and of the distinguished gatherings at the Governor’s when he arrived with one of their lost citizen’s infrequent epistles.  Mrs. Mitchell, poor soul, wrote pathetically that she would no longer regret his loss could she love him less.  Hamilton wrote to her as often as he could find the time, and Betsey selected a present for her several times a year.  Gratitude is the privilege of a great soul, and Hamilton had a full measure of it.  Even his father and brother wrote occasionally, respectfully, if with no great warmth; and if their congratulations were usually accompanied by the experimental sigh of poverty, Hamilton was glad to respond, for at this period he was making a good deal of money.

His promised bow to Mrs. Croix he deferred from day to day, pleading to himself the pressure of work, which was submerging; but while he reproached himself for ingratitude, he knew that he dreaded the meeting:  the old spirit of adventure within him, long quiescent, tapped alluringly on the doors of his prudence.  That she did not write again, even to congratulate him as other friends had done, but added to his discomfort, for he knew that her pride was now in arms, and that she must be deeply wounded.  He heard of her constantly, and at the procession in his honour he had seen her, leaning on the arm of General Knox, a dazzling, but angelic vision in blue and white, at which even the bakers, wig-makers, foresters, tanners, and printers had turned to stare.  One of the latter had leaped down from the moving platform on which he was printing a poem of occasion by William Duer, and begged her on his knee to deign to receive a copy.  She held weekly receptions, which were attended by two-thirds of the leading men in town, and Hamilton’s intimate friends discoursed of her constantly.  Croix was supposed to have been seized with a passion for travelling in savage jungles, and it was the general belief that his death would be announced as soon as the lady should find it convenient to go into mourning.  It was plain to the charitable that he had left her with plenty of money, for she dressed like the princess she looked, and her entertainments lacked no material attraction.  The gossip was more furious than ever, but the most assiduous scandal-monger could connect no one man with her name, nor trace her income to other than its reputed source.  More than once Hamilton had passed her coach, and she had bowed gravely, with neither challenge nor reproach in her sweet haughty eyes.  After these quick passings Hamilton usually gave her a few moments of intense thought.  He marvelled at her curious intimate knowledge of him, not only of the less known episodes of his career, but of more than one of his mental processes.  It is true, she might have led Troup or Fish into gossip and analysis, but her sympathy counted heavily.  She drew him by many strings, and sometimes the response thrilled him unbearably.  He felt like a man who stood outside the gates of Paradise, bolting them fast.  Still, he could quite forget her in his work; and it is probable that but for chance he never would have met her, that one of the greatest disasters in history would have been averted.