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All the members of the Wharton family laid
their heads on their pillows that night, with a fearful
anticipation of some interruption to their ordinary
quiet. This uneasiness kept the sisters from
enjoying their usual repose, and they rose from
their bed on the following morning, unrefreshed,
and almost without closing their eyes.

On taking an eager and hasty survey of the valley
from the windows of their room, nothing, however,
but its usual serenity was to be seen—it was
glittering with the opening brilliancy of one of
those lovely mild days, which occur about the
time of the fall of the leaf; and which, by their
frequency, class the American autumn with the
most delightful seasons in other countries. We
have no spring---vegetation here seems to leap
into existence, instead of creeping, as in the same
latitudes of the old world: but how gracefully it
retires! September---October---even November
and December compose the season for enjoyment
in the open air---they have their storms, but they
are distinct, and not of long continuance, leaving
a clear atmosphere and cloudless sky.

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As nothing could be seen likely to interrupt the
enjoyments and harmony of such a day, the sisters
descended to the parlor with a returning confidence
in their brother's security, and their own
consequent happiness.

The family were early in assembling around their
breakfast table; and Miss Peyton, with a little of
that minute precision which creeps into the habits
of single life, had pleasantly insisted the absence
of her nephew should in no manner interfere
with the regular hours she had established—consequently,
the party were already seated when
the captain made his appearance; though the untasted
coffee sufficiently proved, that by none of
his relatives was his absence disregarded.

“I think I did much better,” he cried, taking a
chair between his sisters, and receiving their offered
salutes, “to secure a good bed, and such a plentiful
breakfast, instead of trusting to the hospitality
of that renowned corps, the Cow-Boys.”

“If you could sleep,” said Sarah, “you were
more fortunate than Frances and myself—every
murmur of the night air sounded to me like the
approach of the rebel army.”

“Why,” said the captain laughing, “I do acknowledge
a little inquietude myself—but how
was it with you,” turning to his younger and evidently
favourite sister, and tapping her cheek;
“did you see banners in the clouds, and mistake
Miss Peyton's Æolian harp for rebellious music.”

“Nay, Henry,” rejoined the maid, looking at
him affectionately, “much as I love my own country,
the approach of her troops just now would
give me great pain.”

The brother made no reply, but returning the
fondness expressed in her eye by a look of fraternal
tenderness, he gently pressed her hand in silence—
when Cæsar, who had participated largely

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in the anxiety of the family, and who had risen
with the dawn, and kept a vigilant watch on the
surrounding objects, exclaimed, as he stood gazing
from one of the windows—

“Run—massa Harry—run—if love old Cæsar,
run—here come the rebel horse,” added the
black, with a face that approached to something
like the hues of a white man.

“Run!” repeated the British officer, gathering
himself up in an air of military pride; “no, Mr.
Cæsar, running is not my trade”—while speaking,
he walked deliberately to the window, where the
family were already collected in the greatest consternation.

At a distance of more than a mile, about fifty
dragoons were to be seen, winding down one of
the lateral entrances to the valley. In advance
with an officer, was a man attired in the dress of
a countryman, who pointed in the direction of the
cottage. A small party now left the main body,
and moved rapidly towards the object of their destination.

On reaching the road which led through the
bottom of the valley, they turned their horses'
heads to the north. The Whartons continued
chained in breathless silence to the spot, watching
their movements, when the party, having
reached the dwelling of Birch, made a rapid circle
round his grounds, and in an instant his house
was surrounded by a dozen sentinels.

Two or three of the dragoons now dismounted
and disappeared: in a few minutes, however,
they returned to the yard, followed by Katy, from
whose violent gesticulations it was evident matters
of no trifling concern were on the carpet. A
short communication with the loquacious housekeeper
followed the arrival of the main body of
the troop, and the advanced party remounting,

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the whole moved towards the Locusts with great
speed.

As yet, none of the family had sufficient presence
of mind to devise any means of security for
Captain Wharton; but the danger now became too
pressing to admit of delay, and various means of
secreting him were hastily proposed, but they
were all haughtily rejected by the young man, as
unworthy of his character—it was too late to retreat
to the woods in the rear of the cottage, for
he would unavoidably be seen, and followed by a
troop of horse, as inevitably taken.

At length his sisters, with trembling hands, replaced
his original disguise, the instruments of
which had been carefully kept at hand by Cæsar,
in expectation of some apprehended danger.

This arrangement was hastily and imperfectly
completed, as the dragoons entered the lawn and
orchard of the Locusts, riding with the rapidity of
the wind; and in their turn the Whartons were
surrounded.

