CHAPTER VII—HARRIET TAKES MATTERS IN HAND

“I think that ’twas I more than Peggy who persuaded thee to make the shirt,” said Mrs. Owen quietly. “It was done to woo thee from thy fancies, Harriet, rather than with any purpose to get thee to aid our soldiers. If thee will write to thy brother and explain the matter to him he will forgive thee it. Further, according to John’s letter, had it not been for that very same garment thy brother would not have acknowledged his identity. So thou seest, my child, that good hath come out of it after all.”

“Why, so it hath,” acknowledged Harriet brightening. “I had not thought of it in that light, madam my cousin. And would you mind if my brother were to come here, if a parole can be obtained for him?”

“Of course he must come here,” returned the lady with a smile of gratification. She was pleased that Harriet should show thoughtfulness for her convenience. It had not always been the case with either the girl or her father. Colonel Owen was wont to demand a thing rather than request it, and Harriet herself had been somewhat addicted to obtaining her desires in the same fashion at Middlebrook. Of late, however, she was evincing more consideration for both Peggy and herself. “David would not wish it otherwise.”

“’Tis very kind of you, my cousin,” said the girl with sudden feeling. “But you will like Clifford. Indeed no one can help it.”

“I am quite sure that we shall,” responded Mrs. Owen graciously. “His letter bespoke him to be a lad of parts. And now as to the parole. That must first be accomplished before the exchange can be thought of; the latter will of necessity take time.”

“How much?” queried Harriet. “I know that ’twas long before father got his, but that was in the early part of the war, before England had consented to exchange prisoners.”

“I know not how long ’twill take, Harriet.” Mrs. Owen threaded her needle thoughtfully. “Those things seem in truth to go by favor. As thy brother well says, if those in authority exert themselves it should be arranged quickly. If they do not then the matter drags along sometimes for months.”

“Awaiting the convenience of the great,” added the girl with some bitterness. “And such convenience is consulted only when they have need of further service. The past is always forgotten. Still, father stands well with Sir Henry, and I myself rendered him no little service by what I did at Middlebrook. I think,—nay, I am sure,—that if I can get his ear he will see that the affair is adjusted according to my wishes. I will write to him.”

“It may be, Harriet, but thee must make up thy mind to endure some little delay. It seldom happens that there are not some rules or regulations to observe, all of which take time. For thy sake we will hope that Clifford’s case will be the exception in such matters. We can do naught to-day about it because of the celebration, but to-morrow thou and I will go to Mr. Joseph Reed, the president of the council, who will advise us about the parole and anent the exchange also.”

“Harriet,” said Peggy suddenly, “does thee remember that when thy brother is exchanged he must return at once to the British lines? Thee had better not be too eager anent the exchange.”

“But I intend to go back with him,” Harriet informed her composedly.

“Thee does?” asked Peggy in surprise. “Why?”

“’Tis so much gayer in New York, Peggy. Don’t you remember the times we had before father made us go South? Beside, I cannot hear at all from father here. As you know, ’tis almost impossible to get letters through the lines to him, and I have had no word since I have been here. I know not whether he is in Camden, where we left him, or with my Lord Cornwallis.”

“But would he wish thee to be there, my child?” questioned Mrs. Owen gravely. “I cannot but think that he would prefer that thee should remain with us until he either comes or sends for thee.”

“He would not mind if I were with Clifford,” returned the girl lightly. “We could have great sport there together. Besides, if I wish it father would not care. If he did I could soon bring him to look at the affair with my eyes. I usually do about as I please; don’t I, Peggy?”

“Yes; but Cousin William did not always approve of thy way,” reminded Peggy. “If thee continues to dwell in the house thy father had ’twill cost greatly, and once he spoke to me about thy extravagance. He said that both thee and thy brother were like to bring him to grief. ’Twas for that reason that he welcomed the idea that I should look after the expense. Does thee not remember?”

“I remember naught but that I wondered that you should prefer housewifery to pleasuring,” answered Harriet gayly. “Father is always complaining about extravagance, but he likes right well for me to appear bravely before his friends. La! when one has position to maintain one must spend money, and no one knows it any better than my father.”

Peggy was silent. Did her cousin wish her brother’s exchange solely that she might return to New York, or was she in truth anxious to be where she could hear from her father? Had she really any natural affection for either, she wondered. Harriet began to laugh at her expression.

“I always know when you are displeased, cousin mine,” she said putting her arm about her. “You pull down the corner of your mouth, so.” Suiting the action to the word. “And your eyebrows go up, so. Now, confess: when you were with us, didn’t you want to come back to your own people?”

“Yes,” admitted Peggy, “I did. But it was because of my mother. Thy father would not be with thee there, and as thy brother is in the army also, he may be sent anywhere in the States at any time. While I know that thee must find it far from agreeable to be with those who are not of thy politics, still ’tis the wish of thy father that thee should stay here.”

“Will you never be naught but a prim little Quakeress?” cried Harriet shaking her. “Know then that I have wishes too, and friends there who are almost as close as kinspeople. Then, too, you would be relieved of me here. Just think how delightsome that would be,” she ended teasingly.

“I am not thinking of us at all,” confessed truthful Peggy, “but of what is best for thee. I feel as though I were responsible to Cousin William for thee.”

“Don’t you worry, mother mentor,” cried Harriet dancing about gleefully. “When Clifford comes your responsibility ceases. How he will laugh when he finds that I can no longer care for myself. I am going now to my room, little mother. If I stay longer than you think best call me.”

“Thee is saucy,” was Peggy’s retort, as Harriet ran out of the room, pausing only long enough to make a mouth at her.

But Harriet’s high spirits had vanished the next morning when she returned from her visit to Mr. Reed.

“What think you?” she cried bursting in upon Peggy who was ironing in the kitchen. “Mr. Reed will see that the parole is given Clifford, but the exchange must wait until an American prisoner is found of equal rank with Clifford, who can be given for him. Isn’t it provoking!”

