“That,” said her uncle, “is Weehawken.  There—­just there—­Hamilton was killed by Burr, and near by Hamilton’s son four years before was killed in a duel—­a political quarrel.”  She knew the sad story well, and with the gift of visualization saw the scene and the red pistol-flashes which meant the death of a statesman of genius.

“And there are the palisades, Leila.”  The young summer was clothing the banks with leafage not yet dark green, and translucent in the morning sun.  No railroads marred the loveliness of the lawns on the East bank, and the grey architecture of the palisades rose in solemn grandeur to westward.

“It is full of history, Leila.  There is Tarrytown, where Andre was taken.”  She listened in silence.  The day ran on—­the palisades fell away.  “Dobbs’s Ferry, my dear;” and pointing across the river, “on that hill Andre died.”

Presently the mountains rose before them, and in the afternoon they drew up at the old wharf.  “We stay at Cozzen’s Hotel, Leila.  I will send on the baggage and we will walk up to the Point.”

She hardly heard him.  A tall young man in white pantaloons and blue jacket stood on the pier.  “Good gracious, Uncle Jim, it is John!” A strange sense of disappointed remembrance possessed her.  The boy playmate of her youth was gone.  He gave both hands of welcome, as he said, “By George, Leila, I am glad to see you.”

“You may thank uncle for our visit.  Aunt Ann was not very willing to part with me.”

He was about to make the obvious reply of the man, but refrained.  They talked lightly of the place, of her journey, and at last he said very quietly, even coldly, as if it were merely a natural history observation, “You are amazingly grown, Cousin Leila.  It is as well for cadets and officers that your stay is to be brief.”

“John, I have been in Baltimore.  You will have to put it stronger than that—­I am used to it.”

“I will see if I can improve on it, Leila.”

Now this was not at all the way she meant to meet him, nor these the words they meant to use—­or rather, she—­for John Penhallow had given it no thought, except to be glad as a child promised a gift and then embarrassed into a word of simple descriptive admiration.  When John Penhallow said, with a curious gravity and a little of his old formal manner, “I will reflect on it,” she knew with the quick perception of her sex that here was a new masculine study for the great naturalist woman.  The boy—­the lad—­she knew were no more.

“Who is that with Uncle James?” she asked.

“The Commandant.”

“My niece, Miss Grey.  Colonel Beauregard, my dear.  Let us walk up to the Point.”  The Commandant, who made good his name, took possession of the delighted young woman and carried her away to his home with Penhallow, leaving the cadet to return to his routine of duty.  As they parted, he said, “I am set free to-morrow, Leila, at five, and excused from the afternoon parade.  If you and Uncle Jim will walk up to Port Putnam, I will join you.”