Nothing remained now, but to meet the impending
examination with as much indifference as
the family could assume. The leader of the horse
dismounted, and followed by a couple of his men,
approached the outer door of the building, which
was slowly and reluctantly opened for his admission
by Cæsar. The heavy tread of the trooper,
as he followed the black to the door of the parlor,
rung in the ears of the females as it approached
nearer and nearer, and drove the blood from their
faces to their hearts with a chill that nearly annihilated
all feeling.

A man whose colossal stature manifested the
possession of vast strength, entered the room, and
removing his cap, saluted the family with a mildness
his appearance did not indicate as belonging
to his nature—his dark hair hung around his brow

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in profusion, unstained with the powder which was
worn at that day, and his face was nearly hid in
the whiskers by which it was disfigured—still the
expression of his eye, though piercing, was not bad,
and his voice, though deep and powerful, was not
unpleasant. Frances ventured to throw a timid
glance at his figure as he entered, and saw at once
the man, from whose scrutiny Harvey Birch had
warned them there was so much to be apprehended.

“You have no cause for alarm, ladies,” said
the officer, pausing a moment, and contemplating
the pale faces around him—“my business will be
confined to a few questions, which, if freely answered,
will instantly remove us from your dwelling.”

“And what may they be, sir?” stammered Mr.
Wharton, rising from his chair, and waiting anxiously
for the reply.

“Has there been a strange gentleman staying
with you during the storm?” continued the dragoon,
speaking with interest, and in some degree
sharing in the evident anxiety of the father.

“This gentleman—here—favored us with his
company during the rain, and has not yet departed;”
answered the agitated parent, unable to look
his interrogator in the face.

“This gentleman!” repeated the other, turning
to Captain Wharton, and contemplating his figure
for a moment, until the anxiety of his countenance
gave place to a lurking smile—he approached the
youth with an air of comic gravity, and, with a low
bow, continued—“I am sorry for the severe cold
you have in your head, sir.”

“Me!” exclaimed the captain in surprise; “I
have no cold in my head.”

“I fancied it then, from seeing you had covered
such handsome auburn locks with that ugly old
wig,” rejoined the stranger; “it was my mistake,
you will please to pardon it.”

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Mr. Wharton groaned aloud; but the ladies,
ignorant of the extent of their visitor's knowledge,
remained in trembling yet rigid silence. The captain
himself moved his hand involuntarily to his
head, and found the trepidation of his sisters had
left some of his natural hair exposed. The dragoon
watched the movement with a continued
smile, when, seeming to recollect himself, he proceeded,
turning to the father—

“Then, sir, I am to understand there has not
been a Mr. Harper here within the week.”

“Mr. Harper!” echoed the other, feeling a
load removed from his heart—“yes, sir—I had forgotten;
but he is gone; and if there be any thing
wrong in his character, we are in entire ignorance
of it—to me he was a total stranger.”

“You have but little to apprehend from his
character,” answered the dragoon dryly; “but he
is gone—how—when—and whither?”

“He departed as he arrived,” said Mr. Wharton,
gathering renewed confidence from the manner
of the trooper, “on horseback last evening,
and he took the northern road.”

The officer listened to him with intense interest,
his countenance gradually lighting into a
smile of pleasure; and the instant Mr. Wharton
concluded his laconic reply, he turned on his heel
and left the apartment. The Whartons, judging from
his manner, thought he was about to proceed in
quest of the object of his inquiries. On gaining
the lawn they noticed the dragoon in earnest, and
apparently pleased conversation with his two subalterns.
In a few moments orders were given to
some of the troop, and horsemen left the valley,
at full speed, by its various roads.

The suspense of the party within, who were all
highly interested witnesses of the scene, was shortly
terminated; for the heavy tread of the dragoon

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soon announced his second approach. He bowed
again politely as he re-entered the room, and walking
up to Captain Wharton, said, with comic gravity—

“Now, sir, my principal business done, may I
beg to examine the quality of that wig?”

The British officer imitated the manner of the
other, as he deliberately uncovered his head, and
handing him the wig, observed, “I hope, sir, it is
to your liking.”

“I cannot, without violating the truth, say it is
sir,” returned the dragoon; “I prefer your auburn
hair, from which you seem to have combed the
powder with great industry—but that must have
been a sad hurt you have received under that
enormous black patch.”

“You appear so close an observer of things, I
should like your opinion of it, sir,” said Henry, removing
the silk, and exhibiting his cheek free from
blemish.

“Upon my word, sir, you improve most rapidly
in externals,” added the trooper, preserving
his muscles in inflexible gravity: “if I could but
persuade you to exchange this old surtout for that
handsome blue coat by your side, I think I never
could witness a more agreeable metamorphosis,
since I was changed myself from a lieutenant to a
captain.”

Young Wharton very composedly did as he was
required; and stood an extremely handsome, well-dressed
young man. The dragoon looked at him
for a minute with the drollery that characterized
his manner, and then continued—

“This is a new comer in the scene—it is usual
you know for strangers to be introduced—I am
Captain Lawton, of the Virginia horse.”