“I should think thee could bear the delay patiently so long as thee will have thy brother with thee,” remarked Peggy quietly. “’Twould be far more vexatious if the parole could not be given.”

“Why, of course, Peggy. Oh, well! I suppose that I must content myself. Thank fortune, I can at least write to Clifford. If he were not in the rebel lines even that would be denied me. I am going to write him now.”

“Mr. Reed was much taken with Harriet,” observed Mrs. Owen, entering the kitchen as the English maiden left it.

“But not more than thee appears to be, mother,” smiled Peggy. “’Tis amusing to see the difference with which thee regards her now, and the way it was at Middlebrook.”

“She seems much improved,” answered her mother. “Does thee not think so? So much more thoughtful of others. It did not strike me that she was much given to consideration then; but now——”

“But now thee has had her under thy wing for nearly three months; thee has nursed her back to health, and humored her every whim as though she were a child of thine until thee regards her as though she were thy very own. Thou dear mother!” The girl stopped her ironing long enough to kiss her mother tenderly. “Doesn’t thee know that whatever thee broods over thee loves?”

Mrs. Owen laughed.

“How well thee knows me, Peggy. But thou art fond of her too, art thou not?”

“Yes, I am, mother,” admitted the girl. “Whenever we go anywhere I am proud of her beauty, and that she is my cousin. And my friends here are charmed with her. Even Sally and Betty—though she sometimes makes dreadful speeches because of being for the king. She can be so sweet, mother, that at times I must steel myself against her, lest I should be more tolerant of her opinions than is wise.”

“As to her being for the king, my child, that, as thee knows, is because of being English. And I would not have her feign a belief in the cause of Liberty did she not of a truth hold it to be just. An open foe is ever best, Peggy.”

“It isn’t politics, mother. At least not her feeling toward us, though it is trying to stand some of her comments, but——”

“Peggy, thee is troubled anent something,” asserted the lady taking Peggy’s face between her hands and gazing anxiously into her eyes. “What is it, my child?”

“’Tis anent the delay, mother. Should the exchange be effected quickly then there would be no cause for worry. But if it must be long, as Harriet thinks it may be, then I fear that my cousin will try to communicate with Sir Henry Clinton. In fact, she spoke of doing it yesterday, and I cautioned her against it. She said that she would not bring harm to us; but, mother, at her home in New York she was not always scrupulous about her promise. In truth, she let nothing stand in her way when she had her heart set on doing a thing. I intended telling thee about the chat when we returned from our ride yesterday, but what with the celebration and the letters it escaped my mind.”

“Thee may dismiss the matter from thy thoughts, Peggy, for she spoke about that very thing to Mr. Reed. He told her that it would not help the exchange at this time, but that after her brother came it could be taken up. Then, he said, he would see that whatever she might wish to communicate to the British commander should reach him.”

“Oh, I am so glad,” exclaimed Peggy. “It hath given me no small concern, mother. I did not think my cousin would wittingly cause us trouble, but I feared that on the impulse of the moment, she might try to pass a letter through the lines. Thee knows what that would mean, mother?”

“Yes; and she does also, for Mr. Reed went into it with her. He told her to be very careful in speaking even about writing to Sir Henry, as the people were in no mood to tolerate communications with the enemy. She understands all that it means, my child. I think she will do naught until Clifford comes, and perhaps he will be better of judgment than she.”

“I am so glad,” said Peggy again, and much relieved resumed her neglected ironing.

The days passed. March glided into April, but the soft sweet days of spring brought no letter from Clifford. If the parole had been given Harriet did not know of it. She fumed and fretted under the waiting.

“Why do I not hear from him?” she cried one morning. “It hath been a month since I wrote, and it doth not take half so long to hear from Virginia. I do wish that either I would hear from Clifford, or that Mr. Reed would let me know anent the parole.”

“Thee is like to get one of thy wishes, for here comes Mr. Reed now,” said Peggy who was standing by the front window of the living-room.

“Let me go to the door, madam my cousin,” exclaimed Harriet as Mrs. Owen started to answer the knocker.

“Very well, Harriet,” assented the matron with a smile.

But both Peggy and her mother were startled to hear Mr. Reed say gravely, in answer to Harriet’s eager questioning:

“Nay; ’tis not about the parole I am come, Mistress Harriet, but anent a more serious matter.”

“And what, sir, could be more serious than my brother’s release?” came Harriet’s clear voice.

“A charge against you, mistress, would be much more serious,” was the reply.

“Of what do you accuse me, sir?” was the girl’s haughty query.

“I accuse you of nothing, but I insist upon truthful answers to some questions. For the sake of these cousins with whom you are staying I entreat you to reply with truth, and nothing but truth.”

“Come, Peggy,” cried Mrs. Owen rising. “We will see what this means.”

CHAPTER VIII—HOSPITALITY BETRAYED

“Madam—I need hardly ask, and yet I must—did you know that this girl here had been communicating with the enemy?”

“No; I did not know of it. Harriet, is such the case? Hast thou indeed been guilty of this?”

“Yes,” admitted Harriet defiantly. “I did write to Sir Henry Clinton about my brother. If that is communicating with the enemy then I am guilty.”

“This then,” said Mr. Reed producing a letter from his coat, “this then is yours?”

Harriet took the missive and scanned it quickly.

“Well,” she said. “And what then? It is mine, and, as may be seen, ’tis innocent enough. It merely asks the commander to get my brother’s exchange as soon as he can. It speaks too of the services our family have rendered to the cause. Why should it not be written? Am I not English? Have I not a right to ask aid from my own people?”

“Undoubtedly, mistress; but in times like these there are regulations to be observed by both sides. One who breaks them does so at his own risk, and subjects himself and those with whom he abides to suspicion. I warned you against this very thing. I promised to attend to any letter you might wish to send to the British commander after we had found an officer who might be exchanged for your brother. That you preferred to risk sending a message through the lines irregularly rather than to benefit by my assistance doth not speak well for the harmlessness of the letter, however innocent it doth appear on the surface.”

