  We have heard nothing since the arrival of the fleet on the coast.”

“We are in New York, after routing Washington on Long Island.  The rebels”—­the major spoke a little more confidently than had been his wont—­“The rebels have retreated into the high country, near the borders of Connecticut, where they have inveterate nests of the disaffected in their rear.”

“And has all this been done without bloodshed?  Washington had staff in him, in the old French business.”

“His stuff is not doubted, sir; but his men make miserable work of it.  Really I am sometimes ashamed of having been born in the country.  These Yankees fight like wrangling women, rather than soldiers.”

“How’s this!—­You spoke honestly of the affair at Lexington, and wrote us a frank account of the murderous work at Bunker Hill.  Have their natures changed with the change of season?”

“To own the truth, sir, they did wonders on the Hill, and not badly in the other affair; but all their spirit seems gone.  I am quite ashamed of them.  Perhaps this declaration of independence, as it is called, has damped their ardour.”

“No, my son—­the change, if change there is, depends on a general and natural law.  Nothing but discipline and long training can carry men with credit through a campaign, in the open field.  Fathers, and husbands, and brothers and lovers, make formidable enemies, in sight of their own chimney-tops; but the most flogging regiments, we used to say, were the best fighting regiments for a long pull.  But, have a care, Bob; you are now of a rank that may well get you a separate command, and do not despise your enemy.  I know these Yankees well—­you are one, yourself, though only half-blooded; but I know them well, and have often seen them tried.  They are very apt to be badly commanded, heaven cursing them for their sins, in this form more than any other—­ but get them fairly at work, and the guards will have as much as they can wish, to get along with.  Woods will swear to that.”