No sooner had the British returned from their brief sally than they settled into winter quarters, and gave themselves up to such amusements as the city afforded or they could create.

The commissary had taken good heed to have one of the finest of the deserted Whig houses in the city assigned to him, and whatever it had once lacked had been supplied. A coach, a chair, and four saddle-horses were at his beck and call; a dozen servants, some military and some slave, performed the household and stable work; a larder and a cellar, filled to repletion, satisfied every creature need, and their contents were served on plate and china of the richest.

“I’ faith,” explained the officer, when Mr. Meredith commented on the completeness and elegance of the establishment, “’t is something to be commissary-general in these times; and since the houses about Germantown were to be destroyed, ’t was contrary to nature not to take from them what would serve to make me comfortable. Their owners, be they friends or foes, are none the poorer, for they think it all perished in the flames, as it would have done but for my forethought.”

However lavish the hospitality of Lord Clowes could be under these circumstances, it was not popular with the army, and such officers as came to eat and drink at his table were more remarkable for their gastronomic abilities than for their wits and manners. In his civilian guests the quality was better, the man being so powerful through his office that the best of the townsfolk only too gladly gathered about his table when they were bidden,—an eagerness at which the commissary jeered even while he invited them.

“They are all to be bought,” he sneered. “There is Tom Willing, who made the most part of his money importing Guinea niggers, and now is in a mortal funk lest some of it, like them, shall run away. Two years ago he was a member of the rebel Congress and a partner of that desperate speculator Morris, with a hand thrust deep in the Continental treasury rag-bag. Now he has trimmed ship better than any of his slavers ever did, gone about on the opposite tack, and is so loyal to British rule that his greatest ambition is to get his other hand in some government contracts. He and his pretty wife will dine here every time they are asked, and so will all the rest, ye’ll see.”

During the first days in their new domiciliary, Janice showed the utmost nervousness, seldom leaving her mother’s or father’s side, and never venturing into the hallways without a previous peep to see that they were empty. As the weeks wore on without any attempt on the commissary’s part to surprise her into a tête-à-tête, to recur to the words he had forced her to utter, or to be anything but a polite, entertaining, and thoughtful host, the girl gained courage, and little by little took life more equably. She would have been been less easy, though better able to understand his conduct, had she overheard or had repeated to her a conversation between Lord Clowes and her father on the day that they first took up their new abode.

“A beggar’s thanks are lean ones, Clowes,” the squire had said, over the wine; “but if ever the dice cease from throwing me blanks, ye shall find that Lambert Meredith has not forgot your loans of home and money.”

“Talk not to me in such strain, Meredith,” replied the host, with the frank, hearty manner he could so well command. “I ask no better payment than your company, but ’t is in your power to shift the debt onto my shoulders at any time, and by a single word at that.”

“How so?”

“It has scarce slipped thy memory that in a moment’s mistrust of thee—which I now concede was both unfriendly and unjustifiable—I sought to run off with thy beautiful maid. She was ready to marry me out of hand; but give thy consent as well, and I shall be thy debtor for life.”

“Ye know—” began Mr. Meredith.

“And what is more,” went on the suitor, “though ’t is not for me to make boast, I can assure ye that Lord Clowes is no bad match. In the last two years I’ve salted down nigh sixty thousand pounds in the funds and bank stock.”

“Adzooks!” aspirated the squire. “How did ye that?”

“Hah, hah!” laughed the commissary, triumphantly. “That is what it is to play the cards aright. ’T was all from being carried on that cursed silly voyage to the Madeiras which at that moment I deemed the work of the Evil One himself. I could get but a passage to Halifax, and by luck I arrived there just as Sir William put in with the fleet from Boston. We had done a stroke or two of business in former times, and so I was able to gain his ear, and unfold a big scheme to him.”

“And what was that?”

“Hah! a great scheme,” reiterated Clowes, smacking his lips, after a long swallow of spirits. “Says I, make me commissary-general, and I’ll make our fortunes. We’ll impress food and forage, and the government shall pay us for every pound of—”

“’T was madness,” broke in Mr. Meredith. “Dost not know that nothing has so stirred the people as the taking their crops without payment?”

“Like as not,” assented the commissary; “but ’t is also the way to subdue them. They began a war, and they must pay the usual penalty until they are sickened of it. And since the seizures were to be made, ’t was too good a chance not to turn an honest penny. Pray Heaven they don’t lay down their arms too soon, for I ambition to be wealthier still. Canst hope better for your daughter than that she be made Lady Clowes, and rich to boot?”