“But it contains nothing that can harm any one,” she protested. “And you were so long in telling me about the parole. Why, look you! ’Tis all of a month since you promised to get my brother here, and he hath not come yet! Think you I could wait longer? The letter hath not been written five days, and had you obtained my brother’s release as you promised ’twould not have been written at all. ’Tis unfair to hold me to account for a matter for which you yourself are to blame.”

“Your brother was not at Fredericksburg as you thought he would be, Mistress Harriet,” answered he. “I was but seeking to find where he had been taken. The delay was in your service. Why did you not come to me instead of taking matters in your own hands? I would have explained. As the affair now stands you have not only brought punishment upon yourself, but you have subjected these, your cousins, to suspicion.”

“As to myself,” she said superbly, “it doth not matter. I was right to seek aid of my own people. I would do it again if it were to do over. My brother’s welfare merits any risk I might run. As for Peggy and her mother, it is needless to say anything. They are not responsible for any of my doings, and cannot be held for them. ’Tis ridiculous to tell me that I have brought suspicion upon them, and ’tis done merely to fright me.”

“You speak that which you know not of,” he said soberly. “These be parlous times, mistress. Have you forgot that at Middlebrook you played the spy? Have you forgot that despite that fact you are brought again in our lines on the plea of ill health? Have you forgot that your father is a colonel in the British army, and that you yourself are an English girl? There are those who say that these facts show plainly that your cousins but use their patriotism as a mask to aid the side with which they truly sympathize.”

Harriet stared at him in dismay, and turned very pale as a wail broke from Peggy:

“Oh, Harriet, Harriet! why did thee do it? And thee promised.”

“No harm shall come to you, Peggy,” cried Harriet. “Sir,” turning to Mr. Reed, “believe me when I say that these two had naught to do with either the writing or the sending of the letter. In truth, they knew not when ’twas done, nor how.”

“And how shall your word be believed when you think nothing of breaking it?” he questioned. “You promised your cousin, it seems; you also promised me that you would not hold communication with the enemy without first consulting me. We cannot trust you. Beside, the letter was returned with this warning from His Excellency, General Washington:

“’Gentlemen of the Council:

“‘Permit no communication whatever between the writer of this letter and the enemy. Young as she is, she hath already shown herself very adept as a spy.’”

“What, what are you going to do to them?” asked the girl, in consternation. “In very truth, sir, they had naught to do with the matter.”

“We know it,” he made answer. “And yet, despite past services, despite the fact that David is in the field, there were some who whispered against them. The purest patriots in times like these are subjected to suspicion by the least untoward action. A year ago who would have thought that General Arnold would try to betray his country? I, myself, have been approached with offers from an emissary of the king. Because Mrs. Owen and her daughter are so well known for patriotic services, because we know them to be persons of high honor and unquestioned integrity, we have permitted no reflection upon them. But this state of things will not continue if you are allowed to remain with them. Therefore, we have decided that your punishment shall be——”

“What?” she cried anxiously. “Oh, I pray ’tis not arrest.”

“Wait,” he said. “The arrest was thought of, but the council consented to give it o’er on condition that you withdraw immediately into the enemy’s lines. In short, mistress, you are to be sent to New York.”

“Banished to New York?” she repeated in amazement. “Why, that is where I want to be. Good sir,” sweeping him an elaborate courtesy, “I thank you and the excellent gentlemen of the council. The punishment is most agreeable to my liking.”

“And to ours,” he answered her sternly, offended by her levity. “Be ready, therefore, to go to-morrow morning. In company with a number of other women, Tories and wives of Tories guilty of the same misdemeanor as yourself, you will be sent under escort to the British. Mistress Owen, you have my sympathy and congratulation also that the matter is no worse. I will bid you all a very good day.”

Harriet sank down on the settle as the door closed upon the gentleman, and looked expectantly at the other two. But neither Mrs. Owen nor Peggy spoke. The matron quietly resumed her sewing, while Peggy stared at her as though this new breach of trust was more than she could believe.

“Say something, one of you,” cried the girl suddenly. “I’d rather you would be angry than to sit there like that.”

“How could thee do it?” came from Peggy. “Oh, Harriet! doesn’t thee ever keep thy word?”

“Well, I promised not to bring any harm upon you, and I didn’t; did I? Mr. Reed tried to scare us anent that, but he soon told the truth of the matter.”

“It was not owing to thee that harm did not result to us, Harriet,” said Mrs. Owen in a serious tone. “I dare not think what would have happened had we not been in our own city, and have given proof many times of our patriotism. I am not going to rail at thee, child; for I believe that thee did not wittingly try to injure us. But reflect on this: here were we all, Mr. Reed, Peggy and myself, who were trying to aid thee in getting a release for thy brother. We did all that could be done, and cautioned thee against trying to do anything without our help. We had thy best interests at heart, Harriet. Now, dear child, doth it not seem that something was owing to those whose hospitality thou wert enjoying? Was not the letter inexcusable as a breach of hospitality?”

“Oh,” cried the girl bursting into tears. “I see now that it was. I did not mean to bring harm to you, madam my cousin. Oh, I was wrong in doing it. I am sorry now.”

“Then we will dwell no longer upon that feature of it,” remarked the lady. “The thing now is to see what good can be got out of it. Thou wilt see about thy brother’s exchange, wilt thou not? He should be there with thee.”

“Yes,” assented the girl miserably. “I will go to Sir Henry at once anent it. In that way ’tis much better to be where I can see him. Still, while I am glad to go I shall miss you both. You have been very good to me, but it will be gayer there. We British know better than you how to make merry. But if I were to be ill again I know of no place that I would rather be than here.”

“If thee only cares for us when thee is ill or in trouble, thee can just stay with the British,” cried Peggy indignantly. “Thy family seem to think that we live for naught else than to do you service. I wonder if the day will ever come when one of you will meet favors with aught but trickery?”

“Peggy,” chided her mother sharply.

