Peggy Owen, Patriot: A Story for Girls

“Such a price, and without quilting! Once it could have been bought for fifteen shillings.”

“’Tis very likely,” smiled the shopkeeper. “That must have been before the war. Prices are soaring on everything, and are like to go higher before falling.”

Mrs. Owen laid down the garment gravely.

“A coat and a hat,” she said. “What will be the cost of a very ordinary one of each?”

“They cannot be procured under two hundred pounds, madam.”

“And gauze for caps?”

“The common grade is twenty-four dollars a yard. The better quality fifty dollars.”

“Mother,” whispered Peggy, “why need thee buy the petticoat? We can weave cloth for it, and I can quilt it myself.”

“True, Peggy,” assented her mother. “I think we can manage about the petticoat, but a frock thou must have. A frock and some gloves.”

“Cloth for a frock, madam?” questioned the merchant eagerly. “Shall it be lutestring, poplin, brocade, or broadcloth? I have the best of England, madam.”

But Mrs. Owen’s face grew grave indeed as he mentioned prices. Peggy’s eyes filled with tears. She saw her new frock vanishing into thin air as fabric after fabric was brought forth only to be rejected when the cost was named. She knew that she had nothing to wear to the tea at headquarters unless a new gown was purchased, and she choked in her disappointment. Her mother saw her tears and turned to the merchant with determination.

“I will——” she opened her lips to say, when some one tapped her lightly on the shoulder, and a clear voice called:

“Why, Madam Owen, are you buying gowns? What extravagance! If farm life pays well enough to buy cloth these times I shall get me to a farmery at once. Mr. Bache wishes to go.”

“Sally Franklin, how does thee do?” exclaimed Mrs. Owen, greeting the young matron warmly. “I came down intending to buy a great deal, but——”

“The prices! The prices!” cried Franklin’s daughter, waving her hands. “It takes a fortune to keep a family in a very plain way. And there never was so much dressing and pleasure going on! I wrote to father to send me a number of things from France, among them some long black pins, lace, and some feathers, thinking he could get such things much cheaper there.”

“And did he?” eagerly questioned Peggy, who had now recovered herself.

“No; and I got well scolded for my extravagance,” laughed Mrs. Bache. “He sent the things he thought necessary, omitting the others. He advised me to wear cambric ruffles instead of lace, and to take care not to mend them. In time they would come to lace, he said. As for feathers, why send that which could be had from every cock’s tail in America.”

“How like Dr. Franklin that is,” remarked Mrs. Owen much amused. “What did thee answer?”

“That I had to be content with muslin caps in winter, and in summer I went without. As for cambric I had none to make lace of. Oh, we shall all come to linsey-woolsey, I fear. Dr. Shippen talks of moving his family from the city, and the rest of us will have to do the same.”

She moved away. The shopkeeper turned to bring on more goods, hoping to tempt his customers, and Peggy took hold of her mother’s hand gently.

“It will cut into thy resources greatly to get these things, won’t it, mother?”

“Yes,” assented the lady soberly. “For the frock alone I would have to pay as much as I had intended for thy entire outfit.”

“Then thee must not do it,” said Peggy gravely.

“There is one way that it can be done, my daughter,” said her mother not looking at her. “If thou wilt consent to forego all charitable gifts this winter; if thou wilt let the soldiers or any other needy ones go without benefit from thee; then thou canst take the money for all thy things: the hat, the coat, the two frocks, the gloves, and all the other necessaries of which we spoke. Now, Peggy, I will not blame thee if thou dost choose according to thy wishes, for thou hast already given up much. It rests with thee.”

Peggy looked at the dazzling array of fabrics spread temptingly upon the counter. She did want a new gown so badly. She needed it, she told herself quickly. She had given up a great deal. Must she give up in this too? For an instant she wavered, and then a vision of some of the soldiers that she had seen flashed across her mind, and she turned from the glittering array with a little sob.

“I could not, I could not,” she cried. “And have nothing for the poor soldiers! It would be a sin! But oh, mother! do let us hurry away from here. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is so weak.”

Pausing only for a word of courteous explanation to the mercer the lady followed the maiden from the store.

CHAPTER V—UP IN THE ATTIC

“I can wear my blue and white Persian,” said the girl bravely. “Thee must not worry so over my frock, mother.”

“Thy Persian was new three years since,” objected her mother. “And thou hast grown, Peggy. Beside, ’tis faded. Stay! I have the very thing. Come with me, child.”

She sprang up with so much animation that Peggy wondered at her. It was not customary with Mrs. Owen to be harassed over such a matter as clothes, but her daughter’s unselfishness when her need was so great had stirred her to unusual tenderness. Up to the garret they went, the lady leading the way with the agility of a girl. The attic extended over the entire main building. There were great recesses under the eaves which pigeons sought, and dark closets where one might hide as in the old legend of the old oak chest.

From one of the shadowed niches Mrs. Owen drew forth a chest. It was battered and old, yet it required all the lady’s strength to force the lock.

“The key is lost,” she explained to Peggy who was following her movements with eagerness. “’Tis a mercy the house was occupied by British in place of Hessians. Had they had it everything would have been taken. The English were more moderate in their plundering, though they did take many of Dr. Franklin’s books, I hear, and his portrait.^[1]

“There,” she exclaimed almost gaily, drawing forth a yellowing dress, and holding it up to view with gentle pride. “There, Peggy! There is thy frock.”

A faint sweet perfume emanated from the folds of the garment as Mrs. Owen held it up. Peggy touched it wonderingly.

“Whose was it, mother?” she asked almost in a whisper. “Not thine?”

“Mine, Peggy? Why, ’twas my wedding dress.” The lady smoothed the satin folds tenderly. “’Twas once the sheerest white, but it hath lain so long that it hath mellowed to cream. But that will be the more becoming to thy dark hair and eyes.”

“And I am to wear it?” queried the maiden in awed tones. “Oh, mother, ’tis too much to ask of thee.”

