He dismounted and gave her the letter, and I jumped to the ground, watching her as she broke the seal, taking her in, as a boy will, from the flowing skirt and tight-laced stays of her salmon silk to her high and powdered hair.  She must have been about thirty.  Her face was beautiful, but had no particle of expression in it, and was dotted here and there with little black patches of plaster.  While she was reading, a sober gentleman in black silk-breeches and severe coat came out of the house and stood beside her.

“Heigho, parson,” said the gentleman on the horse-block, without moving, “are you to preach against loo or lansquenet to-morrow?”

“Would it make any difference to you, Mr. Riddle?”

Before he could answer there came a great clatter behind them, and a boy of my own age appeared.  With a leap he landed sprawling on the indolent gentleman’s shoulders, nearly upsetting him.

“You young rascal!” exclaimed the gentleman, pitching him on the drive almost at my feet; then he fell back again to a position where he could look up at the lady.

“Harry Riddle,” cried the boy, “I’ll ride steeplechases and beat you some day.”

“Hush, Nick,” cried the lady, petulantly, “I’ll have no nerves left me.”  She turned to the letter again, holding it very near to her eyes, and made a wry face of impatience.  Then she held the sheet out to Mr. Riddle.

“A pretty piece of news,” she said languidly.  “Read it, Harry.”

The gentleman seized her hand instead.  The lady glanced at the clergyman, whose back was turned, and shook her head.

“How tiresome you are!” she said.

“What’s happened?” asked Mr. Riddle, letting go as the parson looked around.

“Oh, they’ve had a battle,” said the lady, “and Moultrie and his Rebels have beat off the King’s fleet.”

“The devil they have!” exclaimed Mr. Riddle, while the parson started forwards.  “Anything more?”

“Yes, a little.”  She hesitated.  “That husband of mine has fled Charlestown.  They think he went to the fleet.”  And she shot a meaning look at Mr. Riddle, who in turn flushed red.  I was watching them.

“What!” cried the clergyman, “John Temple has run away?”

“Why not,” said Mr. Riddle.  “One can’t live between wind and water long.  And Charlestown’s—­uncomfortable in summer.”

At that the clergyman cast one look at them—­such a look as I shall never forget—­and went into the house.

“Mamma,” said the boy, “where has father gone?  Has he run away?”

“Yes.  Don’t bother me, Nick.”

“I don’t believe it,” cried Nick, his high voice shaking.  “I’d—­I’d disown him.”

At that Mr. Riddle burst into a hearty laugh.

“Come, Nick,” said he, “it isn’t so bad as that.  Your father’s for his Majesty, like the rest of us.  He’s merely gone over to fight for him.”  And he looked at the lady and laughed again.  But I liked the boy.