“I can’t help it, mother. I am sick and tired of deceit and falsehood, and the knavery that makes us appear like traitors to the country. I am glad that she is going.” With this passionate outbreak Peggy burst into tears.

Harriet looked at her for a moment unable to make any reply, but presently she spoke in tones that were unusually gentle for her:

“Peggy, the day will come when you shall see what I will do. We are not all bad, if we are English.”

“Don’t ever promise about anything any more,” sobbed Peggy. “I can never believe thee again.”

But all of her resentment vanished the next morning as a hay cart drew up before the door under escort of a guard. There were a few women in the cart, and a number of people, men and boys mostly, had collected to view the departure.

“Oh, Harriet,” she sobbed putting her arms about her, “since thee must go I wish the mode was different.”

For an instant Harriet’s lips quivered. She grew very pale and clung to Peggy convulsively. It was only for an instant, however, that she displayed any emotion.

“Oh, well,” she said with a toss of her head. “The mode is well enough, I dare say, since ’twill convey me to New York. And Fleetwood is to go with one of the men.”

But Peggy knew that in spite of her brave front the girl was humiliated at the manner of her departure. Without a glance at the surrounding crowd of curious ones Harriet took her place in the cart, and settled herself comfortably.

“If a letter should come from Clifford, madam my cousin,” she said leaning forward to speak to Mrs. Owen, “I pray you to read it. Then write him in answer what hath befallen me. Tell him I will spare no effort to have him join me soon in New York. And so farewell!”

She smiled brightly at them, and waved her hand repeatedly as the cart drove off. Peggy and her mother stood watching it as long as it was in sight.

“Oh, mother, I am so tired of it all,” said the girl, with tears. “Will nothing ever be right any more? Will this long war and all its complications never be over with? I am so weary, mother.”

“Give not way to such feelings, Peggy,” said her mother, drawing her into the house. “It doth seem dark at times, and this happening is in truth a sad ending to Harriet’s stay with us. But everything will come right in time. Do not doubt it. Have faith. All will be well some time.”

CHAPTER IX—THE DICTATES OF HUMANITY

Her irritability, her unpleasant remarks, her ceaseless demand upon their service were soon forgotten. The grace and dignity that distinguished her from others were remembered to her advantage. The pleasant smile, the pretty manner, the imperious bearing were idealized in the softening glamour of absence. The mode of her departure had palliated whatever of resentment Mrs. Owen and Peggy might have felt for the girl’s breach of hospitality.

“I believe that I am lonesome without Harriet,” declared Peggy one evening. “Is thee, mother?”

It was the seventh day of Harriet’s absence. Tea was over. The servants had retired for the night, and mother and daughter sat alone in the sitting-room, knitting by the light of the candles.

“’Tis most natural for us to miss her, my daughter. She hath been with us so long, and with thee especially that ’tis not to be wondered at that thee feels lost. Harriet hath many good qualities. She hath been left to follow her own impulses too much, but I hope that her association with thee hath been of benefit to her.”

“With me, mother?” exclaimed Peggy flushing scarlet at this praise. “Thee should not say that. In truth, I don’t deserve it, mother. I was often vexed with her, and sometimes gave way to sharpness. I ofttimes went to my room to gain control of myself. I have a temper, mother, as thee must know.”

“I do, my child; but I know too that thou art trying to get the mastery of it. Because thou didst so strive is the reason that I believe that companionship with thee will make Harriet better. She hath received impressions that cannot fail to be of advantage to her. I am hoping that Harriet will make a noble woman.”

“I wonder,” said Peggy musingly, “why Clifford did not write to her? It would have saved all this trouble had he done so.”

“Thee must remember that he said in his letter that he thought they were to stop for a time at Fredericksburg. They may not have done so, or he may have been taken elsewhere after a short stop. Mr. Reed says that there was no report of any such party at any of the taverns there.”

“The parole will not be given now, will it, mother?”

“I think Mr. Reed would exert himself further in the matter did we desire it, Peggy, but ’tis best to let it drop for the present. If there are whispers anent our having our cousins with us, ’twere best to let Harriet see to an exchange for the lad. If that could be obtained his whereabouts would have to be made known. For ourselves, we will live very quietly for a time. It may be as well that the boy did not come. Should he prove a lad of spirit, as I make no doubt he is, between him and Harriet they might have caused greater trouble than she did.”

“Yes,” assented the girl thoughtfully. “’Tis as well as thou sayest, mother. Still, I have heard so much anent my cousin, Clifford, that I confess that I am somewhat curious about him. I think I should like to see him.”

“I have wondered about him also, Peggy. Is he like William, I wonder, or doth he take after his mother? William could be agreeable at times, but one was sometimes cognizant only of his failings.”

Thus conversing the minutes passed quickly. The house was very still, and the monotonous quiet was broken only by the click of the needles. The tall clock in the hall had just announced the usual bedtime when there sounded three loud raps on the front door.

“That was the knocker,” cried Peggy, starting up. “I wonder who it can be at this time of night?”

“We shall soon see,” said her mother taking up a candle and proceeding to the hall. “Who is it?” she called cautiously.

“’Tis I, Sally. Open quickly. I have news,” answered the clear voice of Sally Evans.

Mrs. Owen unbolted the door hastily, and Sally tumbled rather than stepped into the hall. Her calash was untied, and her curly locks had escaped their ribbon and hung in picturesque confusion about her face.

“Harriet!” she gasped. “I want Harriet.”

“Harriet is gone, Sally,” exclaimed Peggy. “Has thee not heard?”

“Gone where?” asked Sally in dismay. “I have heard nothing. She must be found, wherever she hath gone. There is news——”

“Come in and sit down,” said Mrs. Owen drawing her into the sitting-room. “Now tell us what hath occurred.”

“I should tell Harriet,” persisted Sally, who was plainly excited. “Where hath she gone?”

“She was sent to New York for communicating with the enemy,” replied Mrs. Owen. “’Tis strange that thee heard naught of it. It happened a week since.”

“We have been so busy,” explained Sally recovering herself a little. “What shall I do? Her brother is dying in the Williamsburg Hospital.”

