Madame de Lasteyrie was soon followed by her daughters, and in a few moments I found myself shaking some very pretty hands, and smiled upon by some very pretty faces.  It was something of a trial for one who had never been in a full drawing-room in his life, and whom Nature had predestined to mauvaise honte to the end of his days.  Still I made the best of it, and as there is nothing so dreadful, after all, in a bright eye and rosy lip, and the General’s invitation to look upon his house as my home was so evidently to be taken in its literal interpretation, I soon began to feel at my ease.

The rooms gradually filled.  Madame de Maubourg came in soon after her sister, and, as I was talking to one of the young ladies, a gentleman with a countenance not altogether unlike the General’s, though nearly bald, and with what was left of his hair perfectly gray, came up and introduced himself to me as George Lafayette.  It was the last link in the chain.  The last letter that my grandfather ever wrote to General Lafayette had been about a project which they had formed at the close of the war, to bring up their sons—­“the two George Washingtons” —­together; and as soon after General Greene’s death as the necessary arrangement could be made, my poor uncle was sent to France and placed under the General’s care.  It was of him that General Washington had written to Colonel Wadsworth, “But should it turn out differently, and Mrs. Greene, yourself, and Mr. Rutledge” (General Greene’s executors) “should think proper to intrust my namesake, G.W.  Greene, to my care, I will give him as good an education as this country (I mean North America) will afford, and will bring him up to either of the genteel professions that his friends may choose or his own inclination shall lead him to pursue, at my own cost and charge.”  “He is a lively boy,” wrote General Knox to Washington, on returning from putting him on board the French packet, “and, with a good education, will probably be an honor to the name of his father and the pride of his friends.”

I may be pardoned for dwelling a moment on the scanty memorials of one whose name is often mentioned in the letters of Washington, and whose early promise awakened the fondest expectations.  He was a beautiful boy, if the exquisite little miniature before me may be trusted, blending sweetly the more characteristic traits of his father and mother in his face, in a way that must have made him very dear to both.  With the officers and soldiers he was a great favorite, and it cost his father a hard effort to deny himself the gratification of having him always with him at camp during the winter.  But the sense of paternal duty prevailed, and as soon as he was thought old enough to profit by it, he was put under the charge of Dr. Witherspoon at Princeton.  “I cannot omit informing you,” writes General Washington, in 1783, “that I let no opportunity slip to inquire after your son George at Princeton, and that