PEGGY OWEN
AND LIBERTY

BY LUCY
FOSTER
MADISON

AUTHOR OF

“PEGGY OWEN”
“PEGGY OWEN,
PATRIOT”
“PEGGY OWEN
AT YORKTOWN”
ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY

H. J. PECK

The Penn Publishing Company

PHILADELPHIA MCMXIII

COPYRIGHT
1912 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

“WHY, IT’S FATHER!”

“The motto of our father-band
Circled the world in its embrace:
’Twas Liberty throughout the land,
And good to all their brother race.
Long here—within the pilgrim’s bell
Had lingered—though it often pealed—
Those treasured tones, that eke should tell
Where freedom’s proudest scroll was sealed!
Here the dawn of reason broke
On the trampled rights of man;
And a moral era woke
Brightest since the world began.”

Introduction

In “Peggy Owen,” the first book of this series, is related the story of a little Quaker maid who lived across from the State House in Philadelphia, and who, neutral at first on account of her religion, became at length an active patriot. The vicissitudes and annoyances to which she and her mother are subjected by one William Owen, an officer in the English army and a kinsman of her father’s, are also given.

“Peggy Owen, Patriot” tells of Peggy’s winter at Middlebrook, in northern New Jersey, where Washington’s army is camped, her capture by the British and enforced journey to the Carolinas, and final return home.

“Peggy Owen at Yorktown” details how Peggy goes to Virginia to nurse a cousin, who is wounded and a prisoner. The town is captured by the British under Benedict Arnold, the traitor, and Peggy is led to believe that he has induced the desertion of her friend, John Drayton. Drayton’s rescue from execution as a spy and the siege of Yorktown follow.

In the present volume Peggy’s friends rally about her when her Cousin Clifford is in danger of capture. The exciting events of the story show the unsettled state of the country after the surrender of Cornwallis.

Contents

Illustrations

Peggy Owen and Liberty

CHAPTER I

A SMALL DINNER BECOMES A PARTY

“At Delaware’s broad stream, the view begin
Where jutting wharfs, food-freighted boats take in;
Then, with the advancing sun direct your eye
Wide opes the street with firm brick buildings high;
Step, gently rising, over the pebbly way,
And see the shops their tempting wares display.”

—“Description of Philadelphia,” Breitnal, 1729.

It was the first of March, 1782, and over the city of Philadelphia a severe storm was raging. A stiff wind, that lashed the black waters of the Delaware into sullen fury and sent the snow whirling and eddying before it, blew savagely from the northeast. The snow, which had begun falling the day before, had continued all night with such rigorous, relentless persistence that by the noon hour the whole city was sheeted with a soft white blanket that spread abroad a solemn stillness. The rolling wheels of the few vehicles in the streets were noiseless, and the sharp ring and clatter of horses’ hoofs became a dull muffled tramp. High up overhead the snow settled on the church spires, clothing them in a garb of pure cold white, and drifted among the niches of the State House Tower, until the face of the great clock was hidden, and could scarce be told for what it was.

Just across from the State House, in the midst of extensive grounds, stood a large double brick house which was taking its share of the storm. There were piles of snow on the steps and broad piazzas, huge drifts against the fences, and great banks on the terraces of the gardens. The wind lashed the lithe limbs of the leafless trees of the orchard, shrieked through the sooty caverns of the wide chimneys, whistled merrily as it drove the snow against the windows, and rattled the casements with howls of glee as it went whirling by.

Storm-bound the mansion seemed, but its cold and wintry appearance was wholly on the outside, for within its walls there was no lack of cheerfulness and warmth. Great fires blazed on every hearth and puffed clouds of smoke through the broad chimneys, in defiance of the wind which strove there for the mastery. Between the heavy gusts of wind came gleeful bursts of laughter from the sitting-room as though the inmates were too happy to heed the driving storm without, and from the kitchen arose savory odors that spoke of tempting preparations for a bounteous meal, which further enhanced the air of geniality that pervaded the dwelling.

In this latter apartment were two persons: one, a serene faced woman of middle age who was busily engaged at the kneading board; the other, a slender maiden well covered by a huge apron and with sleeves rolled back, stood before a deal table reducing loaf sugar to usable shape. They were Mistress David Owen and her daughter Peggy.

“How it blows!” exclaimed the girl, looking up from her task as a sudden gust of wind flung the outside door wide, and sent the snow scurrying across the sanded floor of the kitchen. “What shall be done anent that door, mother?”

“Tell Sukey to bring a large stick of wood and put against it,” returned the lady. “Then look to the oven, Peggy. ’Tis hard to get a clear fire with so much wind.”

“I do believe that everything is going to be done to a turn in spite of it,” remarked Peggy, a little frown of anxiety which had puckered her brow disappearing as she glanced into the great oven.

“Then as soon as thou hast set the table the dinner will be ready to take up. I make no doubt but that thy friends are hungry. And what a time they seem to be having,” Mrs. Owen added as a merry peal of laughter came from the sitting-room.

“Are they not?” Peggy smiled in sympathy. “I am so glad they came yesterday. I fear me that they could not have reached here to-day in this dreadful storm. ’Tis too bad to have such weather now when ’tis Robert’s first home leave in three years.”

“Methinks that ’twould better come when one is on a furlough than in camp,” remarked her mother gravely. “It must be terrible for the soldiers who lack so much to keep them comfortable.”

“True,” assented the girl soberly. “Would that the war were at an end, and the peace we long for had come in very truth.”

