“Has there been a strange gentleman staying with you during the storm?” asked the dragoon.

“This gentleman here favoured us with his company during the rain,” stammered Mr. Wharton.

“This gentleman!” repeated the other, as he contemplated Captain Wharton with a lurking smile, and then, with a low bow, continued, “I am sorry for the severe cold you have in your head, sir, causing you to cover your handsome locks with that ugly old wig.”

Then, turning to the father, he proceeded, “Then, sir, I am to understand a Mr. Harper has not been here?”

“Mr. Harper?” echoed the other; “yes, I had forgotten; but he is gone, and if there is anything wrong in his character we are in entire ignorance of it.”

“He is gone—­how, when, and whither?”

“He departed as he arrived,” said Mr. Wharton, gathering confidence, “on horseback, last evening; he took the northern road.”

The officer turned on his heel, left the apartment, and gave orders which sent some of the horsemen out of the valley, by its various roads, at full speed.

Then, re-entering the room, he walked up to Wharton, and said, with some gravity, “Now, sir, may I beg to examine the quality of that wig?  And if I could persuade you to exchange this old surtout for that handsome blue coat, I think you never could witness a more agreeable metamorphosis.”

Young Wharton made the necessary changes, and stood an extremely handsome, well-dressed young man.

“I am Captain Lawton, of the Virginian Horse,” said the dragoon.

“And I, sir, am Captain Wharton, of His Majesty’s 60th Regiment of Foot,” returned Henry, bowing.

The countenance of Lawton changed from quaintness to great earnestness, as he exclaimed, “Then, Captain Wharton, from my soul I pity you!”

Captain Lawton now inquired if a pedlar named Birch did not live in the valley.

“At times only, I believe, sir,” replied Mr. Wharton cautiously.  “He is seldom here; I may say I never see him.”

“What is the offence of poor Birch?” asked the aunt.

“Poor!” cried the captain; “if he is poor, King George is a bad paymaster.”

“I am sorry,” said Mr. Wharton, “that any neighbour of mine should incur displeasure.”

“If I catch him,” cried the dragoon, “he will dangle from the limbs of one of his namesakes.”

In the course of the morning Major Dunwoodie, who was an old friend of the family, and the lover of Frances, the younger daughter, arrived, took over the command of the troop, and inquired into the case of his friend the prisoner.

“How did you pass the pickets in the plains?” he asked.

“In disguise,” replied Captain Wharton; “and by the use of this pass, for which I paid, and which, as it bears the name of Washington, is, I presume, forged.”

Dunwoodie caught the paper eagerly, and after gazing at the signature for some time, said, “This name is no counterfeit.  The confidence of Washington has been abused.  Captain Wharton, my duty will not suffer me to grant you a parole—­you must accompany me to the Highlands.”