“She’s promised—” began the squire, but once again the suitor cut him off.

“She herself told me she is pledged to no one but me.”

“Nay, I’ve passed my word to Leftenant Hennion.”

“Chut! A subaltern who’ll bless his stars if he ever is allowed to starve on a captain’s pay. Thou canst not really mean to do thy daughter such an injury?”

My word is passed; and Lambert Meredith breaks not that. The lad ’s a good boy, too, who’ll make her a good husband, with a fine estate, if peace ever comes again in the land.”

The officer thrummed a moment on the table. “Then ’t is only thy word to this fellow, and no want of friendliness that leads thee to give me nay?” he asked.

“Of that ye may be sure,” assented Mr. Meredith, eagerly availing himself of the easy escape from the quandary that his host made for him.

“And but for the promise ye’d give her to me?”

The father hesitated and swallowed before he made reply, and when the words came, it was with an observable reluctance that he said: “Ye should know that.”

“That is all I ask,” cried the commissary. “I knew ye were not the man to eat another’s bread and not do what ye could for him. We’ll not hope for harm to the lad, but if the camp fever or small-pox or aught else should come to him, I’ll remind ye of the promise ye’ve just spoken, sure that the man who won’t break his word to one won’t to t’ other.”

“That ye may tie to,” acceded Mr. Meredith, though with a dubious manner, as if something perplexed him. And in his own room that evening he paused for a moment after removing his wig and remarked to himself: “Promise I suppose I did, though I ne’er intended it. Well, let ’s hope that Phil gets her; and if some miscarriage prevents, ’t is something that she should be made great and rich, though I wish the money had come in some more honest way to a more honest man.”

As for the commissary, once retired to his own room, he wrote a letter which he superscribed “To David Sproat, Deputy Commissary of Prisoners at New York.” But this done, he tore it up, and tossed the fragments into the fire, with the remark: “Why should I put my name to it, when Loring or Cunningham can give the order just as well? I’ll see one or t’ other to-morrow, and so prevent all chance of its being traced to me.” Then he sat looking for a time at the embers reflectively. “’T is folly to want her,” he said finally, as he rose and began the removal of his coat, “now that ye need not her money; but she’s enough to tempt any man with blood in his veins, and I can afford the whim. Keep that blood in check, however, till ye have her fast; and do not frighten her as ye have done. To think of Lord Clowes, cool enough to match any man, losing his head over a whiffling bit of woman-flesh! What devil’s baits they are!”

Put at ease by the commissary’s conduct toward her, Janice entered eagerly into the gaiety with which the army beguiled the tedium of winter quarters. Dislike of Clowes precluded André and Mobray from coming to the house, but they saw much of the maiden elsewhere. She and Peggy Chew had been made known to each other by André early in the British occupation, and they promptly established the warm friendship that girls of their age so easily form, and spent many hours together. The two captains were quick to discover that the Chew house was a pleasant one, and became almost as constant visitors there as Janice herself. At André’s suggestion the painting lessons were resumed, with Miss Chew as an additional pupil, and he undertook to teach them French as well; the music, too, was revived for Mobray’s benefit, though now more often as a trio or quartette; and many other pleasures were shared in common. Both young officers were deeply concerned in the series of plays for which the theatre was being made ready; and the girls not merely heard them rehearse their respective parts, but with scissors and needles helped to make costumes for the amateur actors.

“Oh!” sighed Janice one day, after hearing Mobray through his lines in “The Deuce is in Him,” “I’d give a finger but to see it played.”

“See it!” exclaimed the baronet. “Of course you’ll see it.”

“They say there ’s a great demand for places,” demurred Peggy.

“Have no fear as to that,” said André. “Do you think I’ve risked my neck painting the curtain and scenery, and worked myself thin over it generally, not to get what I deserve in return. My name was next down after Sir William’s for a box, and in it such beauty shall be exhibited that ’t is likely we poor Thespians will get not so much as a look from the exquisites of the pit.”

“Lack-a-day!” grieved Janice, “mommy will never hear of my going to see a play. I’ve not so much as dared to tell her that I’m helping you.”

“Devil seize me, but you shall attend, if it takes a provost guard to do it,” predicted Mobray.

Neither the protests nor prayers of the baronet, however, served to gain Mrs. Meredith’s consent that her daughter should enter what she called “The Devil’s Pit,” but what he could not bring to pass the commissary did.

