“I wish to come in!” shouted Ruyven, in a threatening voice.  Dorothy laughed, and pointed to a great arm-chair of leather and oak.  “I will sit there; place it by the window, cousin.”

I placed the chair for her; she seated herself with unconscious grace, and motioned me to bring another chair for myself.

“Are you going to let me in?” cried Ruyven.

“Oh, go to the—­” began Dorothy, then flushed and glanced at me, asking pardon in a low voice.

A nice parent, Sir Lupus, with every child in his family ready to swear like Flanders troopers at the first breath!

Half reclining in her chair, limbs comfortably extended, Dorothy crossed her ankles and clasped her hands behind her head, a picture of indolence in every line and curve, from satin shoon to the dull gold of her hair, which, as I have said, the powder scarcely frosted.

“To comprehend properly this war,” she mused, more to herself than to me, “I suppose it is necessary to understand matters which I do not understand; how it chanced that our King lost his city of Boston, and why he has not long since sent his soldiers here into our county of Tryon.”

“Too many rebels, cousin,” I suggested, flippantly.  She disregarded me, continuing quietly;

“But this much, however, I do understand, that our province of New York is the centre of all this trouble; that the men of Tryon hold the last pennyweight, and that the balanced scales will tip only when we patroons cast in our fortunes, ... either with our King or with the rebel Congress which defies him.  I think our hearts, not our interests, must guide us in this affair, which touches our honor.”

Such pretty eloquence, thoughtful withal, was not what I had looked for in this new cousin of mine—­this free-tongued maid, who, like a painted peach-fruit all unripe, wears the gay livery of maturity, tricking the eye with a false ripeness.

“I have thought,” she said, “that if the issues of this war depend on us, we patroons should not draw sword too hastily—­yet not to sit like house-cats blinking at this world-wide blaze, but, in the full flood of the crisis, draw!—­knowing of our own minds on which side lies the right.”

“Who taught you this?” I asked, surprised to over-bluntness.

“Who taught me?  What?  To think?” She laughed.  “Solitude is a rare spur to thought.  I listen to the gentlemen who talk with father; and I would gladly join and have my say, too, but that they treat me like a fool, and I have my questions for my pains.  Yet I swear I am dowered with more sense than Sir John Johnson, with his pale eyes and thick, white flesh, and his tarnished honor to dog him like the shadow of a damned man sold to Satan—­”

“Is he dishonored?”

“Is a parole broken a dishonor?  The Boston people took him and placed him on his honor to live at Johnson Hall and do no meddling.  And now he’s fled to Fort Niagara to raise the Mohawks.  Is that honorable?”