“And so do we all, my daughter. ’Tis weary waiting, but we must of necessity possess ourselves with patience. But there! let not the thought of it sadden thee to-day. ’Tis long since thou hast had thy friends together. Enjoy the present, for we know not what the morrow may bring. And now——”

“Set the table,” added Peggy with a laugh, as she rolled down her sleeves. “And don’t thee dally too long talking with thy friends, Peggy. Thee didn’t add that, mother.”

“As thee knows thy weakness it might be well to bear it in mind,” commented her mother with a smile.

The kitchen was the principal apartment of a long low building attached to the main dwelling by a covered entry way. Through this Peggy went to the hall and on to the dining-room, where she began laying the table. This room adjoined the sitting-room, and, as the bursts of merriment became more and more frequent, the maiden softly opened the connecting door and peeped in.

A tall youth of soldierly bearing, in the uniform of the Light Infantry, his epaulettes denoting the rank of major, leaned carelessly against one end of the mantelpiece. On a settle drawn up before the fire sat two girls. One held a book from which she was reading aloud, and both the other girl and the youth were so intent upon her utterances that they did not notice Peggy’s entrance. They turned toward her eagerly as she spoke:

“Aren’t you getting hungry, or are you too interested to stop for dinner?”

“’Tis quite time thee was coming, Peggy,” cried the girl who had been reading, tossing back her curly locks that, innocent of powder, hung in picturesque confusion about her face. “I really don’t know what we are to do with Betty here. Since she hath taken to young lady ways there’s no living with her.”

“What has thee been doing, Betty Williams?” queried Peggy with mock gravity, turning toward the other girl. Her hair was done high over a cushion, profusely powdered, and she waved a large fan languidly.

“Sally is just talking, Peggy,” she said. “She and Robert seem to find much amusement in some of my remarks. ’Tis just nothing at all. Sally Evans is the one that needs to be dealt with.”

“Sally hath been reading to us from your diary, which you kept for the Social Select Circle while you were in Virginia,” explained Robert Dale. “We were much entertained anent the account of your bashful friend, Fairfax Johnson. Betty amused us by telling just what she would have done with him had she been in your place.”

“I often wished for her,” declared Peggy, smiling. “Poor Fairfax would mantle did a girl but speak to him. And yet he was so brave!”

“He was indeed,” assented the youth with warm admiration. “Sally hath just read where he went to warn the Legislature of Virginia of Tarleton’s coming despite the fact that he was ill. But, Peggy, we could not help but laugh over what he said to you. Read his words, Sally.”

“‘I said,’” read Sally picking up the book again, “‘Friend Fairfax, thee always seems so afraid of us females, yet thee can do this, or aught else that is for thy country. Why is it?’ And he replied:

“‘To defend the country from the invader, to do anything that can be done to thwart the enemy’s designs, is man’s duty. But to face a battery of bright eyes requires courage, Mistress Peggy. And that I have not.’”

“Wasn’t that fine?” cried Betty with animation. “I adore bravery and shyness combined. Methinks ’twould be delightsome to be the woman who could teach him how to face such a battery. Thee didn’t live up to thy opportunity, Peggy. It was thy duty to cure such a fine fellow of bashfulness. It was thy duty, I say. Would I could take him in hand.”

“Would that thee might, Betty,” answered Peggy. “But I fear thee would have thy hands full.”

“I wonder if thee has heard the latest concerning Betty’s doings,” broke in Sally. “Mr. Deering told me of it. Betty was dancing a measure with Colonel Middleton at the last Assembly when Mr. Deering came up to her and said:

“‘I see that you are dancing with a man of war, Miss Betty.’

“‘Yes, sir,’ says Betty, ‘but I think a tender would be preferable.’”

“Oh, Betty! Betty!” gasped Peggy when the merriment that greeted this had subsided. “How did thee dare?”

“La!” spoke Betty, arranging the folds of her paduasoy gown complacently, “when a man is so remiss as to forget the refreshments one must dare.”

“I verily believe that she could manage your friend, Fairfax,” commented Robert Dale laughing. “Would that I might be there to see it.”

“I kept an account of everything he said for Betty’s especial delectation,” said Peggy. “She named him the ‘Silent Knight,’ and it was very appropriate.”

“Now why for my delectation instead of thine, or Sally’s?” queried Betty.

“Why, Sally and I are such workaday damsels that we are not accustomed to handling such problems,” explained Peggy demurely. “Thou art the only belle in the Social Select Circle, and having been instructed in French, I hear very thoroughly, thou hast waxed proficient in matters regarding the sterner sex.”

“Nonsense! Nonsense!” ejaculated Betty. She sat up quickly, and sniffed the air daintily. “Peggy Owen,” she cried, “do I in very truth smell pepper-pot?”

“Thee does. I thought that would please thee. And Sally, too, but Robert——” She glanced at the lad inquiringly.

“Robert is enough of a Quaker to enjoy pepper-pot,” answered he emphatically. “This weather is the very time for it too.”

“We’ll forgive thy desertion of us so long as thee was making pepper-pot,” declared Sally.

“Well, Robert hath not had leave for three years, so mother and I thought we must do what we could to give him a good dinner.”

“Does she mean by that that thee has not eaten in all that time, Robert?” demanded Betty slyly. “In truth ’twould seem so. I do believe that she hath done naught but move betwixt spit and oven this whole morning.”

“I think I shall do justice to all such preparations,” said the youth smiling. “I fancy that the most of us in the army would find little difficulty in keeping Peggy busy all the time.”

“Hark!” exclaimed Sally. “I thought I heard some one call.”

As the youth and the maidens assumed a listening attitude there came a faint “Hallo!” above the tumult of the wind. Sally ran to one of the windows that faced Chestnut Street, and flattened her nose against the glass in the endeavor to see out.

“’Tis a man on horseback,” she cried. “He is stopping in front of the house. Now he is dismounting. Who can it be?”

