There was little weeding of the garden that fore-noon, unless the brushing off with Jack’s gauntlets of some green moss from the garden seat, about which clustered the honeysuckle, can be considered such. Possibly this was done that more sprays of the vine might be plucked, for when Sukey, after repeated calls from the entry, finally came to summon them to dinner, Jack had a bunch of it, and a single rose, thrust in his sword knot.

There was a pretence of affected unconsciousness at the meal on the part of the three, and even of Peg, though the servant made it difficult to maintain the fiction by several times going off into fits of reasonless giggles not easy for those at table to ignore. The repast eaten, Brereton drew Mrs. Meredith aside for a word, and Janice took advantage of the freedom to escape to her room, where she buried her face in the pillow, as if she had some secret to confide to it.

From this she was presently roused by her mother’s entrance, and as the girl, with flushed cheeks and questioning look, met her eyes, Mrs. Meredith said: “I think, my child, thou hast acted for the best, and we will hope thy father will think so.”

“Oh, mommy, dost think he’ll consent?”

“I fear not, but that must be as God wills it. Go down now, for Colonel Brereton says he must ride away, and only tarries for a word with thee.”

Janice gave one glance at the mirror, and put her hands to her hair, with a look of concern. “’T is dreadfully disordered.”

“He will not notice it, that I’ll warrant,” prophesied the matron.

With his horse’s bridle over his arm, the lover was waiting for her on the front porch. “Will you not walk with me down the road a little way?” he begged. “’T is so hard to leave you.”

“I—I think I had better not,” urged the girl, showing trepidation. “’T would surely delay you too—”

“Ah, Janice,” interrupted the lover, “why—what have I done that you should show such fear of me?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” denied Janice, hurriedly; “and of course I’ll go, if—if you think it best.”

“Then what is it frightens you, sweetheart?” persisted Jack, as they set off.

The maiden scrutinised the ground and horizon as if seeking an explanation ere she replied shyly, “’T is—’t is indeed no fear of you, but you—you never ask permission.”

The officer laughed exultingly. “Then may I put my arm about you?” he requested.

“’T will make walking too difficult.”

“How know you that?” demanded Jack.

“’T is—’t is easily fancied.”

Brereton’s free arm encircled the girl. “Try to fancy it,” he entreated. “And never again say that I do not ask permission.”

A mile down the road Jack halted. “I’ll not let you go further,” he groaned; “nor must I linger, for reminder of my wound still troubles me if I ride too quick.”

“Why did you not tell me you had been wounded when you took me away from the ball?” asked Janice, reproachfully.

“’T was not once in my thoughts that evening, nor was anything else save you.”

“I can make all sorts of preserves and jellies and pickles, and next winter I’ll send you some to camp.”

“That you shall not,” asserted the aide; “for the day we go into winter quarters sees me back here to dance at your wedding.”

“Hadst better wait till thou art invited, sir?” suggested Janice, saucily.

“What? A revolt on my hands already!” exclaimed the officer.

“T is you are the rebel.”

“Then you are my prisoner,” retorted Jack, catching her in his arms.

“You Whigs are a lawless lot!”

“Toward avowed Tories, ay—and a good serve-out to them.”

“But I gave my word to his Excellency that from henceforth I’d be Whiggish, so you’ve no right to treat me as one.”

“Then I’ll not,” agreed the lover. “And since I plundered from you while you were against us, ’t is only right that I should return what I took.” He kissed her thrice tenderly. “Good-by, my sweet,” he said, and, releasing her, mounted. “’T is fortunate I depend not on my own legs, for they ’d never consent to carry me away from you.” He started his horse, but turned in his saddle to call back: “’T will not be later than the first of November, with or without permission,” and throwing a last kiss with his hand, spurred away.

Till Jack passed from view, the girl’s eyes followed him then, with a look of dreaminess in her eyes, she walked slowly back to Greenwood, so abstracted by her thoughts that she spoke not a word to the attendant hound.

Whatever might be the inclination of the girl, her mother gave her little chance to dream in the next few days. Not merely was there much about house and garden to be brought into order, but Mrs. Meredith succeeded in bargaining their standing crop of grass in exchange for a milch cow, and to Janice was assigned both its milking and care, while the chickens likewise became her particular charge. From stores in the attic the mother produced pieces of whole cloth, and Janice was set at work on dresses and underclothes to resupply their depleted wardrobes. Not content with this, Mrs. Meredith drew from the same source unspun wool and unhatchelled flax, and the girl was put to spinning both into thread and yarn, that Peg might weave them into cloth, against the need of winter. From five in the morning till eight at night there was occupation for all; and so tired was the maiden that she gladly enough heard her mother’s decree that their small supply of candles should not be used, but that they should go to bed with the sun.