“What! Not Clifford?” cried Mrs. Owen and Peggy simultaneously.

“Yes; Dr. Cochran, who hath been appointed director-general of all the hospitals since Dr. Shippen resigned, hath just returned from a tour of inspection of the Southern division. At our hospital at Williamsburg he found Harriet’s brother, Clifford, who told him who he was. He was a prisoner, as we know, and was shot while trying to make his escape. The doctor promised to let his sister know of the matter as soon as he reached Philadelphia. He was too busy to come himself, but sent me. Oh, I ran every step of the way, and now she is not here.”

“No,” said Mrs. Owen. “She is not here. Oh, the poor boy!”

“Why, I have forgot his note,” exclaimed Sally. She drew an unsealed letter from the bosom of her gown and handed it to Mrs. Owen. The lady opened it at once.

“Come to me, Harriet,” she read, “if you wish to see your brother alive. I am dying, and I wish not to die alone in a strange land with none of my kinspeople near me. The doctor will find a way for you. Can write no more. Come!

“Clifford.”

“Would that the child had not been so hasty,” sighed the matron folding the missive thoughtfully. “And now what is to be done? We must let her know, of course. I will see Mr. Reed in the morning.”

“But ’twill be too late for her to go to him by the time she gets the word,” said Sally. “How long doth it take to send a letter to New York?”

“All of three days. More, if the roads are bad. I fear too that ’twill be too late, but it must be done.” Mrs. Owen let her head fall on her hand and sat in deep perplexity for a while. “Sally,” she said abruptly, “can the doctor be seen to-night?”

“He might see thee, Mrs. Owen,” answered Sally. “We are monstrously busy, but the case is exceptional. And that reminds me that ’tis time I was returning.” She rose as she spoke.

“Alone? Nay; wait until I get my cloak.”

“Tut, tut!” cried Sally. “An army nurse afraid? Why, I would not fear a whole Hessian regiment. Nay; I will not hear of taking thee out at night, Mrs. Owen.”

“Let us both go, mother,” suggested Peggy, running for their wraps.

“And I would like to see the doctor,” said Mrs. Owen as Sally began again to expostulate.

The walk to the hospital, which occupied the entire square between Spruce and Pine Streets and Eighth and Ninth Streets, was short. Peggy and Sally talked in low tones over Harriet’s absence and the cause thereof, while Mrs. Owen mused in silence. The lady was still thoughtful after her interview with Dr. Cochran.

“How did the doctor say he was, mother?” asked Peggy as they started for home.

“Badly hurt, my child. He was sorry for the lad’s sake that Harriet was not here. Clifford, it seems, looks to her coming with great eagerness. ’Tis his one hope of life, the doctor thinks.”

Peggy fell into silence. The night was beautiful. One of those soft balmy nights that come sometimes in the early spring, leading one to thoughts of summer joys. But its sweet influence was not felt by these two. One idea possessed the minds of both, and each waited for the other to give voice to it.

“Mother,” spoke Peggy abruptly as they reached the stoop of their own dwelling, “thee means that one of us must go to my Cousin Clifford, doesn’t thee?”

“Yes; one of us must go,” answered her mother. “One must remain here to have the house in readiness for David should he have need of it. The other must respond to the poor lad’s appeal for his kinsmen.”

“’Twill mean more whispers against our patriotism, will it not, mother?”

“It cannot be helped, Peggy. If others choose to believe ill of us for doing a deed of mercy then we must pay no heed. We must so order our conduct that our friends will know that we are loyal to the cause, even though we do minister to an English cousin. The others matter not. ’Tis David’s kin who calls, and not to heed the call were to be false to the dictates of humanity. And now which one of us shall go, Peggy?”

“Mother, I must be the one, of course. Thee must be here to look after affairs and in case father should have need of thee. I will go. I knew that I must as soon as Sally told her news. But oh, mother! I have been home such a little while! What if something should happen to keep me from thee as it did before?”

“Peggy, if thee talks like that I cannot let thee go,” exclaimed her mother. “If it were in either of the Carolinas I would not think of permitting it even to succor a poor wounded boy. It should take but a short time to go and come. I talked it over with the doctor. He had thought that Harriet might wish to go, and, not knowing of her departure, made arrangements whereby she might go with one of the nurses who hath been here on a furlough. She returns to-morrow in a cabriolet with her son. Thou art to take Harriet’s place. Thee will not mind, Peggy.”

“No, mother. I shall murmur no more. ’Tis right to go. Thee will let Harriet know, though how she can do anything I see not. She will not be allowed to enter the lines again. What time doth the cabriolet with the nurse start? Should we not begin to prepare for the journey now?”

And seeing her so willing to accept the charge the mother in Mrs. Owen would not down. She drew the girl in a close embrace.

“If it were not right, Peggy,” she murmured. “If the doctor had not already prepared a place, or if I thought for a moment that harm would befall thee, I should not let thee go. But——”

“Why, mother, there is naught else to do,” answered Peggy cheerfully. “Thee must not think of harm. I was foolish to give way, and so art thou, mother mine. Of course naught will happen, and it is the right thing to do. What shall I take? And we should have supplies also, should we not?”

And with the Quaker habit of self-repression mother and daughter put aside their emotion to prepare for the coming journey.

CHAPTER X—FAREWELL TO HOME

“There are lint and bandages in the large bundle, Peggy. Dr. Cochran says they can scarce get enough of them. The hospitals as well as the departments of the army are in sore need of supplies. Ah me! the long, grim, weary years of fighting have made the people slow to respond to the necessities of our soldiers, and the Congress hath not the power to make levies. I would send sheets and pillow cases if there was room. We shall see when thy companion comes. The hamper is filled with jellies and delicacies. Thou wilt divide them with the other poor wounded ones. They will be glad of them, I make no doubt. And thy portmanteau is all packed, child. I think we have forgot nothing. There is but little time left to dress for the journey.”