“Thee deserves it, my daughter. I would far rather that thou shouldst have the good of it than it should lie here to rot. Let me see!” Diving down into the chest with a gaiety she did not often exhibit, she brought up some little shoes, silken to match the gown. “Ah! I thought these should be here. And here is a fan with sticks of sandal wood. And a piece of fine lawn that will make thee an apron. Come! we shall do nicely. ’Tis a veritable treasure chest we have come upon. We will not explore it further now. There may come another time of need. Take thou the shoon, Peggy, and the fan. I will carry the gown. We will begin work at once. I was slender when the frock was worn, but thou art a full inch smaller about the waist. ’Twill be easily fixed.”

With reverent hands Peggy took the shoes and fan, and followed her mother down to the living-room.

As Sally had said, Peggy was indeed thankful for the hours of training in fine sewing and embroidery. When finally the day came for the trying on, and the desired frock fulfilled her highest expectation, her ecstasy was unable to contain itself.

“Thee is the best mother that ever lived,” she cried catching Mrs. Owen about the waist and giving her a girlish hug. “What would I do without thee? Oh, mother! what if thee had had no wedding gown? What would we have done?”

Mrs. Owen laughed, well pleased at her enthusiasm.

“We will not consider that part of it, Peggy,” she said. “We have it in truth, and it does indeed look well. A new frock would have looked no better. Ah! here is Sally. Let her give her opinion.”

“Thee comes just in time, Sally,” cried Peggy as Sally Evans was shown into the room. “How does thee like my new frock?”

“’Tis much prettier than mine,” declared Sally eying the gown critically. “And vastly distinctive. Where did thee get the material, Peggy? I never saw quite the shade.”

“Then thee thinks it citified and à la mode?” queried Peggy, ignoring the question.

“’Tis as sweet and modish as can be,” cried Sally generously. “Thee will outshine all us females, Peggy.”

“Thee can’t mean that, Sally,” reproved Peggy flushing at such praise. “I know that thee is partial to thy friend, but that is going too far.”

“But ’tis the truth,” answered Sally. “Would that I had seen that fabric, and I would have chosen it for my new frock. I did get a new one after all. I teased mother into getting it by telling her that thee was to have a new one.”

“Oh! did thee?” cried Peggy. “Why, Sally, this was mother’s wedding gown. We went to get a frock, but found the prices beyond us. Mother was determined that I should have the gown though, so she gave me this.”

“Mother was going to get it anyway, Peggy,” said Sally quickly, seeing her friend’s dismay. “It might not have been until later but I was to have a dress this winter. So thee must not think it thy fault that I got it. Would though that I had not. I wonder if my mother hath a wedding gown. This is vastly pretty.”

“Is ‘t not?” cried Peggy. “And, Sally, I hear there is to be dancing after the tea at the general’s. It is strange for Quakers to attend such affairs. Why, does thee not remember how we used to wish to attend the weekly assemblies, and how it was spoke against in the meeting?”

“It is strange,” assented Sally, “but Quakers go everywhere now with the world’s people. What was it that Master Benezet used to teach us? Something anent the times, was it not?”

“‘O tempora! O mores,’” quoted Peggy. “‘O the times! O the manners!’ How long ago it seems since we went to Master Benezet’s school. Heigh ho! would I were attending it again!”

“Why, Peggy Owen, would thee wish to miss this tea?” demanded her friend. “For my part I am monstrously glad that I am through with books; for now I am going to——” She paused abruptly. “But ’tis to remain secret for a time,” she added.

“Sally! a secret from me?” exclaimed Peggy reproachfully. “I thought thee told me everything.”

“I do; usually,” returned the other with a consequential air. “But this is of great import, and is not to be known for a few days. Oh, Peggy,” she cried, suddenly dropping her important mien, and giving Peggy a hearty squeeze. “I am dying to tell thee all about it, but I cannot until—until—well, until the night of General Arnold’s tea.”

And so it came about that Peggy had another incentive for awaiting that event impatiently.

CHAPTER VI—TEA AT HEADQUARTERS

It was the night of General Arnold’s tea, and the maiden had just put the finishing touch to her toilet, and was all aglow with excitement. The creamy folds of the silken gown well became her dark hair and eyes. The bodice, cut square, revealed her white throat so young and girlish. Her white silk mitts, long and without fingers, were held to the sleeve by “tightens.” A gauze cap with wings and streamers perched saucily upon her dark locks which were simply drawn back from her low, broad forehead, braided with a ribbon, and powdered but little. The prim little frock fell just to her ankles, revealing the clocked white stockings and dainty high heeled slippers with pearls glistening upon the buckles.

“Didst ever behold a more bewitching damsel than thy daughter, Mistress Peggy Owen?” she cried, sweeping her mother a deep curtsey.

Her eyes were shining. She was for the nonce a happy maiden concerned with naught save the pleasures of girlhood, and possessed of a mood that would have been habitual had not the mighty sweep of public events tinged her girlish gaiety with an untoward gravity.

Some such thought flitted through Mrs. Owen’s mind as she surveyed her daughter with tender eyes, and she sighed. A look of anxiety flitted over Peggy’s face.

“Is thee not well?” she queried. “Or is it wrong, mother, for me to be so happy when father is in the field?”

“Neither, my daughter. I was but wishing that thou couldst be as care free all the time as thou art to-night. But there! we will partake of the fruit that is offered leaving the bitter until the morrow. Thy gown well becomes thee, child. I make no doubt but that thou wilt look as well as any.”

“Mother,” exclaimed the girl, a soft flush dyeing her face, “thee will make me vain.”

“I trust not, my daughter. Others will, no doubt, tell thee so, and ’tis as well that thou shouldst hear it first from me. Let it not spoil thee, Peggy. Ah! here is Sukey to tell us that Robert and his uncle have come for us.”

Peggy gave a backward look at her reflection in the mirror, and well pleased with what she saw there followed her mother sedately to the drawing-room where Robert Dale and his uncle, Mr. Jacob Deering, awaited them.

The latter, stately in an olive-colored silk velvet with knee buckles, silk stockings, bright silver shoe-buckles and the usual three looped hat held in his hand, hastened to greet them as they entered.

