Her mind was like a fresh canvas ready for the hand of the
artist. She was wondering at times what John Penhallow would look like
after over two years of absence and hardly heard the murmur of talk
around her, and was as unconscious of the interested glances of the young
men attracted by the tall figure standing in the bow as the great river
opened before her.
"That," said her uncle, "is Weehawken. There--just there--Hamilton was
killed by Burr, and near by Hamilton's son four years before was killed
in a duel--a political quarrel." She knew the sad story well, and with
the gift of visualization saw the scene and the red pistol-flashes which
meant the death of a statesman of genius.
"And there are the palisades, Leila." The young summer was clothing the
banks with leafage not yet dark green, and translucent in the morning
sun. No railroads marred the loveliness of the lawns on the East bank,
and the grey architecture of the palisades rose in solemn grandeur to
westward.
"It is full of history, Leila. There is Tarrytown, where Andre was
taken." She listened in silence. The day ran on--the palisades fell away.
"Dobbs's Ferry, my dear;" and pointing across the river, "on that hill
Andre died."
Presently the mountains rose before them, and in the afternoon they drew
up at the old wharf.
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