“Ugh!” cried Sally, with a shudder, “that was in Puritan days, truly.”

“I do not crave the hot bodkin,” said Betty, laughing.  “Miss Bidwell’s tales are a trifle gruesome, Moppet.”

“But I always do love a flimming tale, Betty” (this was Moppet’s invariable rendering of the word “thrilling,” which her lips had never yet conquered), “and some of them are most bloody ones, I assure you.  Oh, Betty, Betty, what shall I do when you are gone!” and with a sudden realization of her loss, Moppet gave a quick sob which went to Betty’s heart.

“Nay, sweetheart, be a brave little maid,” she answered, fighting a small lump in her own throat.  “I would I could take you with me; but as I cannot, you must hasten to learn how to make better pot-hooks and write me letters, which Aunt Euphemia will forward with hers.  And, Moppet, I think I shall give you in special charge to Sally; how will that please you?”

“I love Sally,” said the child simply, as the tender-hearted Sally knelt down beside her.  “Will you help console me with my primer and that altogether dreadful sampler when my Betty is away?”

“Indeed will I,” replied Sally, much amused with Moppet’s view of the sampler; “and you shall come and see me every fine day, and the wet ones I am sure to be here with Pamela, who has proclaimed her intention of adopting me when Betty goes.  And now I must be going, for it is nearly the dinner hour, and my mother says as I have dined here three days she bespeaks my presence for one out of four.  So farewell until to-morrow, Betty, when I shall be here to see you start upon your travels.”

Betty was busy enough all that day; indeed, nothing more than a confused recollection remained with her afterward of trunk and two small boxes to be packed; of Pamela’s urging her acceptance of a new lute-string slip, rose-colored, which had recently come to her from Boston; of Miss Bidwell’s innumerable stockings all tucked carefully away in one corner of the hair-covered brass-nailed box, and even Miss Moppet’s tenderly cherished blue bag embroidered in steel beads, which had belonged to their mother, but which Moppet insisted could be used by Betty with great effect for her handkerchief at a ball.

“Ball, indeed,” sighed Betty, whose brave heart was beginning to quail at thought of an untold length of separation from her beloved family.  “I should think the hearts of the patriots imprisoned in New York would scarce be occupied with balls in such times as these.”

“You mistake,” said Pamela, who, truth to tell, half longed for Betty’s opportunities, for was not her sister going somewhere near Josiah’s post?  “I am sure Clarissa’s letter which you read me bade you bring all your best gowns and finery, and we have all heard how gay the army of occupation make the city.”

“Aye, to those who are Tories,” said Betty, with curling red lips, “but for me—­oh, Miss Bidwell, if you put in another pair of stockings I shall require as many feet as a centipede, who I read has hundreds of them.”