“Zounds! Miss Peggy,” he cried. “’Tis well that I am not a young buck, else you should look no further for a gallant. Bless me, but you have grown pretty! Bob, you rascal! why did you not prepare me for what I should see? Upon my word, child, you must not mind a kiss from an old man.”

So saying he held her at arm’s length in admiration, and then kissed her on both her cheeks. Whereat Peggy blushed right prettily.

“Thee will make me vain,” she protested. “And mother hath but ceased warning me against such vanity. In truth, Friend Deering, I believe that no girl was ever so happy as I am to-night.”

    “‘Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may:
        Old  Time  is  still  a-flying;
    And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day,
        To-morrow  may  be  dying,’”

he quoted gaily. “Have your fling, child. The morrow may bring grave problems to be solved, so be happy while you can. ’Tis youth’s prerogative. Bob, do you follow with Mrs. Owen. I shall take an old man’s privilege and lead the princess to the coach myself. I’ faith, there will be no opportunity for a word with her once she reaches headquarters.”

Peggy gave Robert Dale an arch glance over her shoulder as the old gentleman led her to the coach, where she settled herself to await with what patience she could their arrival at Major-General Arnold’s.

At this time there was no suspicion whispered against the patriotism of Benedict Arnold. Scarcely any soldier had done so much to sustain the liberties of his country, and tales of his prowess, his daring and courage were rife in the city. Upon being placed in charge of Philadelphia by the commander-in-chief, General Washington, he had taken possession of the mansion in High Street, once the home of Richard Penn, and recently occupied by Sir William Howe. It was regarded as one of the finest houses in the city, was built of brick, and stood on the southeast corner of Front and High Streets.

Peggy and her mother knew that the affair was to be more than the ordinary tea, but they were scarcely prepared for the sumptuousness of the occasion.

“Is it a ball, Robert?” whispered the girl as they stood for a moment in the crush about the door.

“No,” answered the youth a frown contracting his brow. “’Tis elaborate enough for one, and that is truth, Peggy. But when one is given it seems to be the general’s purpose to outvie all that rumor hath spoken of the Mischianza. All his entertainments are given on a most magnificent scale; as though he were a man of unbounded wealth and high social position. I like it not.”

Peggy opened her lips to reply, but before she could do so the way was cleared for them to approach the general. The girl looked with intense interest at the gallant soldier of whose prowess she had heard so much. He was a dark, well-made man, still young, not having reached the meridian of life; his face, bronzed and darkened by fatigue and exposure, indicated that he had seen the severest hardships of a soldier’s life. Unable to accept a command in the field because of the wounds received at Saratoga the preceding fall he had been made commandant of the city. He was still on crutches, being thin and worn from the effects of his hurt.

Some of the stories of his great courage upon that occasion came to Peggy’s mind, and brought a glow of admiration to her eyes. She flushed rosily as he said in greeting:

“I am pleased to welcome you, Mistress Peggy. A certain aide of mine hath talked of naught else but your return for a week past. You are to report him to me if he does not give you an enjoyable time. Ah, Dale! look to’t that you distinguish yourself in the matter.”

“Are there none but Tories?” questioned Peggy, as General Arnold turned to greet other arrivals, and Mrs. Owen paused to converse with some acquaintances.

“Well,” the lad hesitated a moment and then continued, “they seem remarkably fond of him, Peggy, and he of them. I would it were not so, but many of the staff have thought that they flocked to his entertainments in mischievous numbers.”

“But are there no others?” asked the girl again, for on every side were Tories and Neutrals to such an extent that scarce a Whig was to be seen.

“Oh, yes, the gentlemen of Congress are here somewhere, for there is Mr. Charles Lee, who is always to be found where they are. He pays court to them upon every occasion in the endeavor to convince them what great merit he showed at the battle of Monmouth.” And the youth laughed.

“And the head-dresses,” exclaimed the girl in astonishment. “How high they are. And the pomade! And the powder! Why, Robert, all the fashion of the city is here!”

“And what did the general say to thee, Peggy?” cried Sally’s voice, and Robert and Peggy turned to find Sally and Betty directly behind them. “Did he compliment thee upon thy name? ’Tis his favorite, thee knows. There comes Miss Margaret Shippen now, and look at thy general, Robert. One could tell that he was paying court to her.”

“They are to be married soon, I hear,” announced Betty, when the laugh that had followed Sally’s remark died away.

“How beautiful she is,” exclaimed Peggy admiringly as she gazed at the stately Miss Shippen.

“She is indeed,” assented Robert, “though I would she were not a Tory.”

“Fie, fie, Robert,” laughed Peggy. “Is not thy Cousin Kitty a Tory? I never heard thee object to her.”

“Oh, Kitty! that’s different.” Robert was plainly embarrassed.

“Is it?” The three girls laughed again, enjoying his confusion.

“I but voice the objections of the army,” explained he when their merriment had subsided. “Of the Congress also, who fear the effect upon the people, there is so much feeling anent the Tories.”

“Congress!” exclaimed Sally with a scornful toss of her head. “I should not mind what Congress said if I were General Arnold. They wouldn’t even give him his proper rank until after Saratoga, though His Excellency, General Washington, did his utmost to make them. I wouldn’t ask the old Congress anything anent the matter. So there!”

“Hoity-toity, my young lady! Have a care to your words. Know you not that the gentlemen of that same Congress are present? It seems to me that I have heard that some of those same gentlemen are the very men who are on the board of a certain institution——”

“Oh, hush, hush, Mr. Deering,” cried Sally turning with some excitement to the old gentleman. “’Tis a secret known to but few.”

“Now what did I say?” he demanded as the others looked at the two in surprise. “Miss Peggy, won’t you defend me?”

“Let him say it over, Sally,” said Peggy roguishly. “Perhaps we can tell then.”

“No, no,” uttered Sally with a questioning glance at him. “Thee does know,” she burst forth as she met his twinkling eyes. “How did thee find it out, Mr. Deering?”

