All these thoughts and many more were crowding Betty’s brain as she ran down the steps of the Verplanck mansion and followed Peter toward Queen Street, where Kitty lived.  The sun shone brightly and the air was crisp and clear; Betty looked charming in her dainty hood, tied with a rose-colored ribbon which nestled softly under her chin and played at confining the dancing curls.  Contrary to Peter’s expectations, Kitty was watching for them, and they proceeded with some speed along the snowy streets until they reached the Minetta Water, as the small stream was called which wound its way across the Lispenard Meadows, and connected the “Collect” (or Fresh Water Pond) with the Hudson River.  At the end of Great Queen Street was a wooden bridge, and crossing it, the little party continued up Magazine Street until they reached the Collect Pond, on two sides of which were low buildings of various kinds, being rope-walks, furnaces, tanneries, and breweries, all run by water from the pond.  Betty thought she should some day like to come out and investigate them with Peter; they were not very sightly, but they might prove interesting.  These buildings shut out the view, and until Betty stood on the very bank she had no idea how brilliant a scene the Collect presented.  The ground on the north side between them and Broadway rose to the height of a hundred feet, and this hillside was covered with spectators who were watching the skaters with which the ice was alive.  Among the crowd were many women of fashion, muffled in their furs, carrying huge muffs to keep their fingers warm, and scarlet uniforms, dotted here and there, served to heighten the effect of brilliancy and animation.  As they turned the corner of a furnace whose big chimney had sheltered them for a moment, a young man darted up the bank and greeted Kitty.

“How late you are,” he said reproachfully.  “Philip Livingston and I have been watching for you this hour.  The ice is in fine condition; may I put on your skates?”

While young De Lancey was thus engaged Peter and Betty were making ready also.  Up in the Litchfield hills, where the winter set in early and lasted late, Betty had learned to use her skates well, and she and her brother Oliver had been the best skaters in the township when she was hardly more than a child.  Even the timid Pamela had gained boldness and dexterity on the clear, frozen pond; and therefore when Betty, with the ease of a practiced skater, glided off without assistance, Peter flew after her in round-eyed amazement.

“I say, Betty,” he exclaimed, breathless with his effort to catch her, “how you do fly!  My eye! there isn’t one of these New York dames or maids who can equal you,” and he chuckled with triumph as Betty began to execute some very difficult motions which she and Oliver had often practiced together.

“Give me your hand, Peter; there, now, glide this way, and take the outside roll—­oh! have a care; if you turn like that you will surely catch your skate in mine.  That’s better; now cross hands, and go gently; see, I am cutting a face on the ice.”