The boy, dreaming dreams and stretching out toward an ideal, might well have taken his father for model, but, while reverencing him and knowing him to be a great and good man, his young imagination had been fired by a different type of hero, the man whose restless and adventurous spirit had brought him four years ago to fight as a volunteer in the cause of freedom; who had come again only a year since and had done much to bring about the surrender of Lord Cornwallis; the man who, only the other day, had been publicly thanked by General Washington speaking for the nation he had helped to found; the man who was at this moment his father’s guest—­the Marquis de Lafayette.  There was much of the French spirit in the boy, inherited from his mother, and to every word the Marquis had uttered he had listened eagerly, painting his hero in colors that were too bright and too many, perhaps.  An hour ago he had stolen out of the house to this hummock, a favorite spot of his, to dream over all he had heard and of the future.

His eyes were fixed upon a distant white sail, sun touched, which lessened far out across the bay, which presently became a point of light and was then hidden in the haze of the horizon.  That was the way of dreams surely, the road which led to the realization of hope.  That ship might go on and on through sunlight and storm, through mist and clear weather, and some time, how long a time the boy did not know, it would reach another land, France perchance, surely the best of all lands, since it bred such men as the Marquis de Lafayette.

“Dreaming, Richard?”

The grass had deadened the sound of approaching footsteps and the boy rose hastily.  His face flushed as he recognized his visitor.

He was a thin man, still young, with an earnest face which at once arrested attention.  It was far more that of a visionary than was the boy’s, a difficult countenance to read and understand.  If, for a moment, the neatness and precision of his dress suggested a man of idle leisure, a courtier and little more, there quickly followed a conviction that such an estimate of his character was a wrong one.  Dreamer he might be, in a sense, but he was also a man of action.  The spare frame was full of energy, there was determination in the face.  This was a man who knew nothing of fear, whom danger would only bring stronger courage; a man who would press forward to his goal undaunted by whatever difficulties stood in the way.  He was an idealist rather than a dreamer, one who had set up a standard in his life and, right or wrong, would live his life true to that standard.  He was a man to trust, even though he might not inspire love, a leader for a forlorn hope, a personality which brought confidence to all who came in touch with it.  His eyes, kindly but penetrating, were fixed upon the lad to whom he was a hero.  He was the famous Marquis de Lafayette.

“Yes, sir, I was—­I was thinking.”

“Great thoughts, I warrant, for so young a mind.  Let us sit down.  This is a famous seat of yours, a good place to dream in with as fair a slice of the world’s beauty to gaze upon as could well be found.  Come, tell me your dreams.”