“If you will glad an old man by treading this measure with him, I’ll tell you,” he answered. “Or perhaps you prefer a younger squire?”

“Oh, thee! Thee every time,” cried she, linking her arm in his.

“Won’t you follow them, Peggy?” asked Robert.

“Why, no,” she answered in surprise. “Thee knows that I am a Quaker, Robert.”

“But not now, Peggy,” interposed Betty. “Since thee has become a Whig, and have been read out of meeting thee is an apostate. Sally and I both have learned to languish and glide at the new academy in Third Street. They are taught there in the politest manner. Thee must attend.”

Peggy looked troubled.

“I do not think we should give up everything of our religion because we are led to differ from the Society in the matter of politics,” she said. “At least that is the way mother looks at it, though I should like to learn to dance. Oh, dear! I am getting worldly, I fear. Now, Betty, thee and Robert run along while I stand here and watch you. It hath been long since I saw so bright a scene.”

Thus urged, Robert and Betty glided out upon the floor, and Peggy looked about her.

The extravagance of the costumes was beyond anything hitherto seen in the quiet city of Penn, and Peggy’s eyes opened wide at the gorgeous brocades and wide hooped skirts. But most of all did she marvel at the headdresses of the ladies. These, built of feathers, aigrets and ribbands, topped the hair already piled high upon steel frames and powdered excessively. The air was full of powder from wig and head-dress. Happy laughter mingled with the music of the fiddles, and the rustle of brocades. All made up a scene the luxury of which stole over the little maid’s senses and troubled her. Unconsciously she sighed.

“Why not treading a measure, my little maid?” queried General Arnold’s pleasant voice, and Peggy looked up to find him smiling down upon her.

“I am a Quaker,” she told him simply.

“Then mayhap we can console each other; although I do not refrain from religious scruples.”

“No; thee does it because of thy wound,” uttered the girl a glow of such intense admiration coming into her eyes that the general smiled involuntarily. “Does it pain thee much, Friend—I should say—General Arnold?”

“Nay; call me friend, Miss Peggy. I like the name, and no man hath too many. At times I suffer much. At first I was in a very fever of discontent, ’twas so long in healing. I chafed under the confinement, for it kept me from the field. Of late, however, I have come to bear its tardiness in healing with some degree of patience.”

“Mother thinks that as much bravery may be shown in endurance as in action,” she observed shyly.

“More, more,” he declared. “Action is putting into execution the resolve of the moment, and may be spurred by excitement or peril to deeds of daring. One forgets everything under its stimulus. But to be compelled to sit supinely when the liberties of the country are in danger——Ah! that is what takes the heart out of a man. It irks me.”

“Thee should not fret,” she said with such sweet gravity that his worn dark face lighted up. “Thou hast already given so much for thy country that ’tis well that thou shouldst take thy ease for a time. Thee has been very brave.”

“Thank you,” he returned, his pleasure at her naive admiration being very apparent. Already there had been detractions whispered against his administration of the city, and the genuine appreciation of this little maid for his military exploits was soothing to him. “I know not how our talk hath become so serious,” he said, “but I am a poor host to permit it. ’Tis not befitting a scene of pleasure. Wilt take tea with me, Miss Peggy?”

Peggy looked up quickly, thinking she had not heard aright. What! she, a simple young girl, to be taken to tea by so great a general! Mr. Arnold stood courteously awaiting her assent, and realizing that he had indeed bestowed the honor upon her, she arose, swept a profound curtsey, and murmured an almost inaudible acceptance.

There were little gasps of surprise from Sally and Betty, as she swept by them, but pride had succeeded to Peggy’s confusion, and she did not turn her head. Assured that never again would she be filled with such felicity Peggy held her head high, and walked proudly down the great drawing-room by Benedict Arnold’s side.

’Twas customary in Philadelphia for the mistress of a household to disperse tea to guests, but the general having no wife pressed his military attachés into this duty. So overwhelmed was Peggy with the honor conferred upon her that she did not notice that her cup was filled again and again by the obliging servitor. She was recalled to herself, however, by an audible aside from Sally:

“And hath thy general plenty of Bohea in the house, Robert? ’Tis to be hoped so, else there will be none for the rest of us. That is Peggy’s sixth cup, is it not?”

“Oh, dear!” gasped Peggy flushing scarlet, and hastily placing her spoon across the top of her cup, for this was the proper mode of procedure when one had been served sufficiently. “I did not know, I did not think—in fact, the tea was most excellent, and did beguile me. Nay,” she broke off looking at him bravely. “’Twas because I was so beset with pride to think that it was thou who served me that I forgot my manners. In truth, the incident is so notable that I shall never forget it.”

“Now, by my life, you should drink all there is for that speech though no one else were served,” declared he laughing. “What! No more? Then we will see to ’t that your friend hath cause for no further complaint. Do you read, Miss Peggy?”

From a small spindle-legged table that stood near, he selected a book from several which lay on its polished surface, and handed it to her.

“Pleasure me by accepting this,” he said. “’Tis Brooke’s ‘Lady Juliet Grenville.’ Most young ladies like it, and it hath more endurance than a cup of tea.”

“Oh, thank thee! Thank thee!” cried she delightedly. “I have heard much of the tale, and have longed to read it. I shall truly treasure it.”

“Would that my name were Margaret,” cried Sally as General Arnold left her with her friends. “And what did thee do to merit all this honor, Miss Peggy?”

“I know not,” answered Peggy regarding the book almost with awe. “Oh, girls! hath he not indeed been kind to me? ’Tis most wonderful how everything hath happened. How vastly delightsome town life is! I hope mother will go to every tea to which we are asked.”

“And has thee had so much excitement that thee does not care for my secret?” asked Sally. “’Twas my purpose to declare it at this time.”

“Do tell it, Sally,” pleaded Peggy aroused by Sally’s earnest tone. “Thee promised.”

“Yes, yes, Sally,” urged Betty. “Do tell us.”

“Then come close,” said Sally motioning to Robert and Mr. Deering to draw nearer. “Know then, all of you, that to-morrow I am to begin to prepare for being a nurse in the General Hospital.”

