Seizing her elbow with iron fingers, Stockton forced her to walk on beside him, so that to the average gaze they might have been like any other strolling couple, out sauntering for pleasure.
"See ye aught o' friends?" whispered Stockton threateningly. "Be silent, or it will be the worse for ye, mistress!"
Sally, staring about her despairingly, looked in vain for a friendly face. No one paid the least attention to her. Hard faces, careless faces, selfish faces—each seemed busy with its own petty concerns, and the girl tramped on beside Stockton, not daring to call for help.
So they passed down Broadway and turned east toward the river at last. Here the houses were not quite so elegant. Side streets of more modest residences opened off from the thoroughfare Stockton had chosen. But here, too, were groups of ladies surrounded by the red uniforms of British officers. One lady, seated alone and knitting comfortably, attracted Sally's attention as they went by her stoop. Something familiar about the kind, plain, sensible face, the stout figure, called out to the girl. Then, suddenly, she remembered. The lady was Mistress Van Houten, and here the house where Sally had tarried before going out to the Mountain settlement with Parson Chapman more than three years ago.
