“It is a delicate question, my son,” he said gravely, “and one I would rather not discuss at the present moment.  More especially”—­and a half-quizzical smile lit up his grave but kindly face as he turned toward Miss Moppet and gently pinched her little ear,—­“more especially as the gentleman has taken the law in his own hands and escaped from Wolcott Manor despite the fact that as it is the residence of a Continental officer and the sheriff of Litchfield County it might be supposed to have exceptional reasons for detaining him.  Captain Seymour, I will be glad to sign the papers of which General Putnam has need, and we will go at once to my library, for you must be off by noon.”

Some two hours later, as Betty sat watching in her chamber window, she saw the horses led around to the front door, and shortly after knew from the sounds below that Pamela and Dolly wore bidding the young officers good-by; so, waiting until the sound of their horses’ feet had died away in the distance, Betty, with outward composure but much inward dismay, tripped softly downstairs and knocked at the door of the library.

“Pray Heaven he be alone,” she sighed as she heard her father’s voice bid her enter, and then she crossed the threshold and confronted him.

“Father,” she said, steadying herself by one small hand pressed downward on the table behind which he sat, “I—­that is—­I have something to tell you.”

General Wolcott raised his head from the paper which he had been carefully reading and looked kindly at her.

“What is it, my child?” he asked reassuringly, motioning her to a chair.  “I thought at breakfast that you had the air of being in distress.”

“Nay, I am hardly that,” replied Betty, clinging to the table, “except so far as I may have incurred your censure, though I hope not your displeasure.  Father, Oliver has told you of the escape of Captain Yorke, which causes him much chagrin and anger.  Blame no one but me, for I myself released him.”

“You!” exclaimed General Wolcott.

“Yes, I,” said Betty, growing paler.  “If you had but been here or I known that you were so near us, there had been no such need for haste, and I would have been spared this confession.”

“How did you arrange the escape?” said her father quietly.

“It was this way,” faltered Betty, but gaining courage as she proceeded.  “Oliver would not listen, though I begged and plead with him to delay until your arrival.  He was so eager to deliver his captive to General Putnam that I made no impression.  Father, the Englishman had saved our Moppet’s life at the risk of his own; he did not pause to ask whether she was friend or foe when he rushed to her rescue—­could we he less humane?  I do not know what they do to prisoners,”—­and Betty strangled a swift sob,—­“but I could not bear to think of a gallant gentleman, be he British or American, confined in a prison, and so I resolved I would assist his escape.  I waited