“Oh, Sally!” cried Betty and Peggy in a chorus.

“Yes,” said she, enjoying their surprise. “Mr. Deering seems to have known it, and Robert here, but ’tis known to no others. I have been minded for some time to do something more than make socks and shirts, though they are badly needed, too, I hear.”

“’Tis just splendid, Sally,” declared Peggy. “But Betty and I must do something too. It will never do for thee to be the only one of us girls to do so well. What shall we do, Betty?”

“I fancy that my hands at least will be full,” said Betty. “Mother thinks it advisable for me to take the smallpox as soon as she can spare me.”

“La!” giggled Sally. “How will that help the country, Betty?”

“By preventing it from spreading,” answered Betty, at which they all laughed.

The music struck up at this moment, and the talk which had threatened to become serious was interrupted. About eleven a genteel supper was served, and General Arnold’s tea had come to an end.

CHAPTER VII—A SUMMER SOLDIER

“There was so much of extravagance and expenditure in the costumes and even in the entertainment that I fear we cannot indulge often in such pleasures. Mr. Arnold”—calling him after the London manner, a fashion much in vogue at this time in the colonies—“must be a man of great wealth to afford such hospitality. I understand that ’tis extended often to his friends, and ’tis expected to some extent from a man in his position. But we are not wealthy now, my child, and I wish not to be drawn into a manner of life beyond our means.”

“I know, mother,” answered the girl soberly. “Last night I was carried away by the enjoyment of it all, and methought I would like naught else than teas, and routs and parties all the time. Didst think thy daughter could be so foolish?”

“’Twas very plain to be seen, my child,” said the lady with a smile. “And with thy father and others in the field it seems to me that thou and I may be employed to better purpose, Peggy? What does thee say? Shall we give up assemblies, tea drinkings and finery to patriotism, or wouldst thou rather——”

“Mother, thee knows that when ’tis a choice between such things and the country they must go,” cried Peggy warmly.

“I knew that I could count on thy cooperation,” observed Mrs. Owen quietly. “Thou shalt have thy young friends, Peggy, and shall share their pleasures, but we will have no more of public parade and ostentation. I like it not. ’Tis not befitting the wives and daughters of soldiers to indulge in such pastimes. And we shall be busy, Peggy. We must spin and weave.”

“I do not mind the work, mother. Sally is to be a nurse, and I would not be happy could I not do something too.”

And so the spinning-wheel was brought from the attic, and given a prominent place in the living-room. The loom was set up in the large kitchen, and from early morn until eight at night the girl spent the long hours of the day spinning and weaving. Other Whig women also, dismayed by the spirit of frivolity and extravagance that was rife in the city, followed their example, and the hum of the wheel and burr of the loom were heard in every household.

“Thou hast been spinning since five of the clock this morning, Peggy,” remonstrated Mrs. Owen one afternoon. “Is thee not tired? How many skeins hast thou spun to-day?”

“I have lost count, mother,” laughed Peggy. “It behooves me to be thrifty, else there will be no yarn to knit. And such heaps and heaps of unspun wool as there are! ’Tis no time to be weary.”

“But thee must not overdo in the beginning. There is also much unhatcheled flax to be made into thread for cloth, and if thee is too wearied from the spinning of the wool thou wilt not be able to undertake it. So stop now, and take a run through the garden.”

“Just as soon as I finish this skein, mother.”

Peggy’s light foot on the treadle went swifter and swifter, and for a time no sound was heard in the living-room save the hum of the wheel. Presently the spindle uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers.

“There!” she cried merrily, unraveling the knot dexterously. “Had I but heeded thy advice, mother, this mishap would not have occurred. The moral is that a maid should always obey her mother. I tried to outdo my stint of yesterday, and by so doing have come to grief. Now if thee will hold the skeins I will wind the yarn of to-day’s spinning ready for knitting.”

So saying she uprose from the wheel and took a snowy skein from the reel on the table, and adjusted it upon her mother’s outstretched hands.

“Sukey and I could do this after supper, Peggy,” expostulated the matron. “I like not to have thee confined too closely to work, albeit I would not have thee idle.”

“Mother, thee knows that thee likes to have me excel in housewifery, and how can I do so unless I practice the art? I cannot become notable save by doing, can I?” questioned the maiden archly, her slim figure looking very graceful as she stood winding the yarn with nimble fingers. “I shall take the air when I have finished winding this ball, if it will please thee; though”—and a shadow dimmed the brightness of her face—“I like not to go out in the grounds since Star hath gone. How strange it is that something should happen to both the pets that father gave me! Pilot, my dog, was shot, and now my pony is stolen. Dost think I will ever hear of her, mother?”

“It hath been some time since thou didst advertise, Peggy, hath it not?”

“Yes, mother. Three long se’nnights.”

“And in all that time there hath come no word or sign of her.” The lady hesitated a moment, and then continued: “Dear child, I fear that thou wilt see no more of thy pretty horse. But take comfort in the thought that though the gift hath been taken from thee the giver hath not. David is well, and in good spirits. That is much to be thankful for, Peggy.”

“It is, mother. Dear father! would he were home for all time.”

Without further remonstrance Peggy went out under the trees. A slight chill was in the air, for it was drawing toward evening. Summer’s spell was released, and the sere decadence of the year was sweetly and sadly going on. Up and down the neglected alleys of the garden she strolled, pausing ever and anon to admire the scarlet fire of the late poppies. Almost unconsciously her feet turned in the direction of the stable, a place to which she made daily pilgrimages since the loss of her pet. As she drew near the building the unmistakable sound of a low whinny broke upon the air. A startled look swept across the girl’s face, and she stopped short in astonishment.

“That sounded like Star,” she exclaimed. “Mother was right in thinking that I needed the air. I must not sit so long again at the wheel. I——”

But another and louder whinny broke upon her ear, and full of excitement Peggy flung wide the door, and darted within.

“Oh, Star! Star!” she cried throwing her arms about the pony’s neck, for the mare was really standing in her stall. “Where did thee come from? Who brought thee? And where hast thou been?”