“And I—sir—am Captain Wharton, of his Majesty's
60th regiment of foot,” returned Henry,
bowing stiffly, and recovering his natural manner.

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The countenance of Lawton changed instantly,
and his assumed quaintness vanished. He viewed
the figure of Captain Wharton, as he stood proudly
swelling with a conscious pride that disdained
further concealment, and cried, with great earnestness—

“Captain Wharton—from my soul I pity you.”

“Oh! then,” cried the father in agony, “if you
pity him, dear sir, why molest him—he is not a
spy—nothing but a desire to see his friends prompted
him to venture so far from the regular army in
disguise—leave him with us—there is no reward,
no sum, which I will not cheerfully pay.”

“Sir, your anxiety for your friend excuses your
language,” said Lawton haughtily; “but you forget
I am a Virginian, and a gentleman.”—Turning
to the young man, he continued—“were you ignorant,
Captain Wharton, that our picquets have
been below you for several days?”

“I did not know it until I reached them, and it
was then too late to retreat,” said Wharton sullenly.
“I came out, as my father has mentioned, to
see my friends, understanding your parties to be
at Peeks-kill, and near the Highlands, or surely I
would not have ventured.”

“All this may be very true,” said Lawton musing;
“but the affair of André has made us on the
alert. When treason reaches to the grade of general
officers, Captain Wharton, it behoves the
friends of liberty to be vigilant.”

Henry bowed to this remark in distant silence,
and Sarah ventured to urge something in behalf
of her brother. The dragoon heard her politely,
and apparently with commiseration; but willing to
avoid useless and embarrassing petitions, answered
mildly—

“I am not the commander of the party, madam;
Major Dunwoodie will decide what must be done

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with your brother; and, at all events, he will receive
nothing but kind and gentle treatment.

“Dunwoodie!” exclaimed Frances, with a face
in which the roses contended with the paleness of
apprehension for the mastery; “thank God! then
Henry is safe.”

Lawton regarded her with a mingled expression
of pity and admiration, then shaking his head,
doubtingly, continued—

“I hope so; and with your permission we will
leave the matter for his decision.”

The colour of Frances changed from the paleness
of fear to the glow of hope—her dread on
behalf of her brother was certainly greatly diminished;
yet her form shook; her breathing became
short and irregular; and her whole frame gave
tokens of extraordinary agitation—her eyes rose
from the floor to the dragoon, and were again fixed
immoveably on the carpet—she evidently wished
to utter something, but was unequal to the effort.
Miss Peyton was a close observer of these
movements of her niece, and advancing with an
air of feminine dignity, inquired—

“Then, sir, we may expect the pleasure of
Major Dunwoodie's company shortly?”

“Immediately, madam,” answered the dragoon,
withdrawing his admiring gaze from the person of
Frances; “expresses are already on the road to
announce to him our situation, and the intelligence
will speedily bring him to this valley; unless,
indeed,” he continued, contracting his lips,
and looking droll, as he turned to Mr. Wharton,
“some private reasons may exist to make a visit
particularly unpleasant.”

“I shall always be happy to see Major Dunwoodie,”
said the father hastily, overhearing the
soliloquy of the trooper.

“Oh! doubtless, sir,” said the other dryly; “he

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is a general favorite—may I presume on it so far as
to ask leave to dismount and refresh my men, who
compose part of his squadron.”

There was a manner about the trooper, that
would have made the omission of such a request
easily forgiven by Mr. Wharton, but he was fairly
entrapped by his own eagerness to conciliate, and
it was useless to withhold a consent which he
thought would probably be extorted—he, therefore,
made the most of the necessity of the case,
and gave such orders as would facilitate the wishes
of Captain Lawton.

The officers were politely invited to take their
morning's repast at the family breakfast table, and
having first made their arrangements without, the
invitation was frankly accepted. None of the
watchfulness, which was so necessary to their situation,
was neglected by the wary partizan. The
patroles were seen on the distant hills, taking their
protecting circuit around their comrades, who
were enjoying, in the midst of dangers, a security
that can only spring from the indifference of habit,
and the watchfulness of discipline.

The addition to the party at Mr. Wharton's
table was in number only three—and these were
all of them men who, under the rough exterior of
actual and arduous service, concealed the manners
of the highest class of society. Consequently, the
interruption to the domestic privacy of the family
was marked by the observance of strict decorum.
The ladies left the table to their guests, who
proceeded without much superfluous modesty to
do proper honours to the hospitality of Mr. Wharton.

At length, Captain Lawton suspended for a moment
his violent attacks on the buck-wheat cakes,
to inquire of the master of the house, if there was
not a pedlar of the name of Birch who lived in the
valley at times?

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