“I have bespoke a box for the first performance at the theatre,” Lord Clowes announced at dinner one evening, “and bid ye all as my guests.”

“’T is a sinful place, to which I will never lend my countenance,” said Mrs. Meredith, with such promptness as to suggest a forestalling of her husband and daughter.

The commissary bowed his head in apparent acquiescence, but when he and the squire were left to their wine he recurred to the matter.

“I look to ye, Meredith,” he said, “to overcome your wife’s absurd whimsey.”

“’T is useless to argue with Matilda when her mind ’s made up,” answered the husband, dejectedly. “That I have learned time and again.”

“And so ’t is with all women, if a man ’s so foolish as to argue. Didst ever hear of ignorance paying heed to reason? There’s but one way to deal with the sex: ‘Do this, do that; ye shall, ye sha’n’t,’ is all the vocabulary a man needs to make matrimony agreeable. Put your foot down, and, mark me, she’ll come to heel like a spaniel. But go ye must, for Sir William makes it a positive point that all of prominence attend the theatre and assembly, that the public may learn that the gentry are with us.”

“They brought no clothes for such occasions,” objected the squire, falling back on a new line of defence.

“Take fifty pounds more from me; ’t will be money well spent.”

“I like not to increase my borrowings, and especially for female fallals and furbelows.”

“Nonsense, man; don’t shy at a few hundred pounds. Ye know one year of order and rents will pay all ye owe me twice over. Ye must not displeasure Sir William for such a sum.”

So it came to pass that the squire, when they rejoined the ladies, emboldened by his wine, promptly let fall the observation that he had decided they were all to go to the theatre.

“Thou heardst me say that I am principled against it,” dissented Mrs. Meredith.

“Tush, Matilda! I gave in to your Presbyterian swaddling clothes and lacing-strings at Greenwood, but now ye must do as I say. So get ye to a mercer’s to-morrow, and set to on proper clothes.”

“Dost wish to see thy wife and daughter damned, Lambert?”

“Ay, if that ’s to be my fate, and so should ye. Go I shall to the theatre, and so shall Janice. If ye prefer salvation to our company, stay at home.”

“Oh, mommy, please, please go,” eagerly implored Janice. “Captain André assures me that ’t is not in the least evil.”

With tears in her eyes, Mrs. Meredith rose. “’T is not right; but if sin thou must, I too will eat of the fruit, rather than be parted from thee.” She kissed both Mr. Meredith and Janice with an almost savage tenderness, and passed hurriedly from the room, leaving a very astounded husband and a very delighted daughter.

The girl’s delight was not lessened the next day when they went a-shopping, and with the purchases a sudden end was put to her help of the theatricals, and even, temporarily, to the French and painting lessons. If ever maid was grateful for the weary hours of training in fine sewing and embroidery, Janice was, as she toiled, with cheeks made hectic by excitement, over the frock in which her waking thoughts were centred. When finally the day came for the trying on, and it fulfilled her highest expectation, her ecstasy, unable to contain itself, was forced to find expression, and she poured the rapture out in a letter to Tabitha, though knowing full well that only by the luckiest chance could it ever be sent.

