Resuming his seat by the table, he took up the packet he was examining when they interrupted him a few minutes before.
He now opened it hastily, and a number of papers dropped out.
One of these he picked up, and tore from it a strip, which he looked at carefully, as though to be certain it was clear of writing; then, dipping a quill into the ink, he wrote a few words upon it.
"Take this, my child," he said, extending it to her, "and should you ever be in need of any service within my power to render, you have but to send this slip of paper, to remind me that I have promised to assist you."
Dorothy stood speechless, well-nigh bewildered, her eyes fixed upon his face, now alight with an aspect almost paternal.
She said nothing, did not even thank him; but taking the paper, she pressed her lips to the hand that proffered it, and then, turning quickly, sped from the room.
"We are most honored, sir—you are very kind," said Mary, who felt it incumbent upon her to express their gratitude in more formal fashion than Dorothy had adopted.
Washington was looking at the door through which the girl had disappeared, but now he turned and bowed courteously.
"Much of the obligation is my own," he replied with courtly gallantry. Then his manner changed as he said: "Your sister is a sweet little maid,—it is most sad that she should have lost her father. He was, as is his son, a worthy and stanch patriot. These are troublous times, Mistress Devereux, and one so young and charming as she may come to feel the need of a protector; although, from all I have seen of her brother—your husband—it might well be supposed my own poor services would never be called into use."
"I thank you, sir; and I am sure Dorothy does the same—and both of us with all our hearts." And Mary ventured to extend her hand.