"And the battle was just over yonder," nodding her head. "We all hoped so that General Washington would win. My father was very patriotic and very much in earnest for the independence of the country. The armies were separated by Harlem Plains, and General Howe pushed forward through McGowan's Pass, the rocky gorge over yonder. But our men forced them into the cleared field, and if it had not been for a troop of Hessians they would have driven the British off the field. But I believe Washington thought it best to retreat. I've heard it was almost a victory, still it wasn't quite. But we were wild with apprehension, for we could hear the noise and the firing. And then the awful word came that father was killed."
"Oh!" cried the little girl, and she laid her soft cheek on the wrinkled hand. What if she had been alive then!—and she looked over at her father with tears in her eyes.
"It was a sad, sad time. Some of the Ferrises were on the King's side. You know a great many people believed the rebels all wrong and said they never could win. My Uncle Ferris was bitterly opposed to father's espousing the Federalists' cause."
"But you didn't want England to win, did you?" inquired the little girl, wide-eyed.
"We were so full of trouble. Mother was very bitter, I remember, and folks called her a Tory. Then brother, who was only seventeen, was taken prisoner. Uncle Ferris said it would be a good lesson for a hot-headed young fellow, and that two or three months in prison would cool his ardor. But he was taken sick and died before we knew he was really ill. Then our house burned down. Mother thought it was set on fire. Oh, my child, such quantities of things as were in it! My mother had never gone away from the old house because grandmother was a widow. Then the land was divided, and this smaller house built for mother and us. The British took possession of the city, and it was said uncle made money right along. But the English were very good to us, and no one ever molested us after that. Dear, we used to think it almost a day's journey to go down to the Bowling Green."
The little girl was listening wide-eyed, and drew a long breath.
"There have been many changes. But somehow we seem to have gone on until most everybody has forgotten us. You might like to see sister Jane, though she's quite deaf and hasn't her mind very clear. I don't know,"—hesitatingly.
"Do you live all alone here?" Mr. Underhill asked.
"Not exactly alone; no. We sold the next-door lot four years ago to some Germans, very nice people. The mother comes in and helps with our little work and looks after our garden, and sleeps here at night. The doctor thought it wasn't safe to be left here alone with sister Jane. It made it easy for them to pay for the place. It's nearly all gone now. But there'll be enough to last our time out," she commented with a soft sigh of self-abnegation.
"And you have no relatives, that is, no one to look after you a bit?"