“Only to think of it, Tibbie!” she wrote. “We are to have plays given by the officers, and weekly dancing assemblies, and darling dadda says I am to go to both; and all my gowns being monstrous nugging and frumpish, he told mommy to see that I had a new one, though where the money came from (for though I did every stitch myself, it cost a pretty penny—no less than seventeen pounds and eight shillings, Tibbie!) I have puzzled not a little to fancy. I fear me I cannot describe it justly to you, but I will do my endeavour. ’T is a black velvet with pink satin sleeves and stomacher, and a pink satin petticoat, over which is a fall of white crape; the sides open in front, spotted all over with gray embroidery, and the edge of the coat and skirt trimmed with gray fur. Oh, Tibbie, ’t is the most elegant and dashy robing that ever was! Pray Heaven I don’t dirt it for it is to serve for the whole winter! Peggy has three new frocks, and Margaret Shippen four, but mine is the prettiest, and by tight lacing (though no tighter than theirs) I make my waist an ell smaller than either. In addition, I have a nabob of gray tabby silk trimmed with the same fur, which has such a sweet and modish air that I could cry at having to remove it but for what it would conceal. I intend to ask Peggy if ’t would be citified and à la mode to keep it on for a little while after entering the box by the plea that the playhouse is cold. The high mode now is to dress the hair enormous tall—a good eight inches, Tibbie—over a steel frame, powdered mighty white, and to stick a mouchet or two on the face. It seems to me I cannot wait for the night, yet my teeth rattle and my hands tremble and I am all in a shake whenever I think of it; if I can but keep from being mute as a stock-fish, and gawkish, for I am all alive with fear that I shall be both, and shame us all! Peggy has taught me the minuet glide and curtsey and languish, and I am to step it at the first Assembly with Captain André,— such a pretty, engaging fellow, Tibbie, who will never swing for want of tongue; and Lord Rawdon has bespoke my hand for the quadrille,—a stern, frowning man, who frights me greatly, but ’t is a monstrous distinction I need scarce say to be asked by one who will some day be an earl, Tibbie—and I dance the Sir Roger de Coverley with Sir Frederick Mobray, who is delightsome, too, by his rallying, performs most entrancingly on the flute, and is one of the best bowlers in the weekly cricket matches, but who is said to play very deep at Pharaoh in the club the officers have established; and to keep a great number of fighting cocks on which he wagers vast sums—if rumour speaks true, as high as a hundred guineas on a single main, Tibbie—at the cock-pit they have set up. A great crowd assembled yesterday to see him and Major Tarleton ride their chargers from Sixth Street to the river on a bet, and he lost because a little girl toddled out from the sidewalk and he pulled up, while the major, who is a wonderful horseman, spurred and leaped over her. But he was blamed for taking the risk, for his horse might not have risen, so Colonel Harcourt told Nancy Bond. ’T was Major Tarleton, I daresay you recollect; who was at our house when General Lee was captivated; and P. Hennion then told me he was considered the most reckless and dare-devil officer in the cavalry, but a cruel man. ‘Mr. Lee,’ as they all term him, here,—for they will not give the Whigs any titles,—has just been brought to Philadelphia and is at large on parole, pending an exchange, which has been delayed because ’t is feared by the British that any convention may be taken as a recognition of the rebels, and be so considered by France and Spain.
    “So much has happened,” the letter-writer continued a week later, “I scarce know where to begin, Tibbie, nor how to convey to you the wondrous occurrences. Oh, Tibbie, Tibbie, plays are the most amazing and marvellous things in the world! Not a one of the officers could I recognise, so changed they were, and they did us females to the life. ’T was so enchanting that at times I found myself gasping through very forgetfulness to breathe, and I was dreadfully rallied and quizzed because I burst into tears when the poor minor seemed to have lost both his love and his property. But how can I touch off my feelings, when, in the fourth act; the villain was detected; and all ended as it should! And, oh! Tibbie, mommy enjoyed it nearly as much as I, though the farce at the end vastly shocked her—and, indeed, Tibbie, ’t was most indelicate, and made me blush a scarlet, and all the more that Sir William whispered that he enjoyed the broad parts through my cheeks—and she says if dadda insists, we’ll go again, though not to stay to the farce. We had to sit in Lord Clowes’ box—which sadly affronted Captain André —and Sir William, who has hitherto kept himself muck secluded; made his first appearance in public, and, as you wilt have inferred, visited our box during a part of the performance, drawing all eyes upon us, which agitated me greatly. Dadda told him I was learning to sketch, and nothing would do but I must give him an example, so on the back of the play-bill I made a caricature of General Lee, which was extravagantly praised, and was passed from hand to hand all over the house, and excited a titter wherever it went, for the general was in attendance; but judge of my feelings, Tibbie, when an officer passed it to Lee himself! He fell into a mighty rage, and demanded aloud to know who had thus insulted him, and but for Lord Clowes and Sir William preventing me, I’d have fled from the place, I was in such a panic. Pray Heaven he never learn! I dare not repeat to thee half the civil things which were said of this ‘sweet creature,’ as they styled me, for fear thou’lt think me vain. ‘As thee is, I doubt not,’ I hear thee say. Saucy Tibbie Drinker!”