They were thus already asleep by ten o’clock one August evening, when there came a gentle knocking on the back door, which, after several repetitions, ceased, but only to be resumed a moment later on the front one. Neither summons receiving any attention, a succession of pebbles were thrown against Janice’s window, finally bringing the sleeper back to wakefulness. Her first feeling, as she became conscious of the cause, was one of fear, and her instinct was to pay no attention to the outsider. After one or two repetitions, however, of the disquieting taps, she stole to the window, and, keeping herself hidden, peeped out. All she could see was a man standing close to a shrub, as if to take advantage of its concealment, who occasionally raised an arm and tossed a pebble against the panes. Really alarmed, the girl was on the point of seeking her mother, when her eyes took in the fact that Clarion was standing beside the cause of her fright, and seeking, so far as he could, to win his attention. Reassured, the girl raised the sash, and instantly her father’s voice broke upon her ears.

“Down with ye, Jan,” he said, “and let me get under cover.”

Both anxious and delighted, the girl ran downstairs and unbarred the door.

“I had begun to fear me that I had been misinformed and that ye and your mother were not hereabout,” the squire began; “so ’t is indeed a joy to find ye safe.” And then, after Mrs. Meredith had been roused, he explained his presence. “Though I could not get back to ye in Philadelphia, no worry I felt on your account, making sure that Lord Clowes would look to your safety. An anxious week I had after the army reached New York, till I received Colonel Brereton’s letter telling me of your safety, though that only assured me as to the past, and I knew that any moment the rascally Whigs might take to persecuting ye again.”

“Nay, Lambert,” said Mrs. Meredith, “not a one has offered us the slightest annoyance. On the contrary, some of thy tenants have tendered us food in payment of rent, though I own that they insist upon hard bargains.”

“I would I had as little complaint to make,” responded the husband. “No sooner did Clinton reach New York than my appointment was taken from me, and but for Phil’s kindness I should like to have starved. Though with little money himself, the boy would let me want for nothing, and but for him I should not even have been able to be here to-night”

“How was that, dadda?” asked Janice.

“’T is not to be whispered outside, Jan, but some of these same rebel Jerseymen—ay, and the Connecticut Yankees— much prefer the ring of British guineas to the brustle of the worthless paper money of the Whigs, so almost nightly boat-loads of provisions and forage steal out of the Raritan for New York, but for which the British army would be on short commons. Phil, who knew of this traffic, secured me passage on one of the empty boats.”

“Then the villagers know thou hast returned?” exclaimed Mrs. Meredith, anxiously.

“Not they, for those in the business are as little anxious to have it known they have been in New York as I am to have it advertised that I am here at Greenwood, and there is little danger that either of us will blab.”

“Had Lord Clowes arrived in New York, Lambert?” inquired Mrs. Meredith.

“That he had, and in a mighty dudgeon he was at first against all of us: with ye for what he took offence at in Philadelphia, and with me because I hold to my promise to Phil. But when he had word that I was coming here, he sought me out in a great turn-over, and said if I brought ye back to New York his house should be at our service, and that we should want for nothing. There is no doubt, lass, that he loves ye prodigious.”

The girl shivered, August night though it was, but merely exclaimed, “You ’d not think of making us go to New York when we are under no necessity?”

“Not I, now that I know ye to be well off, which I feared ye were not. The nut to crack is to know whether I hadst best find safety by returning to New York, to live like a pauper on Phil, or seek to lie hid here for a three-months.”

“And why three months, Lambert?” asked his wife.

“’T is thought that will serve to bring about a peace. Have ye not heard how this much-vaunted alliance with France has resulted? The French fleet and soldiers, united to a force under Sullivan, attempted to capture the British post at Newport, but oil and vinegar would not mix. The Parley-voos wanted to monopolise all the honour by having the Americans play second fiddle to them, but to this they ’d not consent; and while the two were quarrelling over it, like dogs over a bone, in steps the British, drubs the two of them, and carries off the prize. That gone, they’ve set to quarrelling as to whose fault it was. The feeling now is as bitter against the French as ’t was against the British, and ’t is thought that with this end to their hopes from the frog-eaters, they’ll be glad enough to make a peace with us, the more that their paper money, the only thing that has kept them going this long, loses value daily, and they will soon have nothing with which to pay bills and soldiers.”

“Thou hadst best stay here, Lambert,” advised Mrs. Meredith. “’T will be more comfortable for thee, and far happier for us.”

“Remember that I run the risk of capture, wife.”

“Thou canst be kept concealed from all but Peg and Sukey, who are as faithful as we.”

“And I am sure if by chance you were discovered,” suggested Janice, haltingly, “that Colonel Brereton would—would —save you from ill treatment.”

“Colonel Brereton?”

“Ay, Lambert,” spoke up Mrs. Meredith, as her daughter looked appealingly to her. “There is something yet to be told, which has won us a strong friend who would never permit thee to suffer. Colonel Brereton, to whom we owe all our present safety, has declared his attachment to Janice, and seeks her—”

“Small doubt he has,” derisively interjected the squire. “I make certain that every rebel, seeing the game drawing to a close, is seeking to feather his nest.”