“Some traveler, I make no doubt,” remarked Peggy, coming to her side. “The storm hath forced him to stop for shelter. Ah! there is Tom ready to take his horse. He should have cleaned the steps, but he waited, I dare say, hoping that it would stop snow—— Why! it’s father——” she broke off abruptly, making a dash for the door. “Tell mother, Sally.”

“David, this is a surprise,” exclaimed Mrs. Owen, coming quickly in answer to Sally’s call, and reaching the sitting-room just as a tall man, booted and spurred, entered it from the hall. “Thee must be almost frozen after being exposed to the fury of such a storm.”

“’Tis good to be out of it, wife,” answered Mr. Owen, greeting her with affection. He stretched his hands luxuriantly toward the fire as Peggy relieved him of his hat and riding coat, and glanced about appreciatively. “How cozy and comfortable it is here! And what a merry party! It puts new heart into a man just to see so much brightness.”

“We are to have pepper-pot, Mr. Owen,” Betty informed him, drawing forward a large easy chair for his use while Sally ran to lay an extra plate on the table. “Doesn’t it smell good?”

“It does indeed, Betty. The odor is delectable enough to whet the appetite to as keen an edge as the wind hath. Robert, ’tis some time since I have seen thee.”

“I am on my first leave in three years, Mr. Owen. Are you on a furlough too, sir?”

“Nay, lad; I took one just after Yorktown, when I brought Peggy home from Virginia. General Washington, who, as thee doubtless knows, is still here in Philadelphia perfecting plans with Congress for next summer’s campaign, hath sent for me to confer with him regarding the best means of putting down this illicit trade which hath sprung up of late. I do not know how long the conference will last, but it comes very pleasantly just now, as it enables me to have the comforts of home during this severe weather.”

“When did you leave the Highlands, sir?”

“Four days since. The army had begun to hope that winter was over, as the ice was beginning to come down the Hudson. This storm hath dashed our hopes of an early spring.”

“And must thee return there, David?” asked Mistress Owen.

“No; I am to go to Lancaster. This trade seems to be flourishing among the British prisoners stationed there. Congress had granted permission to England to keep them in supplies, and it seems that advantage is taken of this fact to include a great many contraband goods. These the prisoners, or their wives, are selling to the citizens of Lancaster and surrounding country. To such an extent hath the trade grown that it threatens to ruin the merchants of the place, who cannot compete with the prices asked. I am to look into the matter, and to stop the importation of such goods, if possible.”

“’Tis openly talked that England will defer coming to terms of peace because she hopes to conquer us by this same trade,” observed Robert Dale gravely.

“And is like to succeed if it cannot be put down,” commented David Owen shaking his head. “All along the coast the British cruisers patrol to capture our merchantmen, and to obstruct our commerce. The Delaware is watched, our coasts are watched that we may not get goods elsewhere, or have any market for our produce. Unable to get what they want, our own people buy where they can without realizing the harm. ’Tis estimated from forty to fifty thousand pounds have been drawn by this means into New York in the past few months. If this continues the enemy will soon be possessed of all the hard money that hath come into the country through the French, and without money we can do naught. Our resources and industries have been ruined by the long war, and this latest scheme of England bids fair to undo what hath been accomplished by force of arms.”

“And after Yorktown every one thought that of course peace was just a matter of a few months. That it would be declared at once,” sighed Sally. “Oh, dear! It makes me sad to think the war is not over yet!”

“And I have been the marplot to spoil this merry company,” said Mr. Owen contritely. “Let’s declare a truce to the matter for the time being, and discuss that pepper-pot. Is’t ready, lass?”

“Yes, father,” answered Peggy rising. “And there is a good dinner beside. We will enjoy it the more for having thee with us.”

“Thee must be hungry, David,” observed Mistress Owen rising also. “The dinner is ready to put on the table, so thee is just in time. I——”

She stopped abruptly as high above the noise of the wind the brass knocker sounded.

“More company,” exclaimed Betty gleefully as Peggy started for the hall. “Peggy, thy small dinner bids fair to become a party.”

CHAPTER II

PEGGY IS SURPRISED

“The state that strives for liberty, though foiled
And forced to abandon what she bravely sought,
Deserves at least applause for her attempt,
And pity for her loss. But that’s a cause
Not often unsuccessful.”

—“The Task,” Cowper.

Peggy was nearly blinded by the sudden rush of snow and wind that followed the opening of the great front door, and so for the moment did not recognize the two, a man and a woman, who stood there on the steps.

“Will ye enter, friends?” she asked courteously. “’Tis a fearful storm!”

“That it is, Peggy. We are mighty glad to reach shelter. Come, Fairfax! I told you that we should be welcome.”

“Nurse Johnson,” shrilled the girl in delight. “Why, come right in. Welcome? Of course thee is welcome. And thou also, Friend Fairfax. Why, we were speaking of thee but now. Mother, ’tis Friend Nurse, from Virginia.”

“Come in, Friend Johnson,” spoke Mrs. Owen warmly, coming in haste from the sitting-room. “Thee must be cold. ’Tis dreadful weather. Let me help thee with thy wraps.”

“I was getting pretty cold,” acknowledged Nurse Johnson. “We were on our way to the Jerseys, where my sister hath taken a farm. We thought to get to Burlington to-night, but the storm made traveling so difficult that I told Fairfax that I made no doubt you would put us up until ’twas over.”

“’Twill give us great pleasure, Friend Nurse—I should say, Friend Johnson,” answered Mistress Owen graciously. “We have heard Peggy talk of thee so much that we have fallen into her way of speaking of thee.”