But the little mare could only whinny her delight, and rub her soft nose against her mistress’s sleeve.

“Thou dear thing!” cried the girl rapturously. “Is thee glad to get back? Does thee want some sugar? Oh, how did thee get here? Thee doesn’t look as though thee had had much to eat. Poor thing! Couldn’t they even groom thee?”

“Mistress!”

Peggy turned around abruptly, and there stood the same young fellow who had mended her saddle when she and her mother were waiting on the Germantown road. He was more ragged than ever, and thinner too, if that were possible. He still wore his air of jaunty assurance, however, and returned her astonished gaze with a glance of amusement.

“Thou?” breathed Peggy. “And what does thee want?”

“Naught, but to return thy horse,” he answered.

“Oh! did thee find her?” cried the girl in pleased tones. “How good of thee to bring her to me! Where did thee find her? And the thief? What did thee do with him?”

“The thief? Oh, I brought him too,” he said coolly.

“But where is he?” she demanded looking around. “I do not see him.”

“Here,” he said sweeping her an elaborate bow.

“Thee?” Peggy recoiled involuntarily as the lad spoke. “Oh, how could thee do it? How could thee?” she burst forth.

“I couldn’t. That’s why I brought her back. I don’t steal from a girl.”

“But why did thee keep her so long?” she asked, mollified somewhat by this speech.

“I wanted to see my people,” he answered.

“And did thee?” she queried, her tender heart stirred by this.

“No; they had moved, or something had happened. They weren’t there any more.” He spoke wearily and with some bitterness. “I’d have sold that horse if I hadn’t kept thinking how fond you were of her.”

“And did thee know that I had offered a reward for her, friend?”

“Why, of course I knew,” he replied. “Now as I am entitled to the money for both the horse and thief, suppose you bring it out to me.”

“But my pony,” objected Peggy. “How do I know that thee will not take her again?”

“Your horse?” he questioned angrily. “Don’t fear! Don’t you suppose that if I had wanted to keep her I’d have done it? Now if you are going to give me the money, do it. Then feed your mare. She hasn’t had much more than I have. Don’t be afraid of me, but hurry. I can’t stay around here any longer.”

“I am not afraid, friend,” responded Peggy her hesitation vanishing. “I was just thinking that thee looked hungry. Come to the house, and eat something. Then thou shalt have thy money, though I know not what my mother will say to that part of it. But thee should eat anyway. Come!”

“I will not,” he cried. “I will not. Someone might see me and arrest me.”

“But if mother and I do not wish to prosecute ’tis not the concern of any,” she told him mildly. “Now that I have Star, I would not wish to be severe, and thou didst bring her back. Mother will feel the same way.”

“’Tis not that,” he cried sharply. “Don’t you understand? I have run away from the army, and I don’t want to be caught. I have been advertised, as well as your horse.”

“And so thee could not steal from a girl, but thee can desert thy country in her fight for liberty,” said Peggy, her eyes blazing with scorn. “I had rather a thousand times that thou hadst taken Star; that thou couldst find it in thy heart to steal, though that were monstrous sinful, than that thou should stand there, and declare thyself a deserter. Why, thou art worse than a thief! Thou hast committed robbery twice over; for thou hast robbed thyself of honor, and despoiled thy country of a man.”

“But”—he began, amazed at her feeling—“you do not know. You do not understand. I——”

“No,” blazed the girl. “I do not know. I do not want to know how a man can be a summer soldier, as Mr. Thomas Paine calls them. A sunshine patriot who rallies to his country’s side in fair weather, but who deserts her when she needs men. A deserter! Oh!” her voice thrilling, “how can thee be such a thing?”

“It’s—it’s all up,” he said leaning against the door white and shaken. “I’m done for!” And he fell limply to the floor.

CHAPTER VIII—PEGGY’S RESOLVE

Seizing a bottle of cologne and a vinaigrette she went quickly to the barn followed by Peggy and the two curious servants.

“’Tis lack of nourishing food more than aught else that ails him,” was Mrs. Owen’s comment as she laved the youth’s forehead with vinegar, and bade Sukey burn some feathers under his nose. “Peggy, get the guest-chamber in readiness. We will carry him in as soon as he hath regained his consciousness.”

The girl hastened to do her bidding, and presently the lad, by this time recovered from his swoon, was put to bed, and the household all a bustle with preparing gruel and delicacies. Shortly after partaking of food, he gave a sigh of content and fell into a deep sleep. And then Peggy turned to her mother.

“Are we to keep him?” she queried.

“Surely, my daughter. Why dost thou ask? The lad is not strong enough to depart now. There is naught else to be done.”

“But he is in truth a deserter, mother.”

“I surmised as much, as thee remembers,” observed Mrs. Owen quietly.

“And a thief,” continued the maiden with some warmth. “Mother, he acknowledged that ’twas he who stole Star.”

“And it was also he who brought her back,” reminded her mother.

“But to desert,” exclaimed Peggy a fine scorn leaping into her eyes. “To leave when his country hath such need of him!”

“True, Peggy; but the flesh is weak, and when subjected to the pangs of hunger ’tis prone to revolt. Our soldiers are so illy cared for that the wonder is that more do not forsake the army.”

“Mother, thee does not excuse it, does thee?” cried Peggy in so much consternation that Mrs. Owen smiled.

“Nay, Peggy. I only suspend judgment until I know all the circumstances. Did he tell thee aught of his reasons for deserting?”

“I fear,” answered Peggy shamefacedly, “that I gave him no opportunity. In fact, mother, I discovered some warmth in speaking anent the matter.”

Mrs. Owen smiled. Well she knew that in her zeal for the country Peggy was apt to “discover warmth.”

“Then,” she said, “we will bring naught into question until he hath his strength. Yon lad is in no condition for fighting or aught else at the present time.”

“But once he hath his strength,” broke in the girl eagerly, “would it be amiss to reason with him?”

“Once he hath his strength I will say nothing,” answered the lady, her mouth twitching. “Thou mayst reason with him then to thy heart’s content.”