“Nay, Lambert. ’T is obvious he truly loves our—”

“He may, but it shall not help him to her or her acres,” again interrupted the father. “The impudence of these Whigs passes belief. I hope ye sent him off with a bee in his breeches, Matilda.”

“That we did not,” denied Mrs. Meredith. “Nor wouldst thou, hadst thee been with us to realise all his goodness to us.”

“Well, well,” grumbled the father, resignedly, “I suppose if the times are such that we must accept favours of the rebels, we must not resent their insults. But ’t is bitter to think of our good land come to such a pass that rogues like this Brereton and Bagby should dare obtrude their suits upon us.”

“Oh, dadda,” protested Janice, pleadingly, “’t was truly no insult he intended, but the—the highest—he spoke as if—as if—There was a tender respect in his every word and action, as if I might have been a queen. And I could not—Oh, mommy, please, please, tell it for me!”

“’T is best thou shouldst know at once, Lambert, that Janice favours his wooing.”

“What!” roared the squire, looking incredulously from mother to daughter, and then, as the latter nodded her head, he cried, “I’ll not believe it of ye, Jan, however ye may wag your pate. Wed a bondman! Have ye forgot your old pledge to me? Where ’s your pride, child, that ye should even let the thought occur to ye?”

“But he is well born, dadda, far better than we ourselves, for he told me once that his great-grandfather was King of England,” cried the girl, desperately.

“And ye believed the tale?”

“He would not lie to me, dadda, I am sure."

“Why think ye that?”

“Oh—he never—loving me, he never—can’t you understand? He ’d not deceive me, dadda.”

“Ye ’re the very one he would, ye mean, and small wonder he takes advantage of ye if ye talk as foolishly to him as to me. Have done with all thought of the fellow and of his clankers concerning his birth. Whate’er he was, he is to-day a run-away bondservant and—”

“But, dadda, he is now a lieutenant-colonel and—”

“Of what? Where ’s the honour in being in command of the riff-raff of the land? Dost not know that the most of their officers are made out of tapsters and tinkers and the like? Does it make a tavern idler or a bankrupt the less of either, that a pack of dunghills choose to dub him by another title? Once peace and law are come again, this same scalawag Brereton, or Fownes, or whatever he will then be, must return to my service and fulfil his bond, with a penalty of double time to boot. Proud ye’d be to see your spouse ordered to field or stable work every morning by my overseer!”

“’T would grieve me, dadda,” replied the girl, gently, “because I know how proud he is, and how it would make him suffer; but ’t would not lessen my respect or—or affection for him.”

“What?” snorted Mr. Meredith once more. “Dost mean to tell me that thy heart is in this?”

“I—indeed, dadda,” stammered Janice, colouring, “until— until this moment I thought ’t was only for yours and mommy’s sakes—though at times puzzled by—by I know not what —but now—”

“Well, out with it!” ordered the squire, as his daughter hesitated.

Janice faltered, then hurried to where her father sat, and, throwing herself on her knees, buried her face in his waistcoat. Something she said, but very sharp ears it needed to resolve the muffled sounds into the words, “Oh, dadda, I’m afraid that I care for him more than I thought.”

“What!” for a third time demanded Mr. Meredith. “’T is not possible I hear ye aright, girl. Why, a nine-months ago ye were beseeching me, with your arms about my neck, to fulfil my word to Phil.”

“But that was because I feared Lord Clowes,” eagerly explained Janice, with her face withdrawn from its screen; “and then I did not love—or at least did not dream that I did.”

"Pox me, but I believe Clowes is right when he says the sex are without stability,” growled the squire, irascibly. “Put this fellow out of your thoughts, and remember that ye were promised long since.”

“Oh, dadda, I want to be dutiful, and obedient I promise to be, but you would not have me marry with my heart given elsewhere. You could not be so cruel or—”

“Cease such bibble-babble, Jan. ’T is for your own good I am acting. Not merely is this fellow wholly beneath ye in birth and fortune, besides a rebel to our king, but there are facts about him of which ye have not cognisance that should serve to rouse your pride.”

“What?”

“What say ye to an intimacy twixt this same Brereton and Mrs. Loring?”

With the question the girl was on her feet, yet with down-hung head. “He—I know he does not care for her,” she declared.

“Ye know nothing of the kind,” retorted the squire. “I bear in my pocket a letter from her to him of so private a nature that she would not trust it to a flag, because then it must be read, which Lord Clowes brought to me with the request that I would in some way smuggle it to him.”

“That means little,” said Janice.

“And what say ye to his meeting her in New York, for that is the purpose of her letter to him?”

“How know you that?” cried Janice.

“Because she writ on the outside that the commander at Paulus Hook had been sent orders to pass him to New York.”

“That proves no wrong on his part,” answered the girl, her head proudly erect. “Nor will I believe any of him.” And without further words she went from the room. But though she went to bed, she tossed restless and wakeful till the sun rose.