“Continue so to call me, Mrs. Owen. I like it,” declared Nurse Johnson heartily.

“Peggy, see thou to the dishing up of the dinner, while I attend our friends,” spoke her mother. “We were just on the point of taking it up when ye came,” she explained. “Hot pepper-pot will warm ye better than anything.”

“Isn’t that our Silent Knight?” queried Betty, in a shrill whisper as Peggy was passing through the room.

“Yes, Betty. Shall I place him by thee at table?”

“See how she is priming for conquest,” remarked Sally as Betty, nodding acquiescence, began unconsciously to smooth her hair. “She must tell us every word he says; must she not, Robert?”

“Of a verity,” smiled the young man, his amusement plainly visible.

“I think thee has met with every one, Friend Nurse,” observed Mrs. Owen entering at this moment with the new arrivals. “David ye know, of course. Sally and Betty ye met last year. Robert? No; ye do not know him. Robert Dale, of the army, Nurse Johnson. And this is Fairfax, her son, Robert. Ye should be good friends, as ye have both fought for the country.”

“Thou hast forgot to give Robert his rank, Lowry,” spoke Mr. Owen as the young men shook hands. “Friend Johnson, have this chair. Thou wilt find it easy and quite comfortable.”

“Thy pardon, Robert,” exclaimed Mrs. Owen. “I do not always remember that thou art Major Dale.”

“I do not always remember it myself, madam,” returned the youth modestly. “And I wish to be Robert to you always.”

“How these children grow!” exclaimed Nurse Johnson sinking into the easy chair with a sigh of content. “It hardly seems possible that Fairfax is more than a boy; yet here he is a captain in the army.”

“A captain?” ejaculated Peggy in surprise.

“Yes; it does seem strange, doesn’t it? You see he served with the militia in Virginia during the last few years, and I presume would have stayed with it; but his uncle, my sister’s husband, persuaded him to enlist with the regular army. He said that if he would enroll himself among the New Jersey troops he would get him a commission as captain, which he did. That is one of the reasons we are going to New Jersey.”

“Thou wilt find it very comfortable here on the settle, Captain Johnson,” spoke Betty sweetly, drawing her skirts aside with such an unmistakable gesture that Fairfax, flushing hotly, was obliged to seat himself beside her.

Peggy’s glance met Sally’s with quick understanding.

“I will help thee, Peggy,” said Sally, rising. “Nay; we do not need thee, Mrs. Owen. Didst ever see Betty’s equal?” she questioned as they reached the kitchen.

Peggy laughed.

“Sally, she will never make him talk in the world,” she declared. “Thou and I will have a good laugh at her when ’tis over. ’Twill give a fine chance to tease.”

“’Tis just like a party,” cried Betty as, a little later, they were gathered about the table. “’Tis charming to meet old friends! And everybody is here save thy cousins, Clifford and Harriet, Peggy. Oh, yes! and Captain Drayton.”

“Captain Drayton is to go to Lancaster too, I understand,” remarked Mr. Owen. “Did thee know, lass?”

“No, father. I thought he was still with General Greene. He returned to him after Yorktown.”

“Yes, I know. This is but a recent arrangement. I shall be glad to have him at Lancaster. He is good help in a matter of the nature we shall find there.”

“And the cousins?” inquired Nurse Johnson. “Did they go to New York from Yorktown? I have wondered anent it.”

“Harriet went with Cousin William to New York; but Clifford was sent somewhere into the interior with the men. Thee remembers that all the majors and captains accompanied the men, to look after their welfare and to maintain discipline,” explained Peggy.

“I rather liked Clifford,” remarked the nurse. “He certainly earned our gratitude, Peggy, by protecting us when the British came to Williamsburgh. Did Peggy tell you about it, Mrs. Owen?”

“Yes; and so much else concerning the lad that I find myself quite anxious to see him,” answered Mrs. Owen. “Peggy declares that he should have been her brother instead of Harriet’s. He looks so much like David.”

“I think I agree with her. The resemblance is remarkable. But why did he go under the name of Captain Williams? I never did understand it.”

“’Twas because he went into the army without his father’s permission,” Peggy told her. “He feared that if he came to America under his own name Cousin William might use his influence to have him returned to England. ’Tis generally known, however, that he is Colonel William Owen’s son, though he is called Captain Williams.”

“Well, I hope the lad is well treated wherever he may be,” said the nurse musingly. “I should not like harm to befall him; he was so considerate of us. What is the outlook for another summer, Mr. Owen?”

“The general is preparing for another campaign, Friend Johnson. The preparations are proceeding slowly, however, owing to the exhaustion of the country. Then, too, every state seems afraid of bearing more than its share of the war. There is much disinclination to vigorous exertion. His Excellency is pleading and entreating that the people may not let the late success of our arms render them insensible to the danger we still face. There is talk of a new commander for the British, I hear. Meantime, our coasts are harassed by the enemy, and our commerce is all but stopped. Could the general have followed out his wish, and laid siege to Charlestown after the success at Yorktown, we need not have prepared for another campaign.”

And so the talk went on. It was never in the character and traditions of England to treat with an enemy in the hour of disaster. In its history treaties had, from time immemorial, followed upon victory, never upon defeat. It was therefore necessary as well as politic to grasp the full fruits of the brilliant success at Yorktown, and Washington, with the vigor which was one of the most striking traits of his well balanced nature, wished to carry its consequences to their utmost limit. But the French fleet under De Grasse refused to co-operate longer, and the general was forced to send his army back to the Hudson while he began preparations for another campaign. Meantime, the illicit trade assumed proportions that threatened to undo everything that had been gained by force of arms.

