She pushed out one of the arm-chairs and gave her footstool to the little girl.
"I am an Underhill myself, a sort of connection, I dare say. We heard of you some time ago, but I have been much occupied with business, yet I have intended all the time to call on you."
"You are very good, I am sure. We had some relations on Long Island, and I think some here-about, but we lost sight of them long ago. We really have no one now. My sister Jane is past eighty, and I am only three years younger."
She was a slim, shrunken body and her hands were almost transparent, so white was her skin. Her gown was gray, and she wore a white kerchief crossed on her bosom like a Quakeress. Her fine muslin cap had the narrow plain border of that denomination.
Mr. Underhill made a brief explanation of his antecedents, and his removal to the city,—then mentioned hearing of them from Mr. Brockner.
"You are very good to hunt us up," she said, with a touching tremble in her voice. "I don't think now I could tell anything about my father's relatives. He was killed at the battle of Harlem Heights, and my only brother was taken prisoner. The Ferrises, my mother's people, owned a great farm here-about. But much of it was laid waste, and a little later the old homestead burned down. This house was built for us before the British evacuated the city. My brother had died in prison of a fever, and there were only my mother and us two girls."
Hanny was sitting quite close by her. She reached over and took the wrinkled hand gently.
"Do you mean you were alive then—a little girl in the Revolutionary War?" she exclaimed in breathless surprise.
"Why, I was nine years old," and she gave a faded little smile. "I doubt if you're more than that."
"I am a little past eight," said Hanny.