his own hands he had planted thirteen gum trees to commemorate the thirteen original States of the Union.  Fortunately his deepest sorrow was not associated with this estate; Philip had fallen before the house was finished.  This brilliant youth, who had left Columbia with flying honours, had brooded over the constant attacks upon his father,—­still the Colossus in the path of the Democrats, to be destroyed before they could feel secure in their new possessions,—­until he had deliberately insulted the most recent offender, received his challenge, and been shot to death close to the spot where Hamilton was to fall a few years later.  That was in the autumn of 1801.  Hamilton’s strong brain and buoyant temperament had delivered him from the intolerable suffering of that heaviest of his afflictions, and the severe and unremitting work of his life gave him little time to brood.  If he rarely lost consciousness of his bereavement, the sharpness passed, and he was even grateful at times that his son, whose gifts would have urged him into public life, was spared the crucifying rewards of patriotism.

As Troup rode up the avenue and glanced from right to left into the heavy shades of the forest, with its boulders and ravines, its streams and mosses and ferns, then to the brilliant mass of colour at the end of the avenue, out of which rose the stately house, he sighed heavily.

“May the devil get the lot of them!” he said.

It was Saturday, and he found Hamilton on his back under a tree, the last number of the Moniteur close to his hand, his wife and Angelica looking down upon him from a rustic seat.  Both the women were in mourning, and Betsey’s piquant charming face was aging; her sister Peggy and her mother had followed her son.

Hamilton had never recovered his health, and he paid for the prolonged strains upon his delicate system with a languor to which at times he was forced to yield.  To-day, although he greeted the welcome visitor gaily, he did not rise, and Troup sat down on the ground with his back to the tree.  As he looked very solemn, Mrs. Hamilton and Angelica inferred they were not wanted, and retired.

“Well?” said Hamilton, laughing.  “What is it?  What have I done now?”

“Put another nail into your coffin, we are all afraid.  The story of the paper you read before the Federalist Conference in Albany is common talk; and if Burr is defeated, it will be owing to your influence, whether you hold yourself aloof from this election or not.  Why do you jeopardize your life?  I’d rather give him his plum and choke him with it—­”