All these things were discussed, and Nurse Johnson gave them the latest news of the army in the South: General Greene had completely invested Charlestown, she said. General Wayne had been sent to Georgia and now lay before Savannah. The capitulation of the two places seemed but a question of time. The French still lay about Williamsburgh, having chosen that place for their winter quarters. It was reported that they would go north with the opening of spring. In turn, Mr. Owen told of the numerous raids that had been made, principally by refugees along the coast, the capture of the merchantmen, and the war at sea. Under cover of the conversation of their elders, Peggy was amused to see that Betty was talking animatedly to Fairfax Johnson. Presently, the dinner was finished, and she found herself alone in the dining-room with her girl friends.

“Peggy, thee maligned Captain Johnson,” declared Betty closing the door of the sitting-room. “Get me a towel, Sally. We will both wipe the dishes.” She polished a plate vigorously as she continued: “I found him most entertaining. He and his mother are going to northern New Jersey, where his aunt and uncle have a large farm. Plantation, he calls it. They grew very tired of being with the military so much at Williamsburgh, though no one could desire better troops than the allies. They intend to make their home in New Jersey if they like it. His aunt hath but one son, who is with the military on Tom’s River.”

Peggy gazed at her with an expression of the most intense astonishment.

“He told thee all that, Betty?” she exclaimed. “Why, thee is wonderful! In all the six or seven months that I knew him I never heard him say so much.”

“He needs just a little encouragement,” said Betty complacently. “He is really quite interesting. I enjoyed the conversation greatly. Sally Evans, whatever is the matter?”

“Oh! oh!” screamed Sally. “She enjoyed the conversation greatly. I should think she would. Why, she did all the talking. Robert and I commented upon it. Oh, Betty! Betty!”

“I did not do all the talking,” retorted Betty indignantly. “How could I have learned all the things I have said if I did the talking?”

“The conversation went like this, Peggy,” giggled Sally: “‘Is the farm a large one that thy aunt hath taken, Friend Fairfax?’ ‘Yes,’ answers he. Then Betty with a smile: ‘I believe Southerners call a farm a plantation, do they not?’ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Is being with the military so much the reason thou and thy mother left Williamsburgh?’ ‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘It really must be tiresome,’ goes on Betty, ‘though it hath been said that the French are exceedingly well behaved troops. Does thee not think so, Friend Fairfax?’ ‘Yes,’ he said once more. And that is the way the whole conversation went. I don’t believe the poor fellow said anything else but that one word, yes.”

“He did,” declared Betty with heat. “I remember quite distinctly that once he said, ’It doth indeed;’ and—and—oh! lots of other things. Ye are both just as mean as can be. And he did listen most attentively. I really enjoyed the talk, as I said.”

“I’ll warrant thee did,” laughed Peggy while Sally was convulsed with mirth. “I think thee did well, Betty. Thou art to be congratulated.”

“There, Sally Evans,” cried Betty. “I knew that Peggy would think about it in the right way.”

“Listen to her,” sniffed Sally. “Didst ever hear the like? Betty,” she ejaculated suddenly, “thee should not have helped with the dishes in such a gown. Thee has got a spot on it. This is no place for a belle. Suppose that thee goes back into the sitting-room now, and find out some more of Master Fairfax’s plans.”

“So thee can have a chance to talk me over with Peggy?” questioned Betty scornfully. “I don’t see any spot.”

“Here it is,” answered Sally, lifting a fold of the pink paduasoy on which a small spot showed darkly. “It may be just water, which will not stain. I should not like anything to happen to that gown. Thee looks so charming in it.”

“Thank thee, Sally,” said Betty examining the spot critically, quite mollified by Sally’s compliment. “I think ’twill be all right when ’tis dry. It might be as well, though, to go back to the sitting-room. I dare say they are wondering what hath become of us. Thee will come too, will thee not?”

“Yes, go; both of you,” said Peggy, picking up the dish-pan, and starting for the kitchen. “I will come too in a few moments. No, Sally, thee cannot help in the kitchen. Sukey and I will finish the pots and pans. It won’t take long. And thee needs to be there to keep Betty in order,” she ended merrily.

“Well, if thee won’t be long,” agreed Sally reluctantly.

Both girls passed into the sitting-room, while Peggy proceeded to the kitchen. As has been said, the kitchen was attached to the main dwelling by a covered entry way. On one side of this was a door leading out to the west terrace, which, the girl noticed, was partly open.

“No wonder ’tis hard to keep the kitchen warm with that door open,” she cried. “That must be some of Tom’s carelessness. I must speak to him.”

She put down the dish-pan on the wash bench, and went to the door to close it. As it resisted her efforts to shut she stepped outside to see what the trouble was. A startled ejaculation left her lips as the form of a man issued from behind it.

“What does thee wish, friend?” demanded Peggy sternly. “Why does thee not come to the door like an honest man instead of sneaking behind it? I shall call my father.”

“Don’t, Peggy,” came in low tones from the man. “I was watching for you. Will you shelter an escaping prisoner, my cousin?”

“Clifford!” she cried in amazement. “Oh, Clifford!”

CHAPTER III

ON THE HORNS OF A DILEMMA

“Nature imprints upon whate’er we see,
That has a heart and life in it, ‘Be free.’”

—Cowper.

“Yes, ’tis Clifford,” he said in a low tone. “I have escaped from Lancaster, where I was a prisoner, and am trying to reach New York. I should not have troubled you, Peggy, but the storm is so severe that I can go no further. But, my cousin, it may be of risk to shelter me.”

“Oh,” she cried clasping her hands in dismay. “What shall I do? What shall I do? Why, Clifford, both father and Robert Dale are here. They are of the army, and may deem it their duty to give thee up.”

