_Helen_. Did you? Mother, does the road to Albany wind over a hill like
that?
_Mrs. G_. Like what, Helen?
_Helen_. Like yonder wooded hill, where the soldiers are stationed now?
_Mrs. G_. Not that I know of? Why?
_Helen_. Perhaps we may cross that very hill,--no--could we?
_Mrs. G_. Not unless we should turn refugees, my love; an event of which
there is little danger just now, I think. That road, as indeed you know
yourself, leads out directly to the British camp.
_Helen_. Yes--yes--it does. I know it does. I will not yield to it. 'Tis
folly, all.
_Mrs. G_. You talk as though you were dreaming still; my child. Put on
your hat, and go into the garden for a little, the air is fresh and
pleasant now; or take a ramble through the orchard if you will, you
might meet Annie there,--no, yon she comes, and well too. It's quite
time that I were gone again. I wish that we had nothing worse than
dreams on hand. Helen, I must talk with you about these fancies; you
must not thus unnerve yourself for real evil.
[_Exit_.
_Helen_. It were impossible,--it could not be!--how could it be?--Oh!
these are wild times.
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