Mrs. Owen cast an anxious glance at the array of bundles as she enumerated them, locked the portmanteau, and gave the key to her daughter.

“I know, mother, but it will not take me long. I will run down to the stables to say good-bye to Star now, and then dress. How I wish the dear thing could go too!”

“I fear thee will have to be content without her for this time, Peggy. It will not be for long.”

“True, mother,” assented the girl cheerfully. “And the very first thing I shall do when I come back will be to take a long, long gallop. I will be gone just a moment.”

She ran out of the room as she finished speaking, and without pausing for even a passing glance at the trees or the terrace, went swiftly through the orchard to the stables.

“Thou dear thing!” she exclaimed laying her head on the mare’s silky mane. “I do wish thee was going with me. Thee has been my companion through so many jaunts that I don’t feel quite right at leaving thee. Oh, I do wish thee was going!”

The little mare whinnied and rubbed her nose gently against her young mistress as though she too would like to go. Peggy stroked her softly.

“I do wish thee was going,” she said again. “Then no matter what happened I would always have a way to get back to mother. Why, Peggy Owen!” she exclaimed as the full import of the words she had just spoken came to her. “What whimsies have beset thy brain that thou shouldst say that? What could happen? Thee must not get the megrims, Peggy, before thee has started. There, Star! I must not linger with thee. Now I have kissed thee just on the spot that gave thee thy name. Thou wilt remember thou art to give me a good ride when I come back.”

Peggy gave a last lingering caress to her pet, and turned reluctantly to leave her. As she did so she found herself face to face with Sally Evans and Betty Williams.

“We thought we should find thee here,” cried Sally. “When the doctor told me that thee was to go down to see Harriet’s brother, I went for Betty at once. We came to see thee off.”

“Oh, Peggy, I think thee has the most luck,” grumbled Betty. “The South hath all the fighting, and thee is going right there.”

“Why, no, Betty,” corrected Peggy with a laugh. “The fighting is in the Carolinas, and I go only to Virginia. There is no warfare there. I should not go if there were.”

“Well, I should, and I had the chance. I suppose Virginia is not Carolina,” went on Betty, who was hazy about her geography, “but ’tis much nearer than Philadelphia. I do think, Peggy Owen, that thee has the most delightsome adventures in the world,” she ended with a sigh.

“I am afraid that it will not be very pleasant to go to a cousin who is dying,” returned Peggy soberly. “Come, girls! ’tis time for me to dress. Let us go to my room. I am to go with a nurse and her escort. She hath been up here on a visit, and ’tis fortunate that she returns just at this time.”

“I knew thee would go just as soon as I knew that Harriet was not here,” said Sally, winding her arm about her waist. “There was naught else to do.”

“That was what mother and I thought, Sally. Would that I had thy skill and experience in nursing. Then perchance I could bring my cousin back to health.”

“Well, thee shouldn’t want to, Peggy,” cried Betty. “Look how the British treat our poor fellows when they are wounded. Yet we treat our prisoners as though they were friends, and not enemies. I get out of patience with Sally here when I see her so good to them when any are brought into the hospital wounded. And why does thee do it, Sally?”

“To make them ashamed of themselves,” answered Sally promptly. “They look upon us as provincials and almost barbarians. When they find us actuated by feelings of humanity it begins in time to dawn upon them that they are dealing with kinsmen and brothers. Sometimes they are brought to such a keen realization of this that they refuse longer to fight us, and so leave the army. I have reasoned with some of them,” she ended demurely.

“I’ll warrant thee has,” laughed Peggy.

Thus chatting the girls walked slowly to the house, and then up to Peggy’s own little room where they began to help the latter to dress for the journey. She was ready presently, and then Sally cleared her throat in an oratorical manner.

“Mistress Peggy Owen,” she began, untying with a flourish a small package which had escaped Peggy’s notice, “on behalf of The Social Select Circle, of which thee is an honored member, I present thee with this diary with the injunction that thou art to record within its pages everything that befalls thee from the time of thy leaving until the day of thy homecoming.”

“All and everything,” supplemented Betty eagerly.

“Why, girls, ’tis beautiful,” cried Peggy pleased and surprised by the gift. “It is sweet to be so remembered, and if The Circle wishes me to set down all the happenings of my journey, I will do so with pleasure. But there will be no adventures. ’Tis not to be expected on such a jaunt.”

“Every jaunt holds possibilities,” observed Sally sententiously. “When thee was away before, look at all that befell; yet we have not heard the half of what happened because thee forgot. Now if thou wilt write every day in this little book for the benefit of thy friends The Circle can enjoy thy journey as well as thou.”

“I’ll do it,” promised Peggy. “But you must not expect much. I shall be gone such a short time that you girls will scarcely have begun to miss me ere I shall be home again. ’Twill be a sad journey, I fear.”

“But thy cousin may get well,” interposed Betty. “Just think of the romance contained in an unknown cousin. The relationship is just near enough to be interesting,” she ended with such a languishing air that both Peggy and Sally shook her.

“Such an utterance from a member of The Social Select Circle,” rebuked Peggy. “I’m surprised at thee, Betty.”

“Oh, the edict against the other sex is revoked now,” declared Betty. “And didn’t we always have better times when Robert was with us than when we were alone?”

“We wouldn’t now, though,” answered Sally. “He doesn’t speak French, Betty.”

“Sally, thee is dreadful! Don’t listen to her, Peggy. She is always trying to tease.”

“I shall not, Betty,” consoled Peggy, casting a mischievous glance at Sally. “Never mind. Thee is patriotic, anyway.”

“How?” asked Sally as Betty, foreseeing some further jest, would not speak.

“By helping to cement the French Alliance, of course,” laughed Peggy.

“Thee is worse than Sally,” pouted Betty turning to look out of the window. “Peggy, is thee to go in a one-horse cabriolet? Because there is one coming up Chestnut Street now. Let me see! A woman is within and it is driven by a young man. Heigh-ho! ’Tis a promising outlook. There is a baggage wagon following with two men on the seat. Thee will be well escorted, Miss Peggy Owen.”