And so it came about that the young deserter was attended with great care, and none was so assiduous in attention to his comfort as Peggy. For several days he did little but receive food and sleep. This soon passed, however, and he was up and about, though he still kept to his chamber both as a matter of precaution and as though enjoying to the full the creature comforts by which he was surrounded.

“Friend,” remarked Peggy one day after she had arranged his dinner daintily upon a table drawn up by the settle upon which he was lying, “thee has not told thy name yet.”

“’Tis Drayton. John Drayton,” he returned an apprehensive look flashing across his face. “You would not—would you?—betray me?”

“I did not ask for that purpose,” she replied indignantly. “Had we wished to denounce thee we would have done so long since. Why shouldst thou think such a thing?”

“I cry you pardon,” he said with something of his old jauntiness. “I have heard that a guilty conscience doth make cowards of us all. ’Tis so in my case. In truth I should not tarry here, but——”

“Thee is welcome to stay until thy strength is fully restored, friend,” she said. “My mother and I are agreed as to that. And then——”

“Well? And then?” he questioned sharply turning upon her.

“Friend, why did thee desert?” asked she abruptly.

“Why? Because the thought of another winter took all the spirit out of me. Because I am tired of being hungry and cold; because I am tired of being ragged and dirty. I am tired of it all: the long hard marches with insufficient clothing to cover me by day, and no blanket but the snow at night. I made the march to Quebec through all the perils of the wilderness. Through sleet and driving snow it hath always been my fortune to serve. Last winter I spent among the dreary hills of Valley Forge, enduring all the miseries of that awful time. And then, after all that, for three such years of service what does an ungrateful country bestow upon me? The rank of ensign.” And he laughed bitterly. “But every foreign adventurer that comes whining to Congress may have the highest commission that is in their power to bestow. And what do they care for us who have borne the burden? Why, nothing but to let us starve.”

“True,” said Peggy troubled. “True, Friend Drayton, and yet——”

“And yet when we have given so much to an ungrateful country if we desert we are hounded like dogs, or runaway slaves,” he continued passionately. “And you, Mistress Peggy, who have known neither hunger nor cold, nor what it is to be in battle, stand there accusingly because I, forsooth, who have known all these things have tired of them. A summer soldier, you called me. A winter soldier would have been the better term.”

Peggy’s face flushed.

“Now,” he continued, “I am seeking to follow the precepts of the great Declaration which doth teach that every man hath the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness after his own fashion.”

“Still,” remarked the girl, who was plainly puzzled by his reasoning, “if the British should succeed in defeating us what would become of the Declaration? Methinks that ’twould be the part of wisdom not to accord thy life by such precepts until they were definitely established.”

“You are pleased to be sharp, mistress,” he said pushing back from the table. “I—I am in no condition to argue with you. I am weak,” he added reclining once more upon the settle.

Peggy made no reply, and silently removed the dishes. A sparkle came into her eye as she noted their empty condition.

“Mother,” she said as she entered the kitchen where that lady was, “does thee not think that our friend is able now to stand being reasoned with? He said but now that he was still weak.”

Mrs. Owen laughed quietly as she saw that nothing had been left of the meal.

“’Tis but natural that he should feel so, Peggy,” she said. “When one hath been without food and a proper place to sleep the senses become sharpened to the enjoyment of such things, and he but seeks to prolong his delight in them. Be not too hard on the lad, my child.”

“But would it harm him, mother, to reason with him?” persisted Peggy. “If he can eat so, can he not be brought to see the error of his ways? I would not injure him for the world.”

“Set thy mind at rest upon that point, Peggy. Naught that thou canst say to him can work him injury. Hath our friend told thee why he deserted?”

“He feared another winter,” answered Peggy. “And perhaps he hath cause to; for he hath been through the march to Quebec under General Arnold, and last winter he spent at Valley Forge. And so he ran away to keep from passing another such season in the army.”

“Poor lad!” sighed the lady. “’Tis no wonder that he deserted. Yet those who endure such hardships for so long rarely desert. ’Tis but a passing weakness. Let us hope that he will return when he is well enough. He is of too good a mettle to be lost.”

“I mean him to go back,” announced Peggy resolutely.

“Peggy, what is worrying thy brain?” exclaimed her mother. “Child, let me look at thee.”

“Leave him to me, mother,” cried the girl, her eyes shining like stars. “He shall yet be something other than a summer soldier.”

CHAPTER IX—THE TALE OF A HERO

“Come back,” she cried in alarm. “Some one might see thee. He hath gone. Thou canst not see him. Dost forget that if any see thee thou mayst be taken?”

“I had forgot,” said Drayton, drawing back into the room. “You did not speak of me?” he asked quickly, with some excitement.

“Nay; calm thyself. We spoke naught of thee to him, nor to any. Have I not said we would not? Was thee not under the general during the march into Canada?”

“Yes; but he was a colonel then. Hath his wound healed yet? Last spring at Valley Forge he was still on crutches. Is he still crippled?”

“Yes, he is still lame. He uses the crutches when he hath not one of his soldier’s arms to lean upon.”

“Would that he had mine to lean upon,” cried Drayton, with such feeling that Peggy was surprised.

“Why? Does thee think so much of him?” she asked.

“I’d die for him,” uttered the lad earnestly. “There isn’t one of us that was on that march to Quebec under him who wouldn’t.”

“Suppose thee tells me about it,” suggested Peggy. “I have heard something of the happenings of that time, but not fully. The city rings with his prowess and gallant deeds. ’Tis said that he is generous and kind as well as brave.”

“’Tis said rightly, Mistress Peggy. Doth he not care for the orphans of Joseph Warren who fell at Bunker Hill? In that awful march was there ever a kinder or more humane leader? No tongue can tell the sufferings and privations we endured on that march through the wilderness, but there was no murmuring. We knew that he was doing the best that could be done, and that if ever man could take us through that man was Benedict Arnold. I cannot describe what hardships we endured, but as we approached the St. Lawrence River I became so ill that I could no longer march. Utterly exhausted, I sank down on a log, and watched the troops pass by me. In the rear came Colonel Arnold on horseback. Seeing me sitting there, pale and dejected, he dismounted and came over to me.