“I see,” he said with some bitterness. “I should not have troubled you, but I thought—— It did seem for the sake of our kinship that you would give me shelter at least for the night.”

“Stop!” she cried, laying a detaining hand on his arm as he turned to go. “Thee is so hasty, Clifford. Of course I will help thee, but I must think how to do it. As I said, father and Major Dale are here; and Fairfax Johnson too. Of Virginia, thee remembers? Remain here for a moment, my cousin. I will send Sukey out of the kitchen, and then thee shall come in. ’Tis cold out here.”

“After all,” he said, his lips meeting in the straight line of determination that she remembered so well, “I do wrong to ask aught of you. There may be—nay, there is, risk in harboring me, Peggy. I must not get you into trouble. Is there not a barn where I could abide for the night?”

“Thee would freeze in the barn to-night,” she cried. It had stopped snowing, but the wind had increased in violence, and it was growing colder. It would be bitter by night, the girl reflected, noticing the fact in a perfunctory manner. “I could not bear to think of thee there, my cousin. Thee is cold now. Thy lips are blue, and thou art shaking. Wait for a moment. Thee must.”

She pushed him back behind the door, then catching up the dish-pan entered the kitchen hurriedly. Sukey, the black servant, was its only inmate.

“Sukey,” said Peggy trying to speak naturally, “has thee seen to the beds yet? They should be well warmed for so cold a night as this will be. And the fires? Is there wood in plenty? I will set the kitchen in order if thee will look well to the up-stairs.”

“Hit am done looked aftah,” said Sukey drawing closer to the fire. “Eberyt’ing’s all right, Miss Peggy. Now yer kin jest go right erlong ter yer fren’s, and let ole Sukey red up.”

“Thee must take more wood up-stairs,” spoke the girl desperately. “There must be an abundance, Sukey. Does thee hear?”

“Yes’m; I heahs, Miss Peggy,” answered the black rising, and giving her young mistress a keen glance. “I heahs, an’ I’se gwine. Dem wood boxes am full, ebery one of dem, but I’se gwine. Ef yer want ter talk secrets yer might hab tole ole Sukey widouten makin’ a ’scuse ter git rid ob hur.”

“Oh, Sukey, forgive me,” cried Peggy laughing in spite of her anxiety to get rid of the black. “Thee is the dearest thing that ever was. I do want the kitchen a little while. Go up to my room, and thee will find a string of yellow beads on the chest of drawers. Thee may have them, Sukey, if thee will stay up there for a little while.”

“Yes’m,” answered Sukey, preparing to take her departure. “I don’t ’prove nohow de way you all takes on wid Miss Sally,” she grumbled as she left the room.

Peggy sped to the entry as soon as the black had left it. “Come, Cousin Clifford,” she called, and Clifford Owen stepped forth. “Sukey hath gone up-stairs, and thee can come in while I think what to do. Come!”

She led the way to the kitchen as she spoke, and her cousin followed her with visible reluctance. He brightened perceptibly at sight of the great fire of hickory logs that blazed in the fireplace.

“Sit here, my cousin,” said Peggy placing a chair in the corner between the dresser and the wall where the light was shaded. “Keep thy beaver on thy head as the Friends do, then if any one should come in it will seem as though thou wert but a passer-by asking for something to warm thee.”

“’Fore George, but that smells good,” ejaculated Clifford as the girl placed a bowl of smoking hot pepper-pot before him. “What is it, Peggy?”

“’Tis pepper-pot, Clifford. ’Tis made nowhere else in the states but here in Philadelphia. It hath dumplings in it, which pleases most boys. And now let me think while thee is getting warm.”

Clifford regarded her anxiously for a moment, then the seductive aroma of the pepper-pot overcame whatever of uneasiness that he may have felt, and he fell to with a relish. Meantime Peggy’s brows were puckered in thought. What should she do with him? she asked herself in perplexity. The temper of the people was such that it would not easily brook any indulgence to the enemy. The penalty for harboring, or aiding and abetting an escaping prisoner was fine, imprisonment, and sometimes even public whipping. Should her father, pure patriot though he was, be suspected of giving aid to one of the British prisoners it would go hard with him. Not even his previous good record would save him from the punishment. And so the girl found herself confronted with a serious problem. She could not let her cousin go forth in such weather, and yet her father must not be implicated in his escape. The house was full. Where could the lad stay?

At this moment her eye fell upon a trap-door in the ceiling. There had been until of late a ladder leading up to it, but two of the rounds had been broken and it had been removed to the carpenter’s shop. The door opened into an airy apartment extending the whole length of the kitchen, which was used for drying herbs which were cultivated in ample quantities in the garden. Indeed the Owen house was the only place in the city at the time where herbs could be had, and it was a pleasure to Peggy and her mother to be able to answer the demand for them. Could Clifford but climb up there, she reflected, he would be safe for a time.

“Can thee climb, my cousin?” she cried eagerly. “Because if thee can thee can stay up in the kitchen chamber.”

“Is it warm?” asked the youth, casting a longing glance at the fire.

“Of a verity. It could not be otherwise, being above the kitchen. Thee must not linger, Clifford. Some one is apt to come in at any moment. See the door up there? Well, thee will have to get on the table and I will hand thee a chair. Standing on that thee must try to push the door open, and then draw thyself up into the room above. With the door closed thou wilt be safe from prying eyes, yet thou wilt be able to hear all that goes on below.”

“That is fine, Peggy,” commented the youth, his eyes lighting up. “You are a cousin worth having, and have thought to some purpose.”

He vaulted lightly upon the table as he spoke, and taking the chair that Peggy handed him placed it firmly upon the table, mounting thereupon. With a creek that set the girl’s heart to beating the trap-door was swung open, and the youth drew himself slowly into the chamber above.