“It must be the nurse,” exclaimed Peggy. “And mother is calling, too. Come, girls.”

They ran lightly down-stairs, and soon Mrs. Johnson, the nurse, was shown in. She was a large, motherly-looking woman of middle age, with a pleasant smile and kind eyes. Peggy felt drawn to her at once.

“And so this is to be my young companion,” she said, drawing the girl toward her as Mrs. Owen presented her daughter. “I predict that we shall be great friends, my dear. Of a truth ’twas most pleasing news when the doctor told me that I should have your company. The journey is long, ’twill take all of ten days to reach Williamsburg, so that unless there is conversation to enliven the way, ’tis apt to be most tedious. Now, Fairfax, my son, is an excellent escort but an indifferent talker. He looks well to the needs of the horses, and we shall not suffer for lack of attention, save and except conversation from him. That we shall have to furnish ourselves.”

“The cabriolet is somewhat light to carry three persons,” observed Mrs. Owen reflectively as she returned from carrying out some bundles to the baggage wagon.

“We considered that, madam, but Fairfax will ride part of the time in the baggage wagon when the roads become so rough that the load seems heavy for the horse. ’Tis too bad that he has not his horse with him, but we knew not when we came that we were to have the pleasure of Miss Peggy’s company on our return. We shall manage nicely, I dare say. The two men in the baggage wagon are an addition also that we did not expect. They have charge of some supplies for the hospital which Dr. Cochran is sending with us. I was glad to have them. ’Tis more agreeable in a long journey to have a party.”

“Mother!” breathed Peggy, her eyes glowing with the idea. “Could not the young man ride Star?”

“I was just thinking of that, my child,” said Mrs. Owen with an indulgent smile. “’Tis in truth a way opened for thee to take thy pony.”

“Do you indeed mean that Fairfax may ride a horse of yours, my dear?” questioned Nurse Johnson, rising. “Why, that is most welcome news. You are generous.”

“Nay,” protested Peggy. “I thought mostly of myself, I fear; I wish very much to have my little mare with me, and I do not deserve thy praise, friend nurse——” She paused in some confusion. “I should say Mrs. Johnson.”

“Nay; let it be friend nurse,” replied the good woman laughing. “I think I like it. And I shall call you Peggy. And your own saddle can be put in the baggage wagon, and you can take a little gallop occasionally to relieve the monotony of riding.”

“Thee relieves me of all fear that Peggy will not be well taken care of,” declared Mrs. Owen as the two left the room. “And sheets, friend? Has thee plenty of them? If there is room I could give thee a number.”

The nurse’s eyes filled with tears.

“We have need of everything, madam,” she said. “’Twill gladden our hearts to receive anything in the nature of supplies.”

They were ready at last, and Peggy approached her girl friends for a last good-bye.

“Thee has a silent knight for thy escort, Peggy,” whispered Betty through her tears, with a glance in the direction of Nurse Johnson’s son, who had not spoken to them. “Be sure to write in the diary if he speaks to thee at all through the journey. And mind! thee must put down the very words he says.”

“Betty, Betty, thee is grown frivolous,” expostulated Peggy. “Sally, thee must deal with her severely.”

“She shall help me to care for the next doughty Englishman that comes to the hospital,” declared Sally. “Still, Peggy, if the young man should break his silence ’twould be naught amiss to record the happening, for the delectation of The Circle.”

“Thee is as bad as Betty, Sally. I shall keep the diary right with me, girls, and put down whatever of interest occurs.”

“And thou wilt send word of thy safe arrival as soon as thou canst, my child,” said Mrs. Owen, holding her close. “If such a thing should be that thy cousin recovers we will see what can be done anent his coming here. And now farewell!”

Peggy clung to her without replying, and then quietly took her place in the cabriolet beside the nurse. She smiled bravely at them, and as the cabriolet started she leaned out and waved farewell as long as she could see her mother.

CHAPTER XI—ON THE ROAD

With this counsel in mind the girl struggled bravely against her emotion, and presently, wiping her eyes, turned toward the nurse. For youth is ever buoyant, and it is not natural for it to give way long to sadness. They had passed the Bettering House by this time and were well on their way toward the lower ferry.

“Thee will think me but a dull companion, I fear, friend nurse,” she said. “But I grieve to leave my mother even for so short a time. In truth, I have but recently returned home after a long absence.”

“Partings are always sad, my child, even when they are but for a few days,” replied Nurse Johnson sympathetically. “I felt just so when I bade my sister farewell this morning. We had not seen each other for ten years until I came for this visit, and ’tis like to be as long again before we get another glimpse of each other if this fearful war continues. In times such as these separation from loved ones is fraught with more than the usual sorrow; for one never knows what will happen. But you have borne up bravely, child. I feared a scene. Most girls would have treated me to such. You have the making of a good nurse, Peggy, with such control.”

“’Tis another time that I merit not thy praise,” explained the maiden. “’Tis all due to mother. She cautioned me about giving way to my feelings, thinking that I would need my strength for the journey.”

“Your mother is right,” said Nurse Johnson soberly. “The way is long and we shall have much ado to beguile the tediousness of it. As a beginning, can you tell me if those earthworks yonder are the remains of British entrenchments?”

“Yes,” answered the girl. “Traces of their lines are still discoverable in many places about the city. If thee rode out the Bristol road at all thee must have seen a large redoubt which commands the Delaware. Its parapet is considered of great elegance, though there are those that contend that the parapet was constructed with more regard to ornament than for fortification. Just this side of the battery are the barracks they built.”

“And were you in the city when they held possession?”

“No. Mother and I were at Strawberry Hill, our farm on the Wissahickon. Thee should have seen our city before the enemy held it, friend nurse. There were great trees all along the banks of the Schuylkill here which were called the Governor’s Woods. The English cut them down for fire-wood, and to help build their fortifications. And so many of our beautiful country places were burned.”

