"Then Washington retreated up to Kingsbridge," began her father. "They found they could not hold that, and so went on to White Plains, followed by some Hessian troops. They didn't seem very fortunate at first, for they were beaten again. Grandmother can tell you a good deal about that. And a great-uncle had his house burned down and they were forced to fly to a little old house on top of a hill. My father was a little boy then."
The little girl looked amazed. Did he know about the war?
"It seems such a long, long time ago—like the flood and the selling of Joseph. And was grandmother really alive?"
"Grandmother is about as old as Miss Lois."
"Miss Lois doesn't look so awful old, but the other lady does. I felt afraid of her."
"Don't think of her, pussy. It's very sad to lose your senses and be a trouble."
"You couldn't," was the confident reply after much consideration. She didn't see how such a thing could happen to him.
"I hope I never shall," he returned, with an earnest prayer just under his breath.
Dobbin insisted upon going home briskly. He was thinking of his supper. The little girl was so sorry not to have Benny Frank to talk over her adventures with. Margaret and her mother were basting shirts; John was drawing plans on the dining-room table. He had found a place to work at house-building and was studying architecture and draughting. A man had come in to see her father, so she was left quite alone. The Deans and several of the little girls on the block had gone visiting. She walked up and down a while, thinking how strange the world was, and what wonderful things had happened, vaguely feeling that there couldn't be any to come in the future.
At the end of the week she and Margaret went up to White Plains, as grandmother was anxious to see them.