“You have told me, major,” observed captain Willoughby, “that your old regiment has a new colonel; but you have forgotten to mention his name.  I hope it is my old messmate, Tom Wallingford, who wrote me he had some such hopes last year.”

“General Wallingford has got a light-dragoon regiment—­general Meredith has my old corps; he is now in this country, at the head of one of Gage’s brigades.”

It is a strong proof of the manner in which Maud—­Maud Willoughby, as she was ever termed—­had become identified with the family of the Hutted Knoll, that, with two exceptions, not a person present thought of her, when the name of this general Meredith was mentioned; though, in truth, he was the uncle of her late father.  The exceptions were the major and herself.  The former now never heard the name without thinking of his beautiful little playfellow, and nominal sister; while Maud, of late, had become curious and even anxious on the subject of her natural relatives.  Still, a feeling akin to awe, a sentiment that appeared as if it would be doing violence to a most solemn duty, prevented her from making any allusion to her change of thought, in the presence of those whom, during childhood, she had viewed only as her nearest relatives, and who still continued so to regard her.  She would have given the world to ask Bob a few questions concerning the kinsman he had mentioned, but could not think of doing so before her mother, whatever she might be induced to attempt with the young man, when by himself.

Nick next came strolling along, gazing at the stockade, and drawing near the table with an indifference to persons and things that characterized his habits.  When close to the party he stopped, keeping his eye on the recent works.

“You see, Nick, I am about to turn soldier again, in my old days,” observed the captain.  “It is now many years since you and I have met within a line of palisades.  How do you like our work?”

“What you make him for, cap’in?”

“So as to be secure against any red-skins who may happen to long for our scalps.”

“Why want your scalp?  Hatchet hasn’t been dug up, atween us—­ bury him so deep can’t find him in ten, two, six year.”

“Ay, it has long been buried, it is true; but you red gentlemen have a trick of digging it up, with great readiness, when there is any occasion for it.  I suppose you know, Nick, that there are troubles in the colonies?”

“Tell Nick all about him,”—­answered the Indian, evasively—­“No read—­ no hear—­don’t talk much—­talk most wid Irisher—­can’t understand what he want—­say t’ing one way, den say him, anoder.”

“Mike is not very lucid of a certainty,” rejoined the captain, laughing, all the party joining in the merriment—­“but he is a sterling good fellow, and is always to be found, in a time of need.”

“Poor rifle—­nebber hit—­shoot one way, look t’other?”

“He is no great shot, I will admit; but he is a famous fellow with a shillaleh.  Has he given you any of the news?”