“‘And what is it, my boy?’ he asked. ’I—I’m sick,’ I blubbered, and burst out crying.

“He didn’t say a word for a minute, and then he turned and ran down to the river bank, and halloed to a house which stood near. The owner came quickly, and Colonel Arnold gave him silver money to look after me until I should get well. Then with his own hands he helped me into the boat, gave me some money also, and said that I must not think of joining them until I was quite strong. Oh!” cried Drayton huskily, “he was always like that. Always doing something for us to make it easier.”

“And did thee join him again?” questioned Peggy, her voice not quite steady. She had heard of the love that soldiers often have for their leaders, but she had not come in touch with it before.

“Ay! who could forsake a commander like that? As soon as I was able I followed after them with all speed. In November we stood at last on the Plains of Abraham before Quebec. We were eager to attack the city at once, but Sir Guy Carleton arrived with reinforcements, and we could not hope to take the city until we too were reinforced. Finally we were joined by General Montgomery and three hundred men, and the two leaders made ready to assault the town.

“On the last day of the year, in the midst of a driving snow-storm we started. It was so dark and stormy that in order that we might recognize each other each soldier wore a white band of paper on his cap on which was written—Liberty or Death!

“General Montgomery was to attack the lower town by way of Cape Diamond on the river, while Colonel Arnold was to assault the northern part. The storm raged furiously, but we reached the Palace Gate in spite of it. The alarm was ringing from all the bells in the city, drums were beating, and the artillery opened upon us. With Colonel Arnold at our front we ran along in single file, bending our heads to avoid the storm, and holding our guns under cover of our coats to keep our powder dry.

“The first barrier was at Sault au Matelot, and here we found ourselves in a narrow way, swept by a battery, with soldiers firing upon us from the houses on each side of the passage. But Arnold was not daunted. He called out, ‘Come on, boys!’ and we rushed on. ’Twas always that. He never said, ‘Go, boys!’ like some of the officers. ’Twas always ‘Come on, boys!’ and there he’d be at our head. I tell you a braver man never lived.

“Well, as he rushed on cheering us to the assault, he was struck by a musket ball just at the moment of the capture of the barrier. His leg was broken, and he fell upon the snow. Then, can you believe it, he got up somehow, though he could only use one leg, and endeavored to press forward. Two of us dropped our muskets, and ran to him, but he refused to leave the field until the main body of the troops came up. He stood there leaning on us for support, and calling to the troops in a cheering voice as they passed, urging them onward. When at last he consented to be taken from the field his steps could be traced by the blood which flowed from the wound.”

“Was it the same one that was hurt at Saratoga?” queried Peggy.

“The very same. And no sooner was he recovered than he was in action again. Although the attack on the city was a failure he would not give up the idea of its capture. I believe that had not General Montgomery fallen it would have succeeded.”

“’Twas at Quebec that William McPherson fell,” mused Peggy. “He was the first one of our soldiers to fall. Philadelphia is proud of his renown. But oh, he was so young, and so full of patriotic zeal and devotion to the cause of liberty!”

“Every one was full of it then,” observed Drayton sadly. “When we were on the Plains of Abraham before the battlements of the lofty town, think you that no thought came to us of how Wolfe, the victorious Wolfe, scaled those rocks and forced the barred gates of the city? I tell you that there was not one of us whose heart did not feel kinship with that hero. His memory inspired us. His very presence seemed to pervade the field, and we knew that our leaders were animated by the memory of his victory.”

“Thou hast felt like that, and yet thou hast deserted?” exclaimed the girl involuntarily.

A deep flush dyed the young fellow’s face. He sat very still for a moment and then answered with passion:

“Have I not given all that is necessary? And I have suffered, Mistress Peggy. I have suffered that which is worse than death. Why, death upon the battle-field is glorious! I do not fear it. But ’tis the long winters; the cold, sleepless nights, huddling in scanty wisps of straw, or over a low fire for warmth; the going without food, or having but enough to merely keep life within one. This it is that takes the heart out of a man. I’ll bear it no more.”

Two great tears forced themselves from Peggy’s eyes, and coursed down her cheeks. “Thee has borne so much,” she uttered chokingly. “So much, Friend John, that I wonder thee has lived to tell it. And having borne so much ’tis dreadful to ask more of thee, and yet to have thee fail—fail just at the very last! To dim such an honorable record! To blot out all that thou hast endured by desertion! Oh, how could thee? How could thee? Could thee not endure a little more?”

Drayton stirred restlessly.

“They haven’t treated me well,” he blurted out. “I wanted to be in the Select Corps, and they wouldn’t put me there. And I merited it, Mistress Peggy. I tell you I merited it.”

“What is the Select Corps, John?” asked the girl curiously.

“’Tis a body of soldiers made up of picked men from the whole army,” he returned. “They are always in advance, and lead every charge in an active campaign. I wanted to be there, and they wouldn’t put me in.”

“But,” persisted Peggy speaking in a low tone, “does thee think that thy general would desert as thee has done just because he was not treated well? Thee knows that ’tis only of late that Congress would give him his proper rank.”

“He desert!” The boy’s sullen eyes lighted up again at the mere mention of his hero, and he laughed. “Why, I verily believe that General Arnold would fight if everybody else in America stopped fighting. Why, at Saratoga when General Gates deprived him of his command, and ordered him to stay in his tent, he would not. When we boys heard what had been done, we were afraid he would leave us, and so we got up a petition asking him to wait until after the battle. And, though he was smarting from humiliation, he promised that he’d stay with us. But Gates told him not to leave the tent, and ordered us forward. We went, but our hearts were heavy to be without him.

“At the first sound of battle, however, he rushed from the tent, threw himself on his horse, and dashed to where we were, crying, ‘No man shall keep me in my tent this day. If I am without command, I will fight in the ranks; but the soldiers, God bless them, will follow my lead.’