“’Tis so all over the land, my child,” returned the nurse sadly. “War leaves a train of wrecked and desolated homes wherever it is waged. We of Virginia have been fortunate so far to escape a wholesale ravage of the state. True, there have been some predatory incursions, but the state as a whole has not been overrun by the enemy. If General Greene can continue to hold Lord Cornwallis’ attention in the Carolinas we may not suffer as those states have.”

Thus she spoke, for no one imagined at this time that Virginia would soon become the center of activities. And so chatting they crossed the river, and by noon were in Chester, where they baited their horses and refreshed themselves for the afternoon journey.

It was spring. The smooth road wound beneath the budding foliage of the forest. The air was fresh and balmy, and laden with the perfume of flowers and leaves. The sky was blue, and Peggy followed with delight the flight of a hawk across its azure. Robins flew about merrily, with red breasts shaken by melodious chirpings, and brilliant plumage burnished by the sunlight. The maiden began to feel a keen enjoyment of the drive, and chatted and laughed with an abandon foreign to her usual quiet demeanor.

They lay at Wilmington, Delaware, that night, and early the next morning were up and away again. Mindful of her new diary Peggy recorded her impressions of the country through which she passed for the benefit of her friends of The Social Select Circle.

“The country is beautiful,” she wrote enthusiastically on the fourth day of her journey after passing from Wilmington through Newcastle, and Head of the Elk, and crossing the Susquehanna River. “Though it seems to me more sandy than Pennsylvania. I think this must arise from being so near the coast. The Susquehanna is very broad at this crossing, but it cannot compare with the Delaware for limpidness and whiteness. Nor are its banks so agreeable in appearance. To-morrow we enter Baltimore, which I long to see, for Nurse Johnson says ’tis a monstrously fine city.

“‘And is thee going to tell us naught but about the country, Peggy?’ I hear thee complain, Betty Williams. Know then, thou foolish Betty, that the ‘Silent Knight,’ as thee dubbed him, hath not yet broken that silence. Each morning he bows very gravely and deeply. Oh, a most ornate obeisance! Thee should see it. This I return in my best manner, and the ceremony for the day is over. If he hath aught to communicate he seeks his mother at the inns where we stop for refreshments. Truly he is a lad beset by shyness.

“‘And where is thy tongue, Peggy?’ I hear thee ask.

“Well, it may be that I shall use it if he does not speak soon. Such shyness doth engender boldness in us females. Will that please thee, thou saucy Betty?”

“Although,” soliloquized Peggy when she had made this entry, “it may not be shyness at all, but wisdom. I have heard mother say that wise men are not great talkers, so when the young man does speak I make no doubt but that his words will be full of matter. I must remember them verbatim, and set them down for the edification of The Circle.”

They reached Baltimore that night instead of the next day; at so late an hour there was no time to see the little city. It was one of the most important places in the new states at this time, ranking after Philadelphia and Boston in size, and growing rapidly, having been made a port of entry the year before. There was a quarter composed entirely of Acadian families speaking nothing but French, Nurse Johnson told her, and Peggy made a particular note of the fact for Betty’s delectation.

“Perchance when I return I can see more of it,” said the maiden philosophically as they were getting ready for their departure early the next morning.

“I hope that you can, my dear,” said Nurse Johnson. “’Twill be a hard ride to-day, for we want to make Colchester by nightfall. I have a cousin there with whom we can stop, which will be vastly more pleasurable than to stay at an ordinary. If we do not make the place to-night there would be no time for visiting to-morrow.”

The roads were good and hard, and the riding pleasant in the early morning. But as the day advanced the atmosphere became sultry, and Peggy was conscious of more fatigue than she had felt at any time through the journey.

“Fairfax must change with you, and let you ride Star for a time,” spoke Mrs. Johnson, regarding her with solicitude. “I am sure that will rest you.”

“I think it will,” answered Peggy. “I do feel just a little weary of the carriage, friend nurse. Perhaps thy son would like the change also? It must be lonely for him riding all alone.”

Nurse Johnson laughed as she caught the girl’s look.

“You must not mind his not talking,” she said. “I think he hath never spoken to a girl in his life. Still, he is a good son, for all his shyness.”

The change to Star’s back was made, and they started forward at renewed speed. Peggy’s spirits rose as she found herself on the little mare, and she rode ahead of the vehicle sometimes, or sometimes alongside of it chatting gayly. So pleasantly did the time pass that none of them noticed that the sky had become overcast with clouds. A heavy drop of rain falling upon her face compelled the girl’s attention.

“Why, ’tis raining,” she exclaimed in surprise.

“There’s going to be a thunder-storm,” cried Nurse Johnson viewing the clouds in dismay. “How suddenly it hath come up. Fairfax, we must put in at the nearest plantation. Let Peggy get back in with me so that she will not get wet. Then we must make speed.”

The lad got out of the vehicle obediently, and approached the girl to assist her from the horse. As she sprang lightly to the ground, he gazed at her earnestly for a moment as though realizing the necessity of speech, and said:

“It looks like rain.”

As he spoke the far horizon was illuminated by a succession of lurid flashes of lightning which shone with fiery brilliancy against the black masses of thunder-clouds. The muttering of thunder told that the storm was almost upon them. The fact was so evident that no living being could deny it. The lad’s observation differed so from what she had expected from him that there was no help for it, and Peggy gave way to a peal of merry laughter.

“I cry thee pardon, Friend Fairfax,” she gasped. “It doth indeed look like rain.”

For a second the young fellow stood as though not realizing the full import of what he had said, and then, as heavy drops began to patter rapidly through the trees, the girl’s merriment infected him and he too burst into laughter.

“It is raining,” he corrected himself, which remark but added to the girl’s mirth.

“Where are we?” asked his mother as Peggy took her place beside her.

“We are near His Excellency’s plantation, mother.”

“His Excellency?” cried Peggy. “Do you mean General Washington’s house, friend nurse?”

“To be sure, Peggy,” said Mrs. Johnson glancing about her. “Mount Vernon lies just beyond us on our left. We must put in there.”