“I say,” he said, peering down at Peggy, laughingly, “this is jolly. It’s as warm as toast and there is a fur robe up here. If I don’t answer you at any time you will know, my cousin, that I have gone to sleep.”

“CLOSE THE DOOR.”

“Close the door, Clifford,” exclaimed Peggy. “I shall be uneasy until thou art hidden.”

“Don’t be that, little cousin,” he said almost gaily. “I feel like another man already. I shall do royally, and I doubt if any one would think of looking up here for an escaped Englishman.”

He closed the door as he finished speaking, and heaving a sigh of relief Peggy lifted the chair from the table and set it against the wall. She had scarcely resumed her task of washing the pots and pans when the door opened and Sally entered. She glanced about expectantly.

“I thought I heard thee talking to some one,” she remarked. “Isn’t thee ever going to get through with those pots and pans, Peggy? Let me help thee. We want thee to come in with us.”

“Now you all jest go right erlong,” spoke Sukey, who had followed Sally into the room. “Yer ma, she come up and she say, ‘Tell Miss Peggy dat she am wanted in de sittin’-room right now.’ Jest go right erlong, chile. Sukey’ll finish up heah.”

“All right, Sukey.” Peggy relinquished the task to the black, and started for the door, saying in a tone that Clifford might hear: “I will be out presently to see how thee gets along.”

“Ef I doan git erlong any fas’er dan you all dese dishes gwine ter be heah twel Chrismus,” grumbled the darkey. “An’ some-body’s muss’d my floah.”

Peggy gave a startled glance at the sand, where telltale traces of her cousin’s presence were plainly in evidence. From the entry door to the kitchen were tracks of snow, and on the sand in the kitchen there were wet spots where the snow had melted. Clearly they must be obliterated.

“I’ll fix the floor, Sukey,” she said, beginning to brush up the wet sand. “Sally, bring some dry sand from the box, please, and we will have this fixed in a jiffy. Thee must not expect thy floor to keep just so, Sukey, when there is so much company.”

Presently, the floor resanded and the entry way swept, the two girls started for the sitting-room. Peggy was thoughtful and Sally too, for the nonce, was silent.

“Clifford will be all right where he is for a short time,” mused Peggy. “If he has to stay there for any length of time, though, ’twill be most uncomfortable. I wonder if it would not be best to consult with mother? Perchance she could think of some way out of the difficulty.”

She brightened at the thought, and just then Sally opened the door of the sitting-room. Mr. Owen was in his great easy chair with his wife, and Mrs. Johnson sitting near, interested listeners to some narrative. The young people had withdrawn to the far side of the apartment and formed a little group by themselves, of which Betty was the center. She was giving an animated account of a recent assembly, and the youths were so absorbed in the recital that they did not hear the two girls approach. A smile came to Peggy’s lips.

“Why, Betty is in truth a belle, Sally,” she whispered. “How pretty she hath grown! That gown doth indeed become her as thee said. It may be that we tease her too much, for she is of a certainty entertaining. I have never seen Fairfax so interested.”

Betty caught sight of them before Sally could reply.

“Have ye come at last?” she cried. “I thought thee was never coming, Peggy. It is not treating us right to leave us alone so long. And what does thee think? Sally talks of going home. Has she told thee?”

“Oh, Sally!” uttered Peggy reproachfully. “Thee can’t mean it? Why, mother and I expect all of you to stay the night. Beside, ’tis too cold for thee to go out.”

“The very thing I told her,” exclaimed Betty. “And she said,” and a note of indignation quavered into Betty’s voice, “that if it were warm enough to need a fan it was warm enough to go out.”

“But, Betty, why do you use a fan in such weather?” questioned Robert Dale laughing. “Here it is so cold that we can scarce keep warm, and Mistress Owen hath called Sukey twice to attend the fire. Yet there you sit and wave that fan. I have wished to ask you about it all day.”

“Why, Robert, does thee not know that a fan is to a woman what a gun is to a soldier—a weapon of offense and of defense?” explained Betty airily. “When one is conversing should a pause occur in the conversation one may offset any embarrassment by fanning slowly. So!” She plied the fan to and fro as she explained.

“And do you need it often, Betty?” he asked slyly.

“Now that is mean, Robert. I would not have thought it of thee,” pouted Betty. “I shall tell no more secrets anent the use of the fan, sir. Thee would not insinuate anything so ungallant, would thee, Captain Johnson?”

“No,” answered the youth blushing deeply at being so appealed to, and speaking with difficulty. “I would not, Mistress Betty. You—you mean—there would be no pause, would there?” He stopped short as a burst of merriment in which even Betty joined broke from the others. “What did I say?” he asked in alarm. “What is it?”

At this moment there came the sound of many feet in the hallway, and Sukey’s voice was heard protesting loudly:

“Dar ain’t nobody heah but de fambly, Mistah Officah. De fambly and der company. ’Tain’t no mannah ob use disturbin’ dem. Der ain’t no Britisher ’roun’ heah nohow.”

“Why, what does this mean?” ejaculated Mr. Owen, rising and going to the door. “What is the matter, Sukey?” he asked as he threw it open.

CHAPTER IV

THE SEARCH

“Like bloodhounds now they search me out,—
Hark, to the whistle and the shout!
If farther through the wilds I go,
I only fall upon the foe;
I’ll couch me here till evening gray,
Then darkling try my dangerous way.”

—Sir Walter Scott.

Sukey was standing before the entrance valiantly trying to keep the half dozen men who stood in the hall from entering. She turned toward her master with relief.