At the very time that this account was being penned, some twenty miles away, a man was also writing, and a paragraph in his letter read:—

“Our going into winter quarters, instead of keeping the field, can have been reprobated only by those gentlemen who think soldiers are made of stocks and stones and equally insensible to frost and snow; and, moreover, who conceived it easily practicable for an inferior army, under the disadvantages we are known to labour under, to confine a superior one, in all respects well appointed and provided for a winter’s campaign, within the city of Philadelphia, and to cover from depredation and waste the States of Pennsylvania and Jersey. But what makes this matter still more extraordinary in my eye is that those very gentlemen—who well know that the path of this army from Whitemarsh to Valley Forge might have been tracked by the blood of footprints, and that not a boot or shoe had since been issued by the commissaries: who are well apprised of the nakedness of the troops from ocular demonstration; whom I myself informed of the fact that some brigades had been four days without meat, and were unsupplied with the very straw to save them from sleeping on the bare earth floors of the huts, so that one-third of this army should be in hospitals, if hospitals there were, and that even the common soldiers had been forced to come to my quarters to make known their wants and suffering —should think a winter’s campaign and the covering of these States from the invasion of an enemy so easy and practical a business. I can assure those gentlemen that it is a much easier and less distressing thing to draw remonstrances in a comfortable room by a good fireside than to keep a cold, bleak hill and sleep under frost and snow without clothes or blankets. However, although they seem to have little feeling for the naked and distressed soldiers, I feel superabundantly for them, and from my soul I pity those miseries which it is neither in my power to relieve nor prevent.
    “It is for these reasons that I dwelt upon the subject to Congress; and it adds not a little to my other difficulties and distress to find that much more is expected of me than it is possible to perform, the more that upon the ground of safety and policy I am obliged to conceal the true state of this army from public view, and thereby expose myself to detraction and calumny.”

The letter completed, the man took up the tallow dip, and passed from the cramped, chilly room in which he had sat to a still more cold and contracted hallway. Tiptoeing up a stairway, he paused a moment to listen at a door, then entered.

“I heard your voice, Brereton, so knew you were waking. Well, Billy, how does the patient?”

“Pohly, massa, pohly. De doctor say de ku’nel ’ud do fus-class ef he only would n’t wherrit so, but he do nothin’ but toss an’ act rambunctious, an’ dat keep de wound fretted an’ him feverish.”

“And fret I will,” came a voice from the bed, “till I’ve done with this feather-bed coddling and am allowed to take my share of the work and privation.”

“Nay, my boy,” said Washington, coming to the bedside and laying his hand kindly on Jack’s shoulder; “there is naught to be done, and you are well out of it. Give the wound its chance to heal.”

Brereton gave a flounce. “Do, in the name of mercy, Billy, get me a glass of water,” he begged querulously. Then, after the black had departed, he asked: “What has Congress done?”

“They have voted Gates president of the Board of War, with almost plenary powers.”

“A fit reward for his holding back until too late the troops that would have put us, and not the British, in Philadelphia this winter. You won’t let their ill-treatment force you into a resignation, sir?”

“I have put my hand to the plough and shall ne’er turn back. If I leave the cause, it will be by their act and not mine.

“Congress may hamper and slight you, sir, but will not dare to supersede you, for very fear of their own constituents. The people trust you, if the politicians don’t.”

“Set your mind on more quieting things, Brereton,” advised Washington, taking the young fellow’s hand affectionately. “May you have a restful night.”

“One favour before you go, your Excellency,” exclaimed Jack, as the general turned. “I—Could n’t—Does McLane still get his spies into the city?”

“Almost daily.”

“Could he—Wilt ask him—to—to make inquiry—if possible—of one—concerning Miss Janice Meredith, and let me know how she fares?”

The general pressed the aide’s hand, and was opening his lips, when a figure, covered by a négligèe night-gown of green silk, appeared at the door.

“I’ve heard thee exciting John for the last half-hour, Mr. Washington,” she said upbraidingly. “I am amazed at thy thoughtlessness.”

“Nay, Patsy, I but stopped in to ask how he did and to bid him a good-night,” replied Washington, gently.

“A half-hour,” reiterated Mrs. Washington, sternly, “and now you still tarry.”

“Only because you block the doorway, my dear,” said the husband, equably. “If I delayed at all, ’t was because Brereton wished to set in train an inquiry concerning his sweetheart.”

“His what?” exclaimed the dame. “Let me pass in, Mr. Washington. John must tell me all about her this moment.”

“You said he should sleep, Patsy,” replied the general, smiling. “Come to our room, my dear, and I’ll tell you somewhat of her.”

But however much may have been told in the privacy of the connubial chamber, one fact was not stated: That far back in the bottom drawer of the bureau in which Janice kept her clothes lay a half-finished silk purse, to which not a stitch bad been added since the day that the muttering of the guns of Brandywine had sounded through the streets of Philadelphia.