“Dese men dey sayin’ dat dere’s a Bristisher ’roun’ heah,” she explained. “Dey would come in. I dun my bes’ ter keep dem from ’sturbin’ yer.”

“That is all right, Sukey,” he said kindly. “Perhaps these friends have good reason for coming.”

“That we have, Mr. Owen,” cried one stepping forward. “I am William Will, Sheriff of the city and county of Philadelphia. With me is Mr. Ledie, Commissioner of Prisoners. We are on the track of some prisoners who have escaped from Lancaster. One hath been traced to this house. We have reason to believe that he is in hiding somewhere about the premises. I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but ’tis my duty to make a thorough search of the dwelling.”

“Thou art quite welcome to make the search, Friend Will,” returned Mr. Owen courteously. “I think thee will find thyself mistaken about any one being in hiding here unless he hath concealed himself in the barn. I have neither seen nor heard anything of any one.”

“Then with your permission we will begin right away,” said the sheriff. “Do two of you take the barns and outbuildings; two others the gardens and orchard, while Mr. Ledie and I will make a thorough investigation of the house. We will begin with this room, Mr. Ledie,” he continued stepping inside the sitting-room. “Your pardon, ladies. Knowing that every well affected inhabitant of the county will cheerfully assist in the apprehension of an escaped prisoner my presence, I trust, will be excused. These seem to be good American citizens, Mr. Owen,” with a keen glance about that embraced every member of the company. “Your wife and daughter I know by sight, and these two young ladies also. This gentleman’s uniform speaks for itself, and this young man is without doubt an American.”

“Yes; he hath served with the militia in Virginia against the enemy, and hath recently obtained a captain’s commission in the regular troops of New Jersey,” explained David Owen. “He is Captain Johnson, who with his mother will stop with us until after the storm hath passed.”

“I see,” remarked the sheriff, passing into the dining-room. “Everything seems to be all right in these two rooms, Mr. Ledie. Now,” addressing the company collectively, “there is one thing more: Does each one of you affirm that you have not seen any one who might be an escaped prisoner?”

Peggy’s heart beat so wildly at this that she feared it could be heard. She had risen at the sheriff’s entrance, and stood with pale face waiting the discovery that she was afraid was imminent. She said nothing as the sheriff asked his question. The others had spoken quickly disclaiming any knowledge of such person, and she hoped the fact that she had made no reply would escape notice. To her relief Sally spoke up:

“Will thee let us see him if thee finds him, Friend Will? Especially if he be good looking.”

“Oh, yes, Friend Will,” broke in Betty. “Do let us have a look at him if thee catches him.”

“Now, now,” protested the officer, “I’m not going to grant any indulgences to further an Englishman’s enjoyment. I know your sex, Miss Sally. If the fellow is good looking I’ll have all of you girls on my back to let him off. And the temper of the people won’t permit such things at present. Well, there is nothing to be gained here. We will take the up-stairs now.”

“I think I shall accompany you,” spoke Mr. Owen. “I like not to think of any prowlers about. I wonder where he escaped from, and if there is but one?”

“Suppose we go too,” said Robert Dale, addressing Fairfax. “We might be of assistance to the sheriff.”

The three left the room, and the women and the girls drew close together while overhead, in every room, and without in the barn and other buildings the search was prosecuted. Nurse Johnson shivered as the sounds of the hunt came to them.

“A man hunt is always such a dreadful thing,” she remarked. “And whether it be for a slave or an enemy, I find my sympathy going with the hunted. I hope they won’t find this poor fellow. Yet I have no love for the English.”

“Thee is like the rest of us,” replied Mistress Owen. “A good hater of the enemy in the aggregate, but a commiserator of one who happens to be in a plight. Peggy, how restless thee is!”

“I am, mother,” answered Peggy rising, and going to the window. “This hath upset me.”

“It is in truth a most unpleasant ending to an otherwise pleasant day,” commented her mother.

Peggy made no further remark, but wandered restlessly about, finally going into the dining-room. She was filled with apprehension lest at any moment Clifford’s hiding-place should be discovered. He must not stay, she reflected. It was no longer safe to conceal him anywhere on the premises. But where could he go? At this point in her musings she felt an arm slip about her waist, and turned to find Sally Evans beside her.

“And who is it, Peggy?” whispered Sally. “I know that ’tis some one thee knows, else thee would not have helped him.”

“Oh, Sally! how did thee know that ’twas I who helped any one?” asked Peggy alarmed. “Did I show it so plainly? Does thee think the sheriff could tell that I knew aught?”

“Nay,” Sally whispered back. “I knew because I know thee so well. Thee remembers I thought I heard thee talking with some one in the kitchen. Who is it?”

“Clifford,” whispered Peggy.

“Harriet’s brother?” asked Sally, after a little gasp of surprise.

“Yes; he hath escaped from Lancaster, and is trying to get to New York. I could not do otherwise than help him, Sally. He would not have come here had not the storm rendered traveling difficult. But father must not know. ’Twould go hard with him were it known that he assisted Clifford, if he should assist him. He might not do it. Thee knows how he feels about such things. He might deem it right to give Clifford up even though he be our cousin. I want father to do right, Sally, but I don’t want Clifford given up, either.”

“Why, of course thee doesn’t,” answered Sally briskly. “And of course, Peggy, ’tis quite right for thy father to feel as he does. I dare say Robert and Fairfax feel the same toward any who is an enemy to the country. ’Tis right for them, but we females are made of softer stuff. Don’t worry, but let thy cousin go home with me. Mother and I will be glad to conceal him until the weather permits him to continue his journey.”

“Oh, Sally! does thee mean that?” cried Peggy breathlessly.

“I do, Peggy. Thee would be surprised to know how many of the British we have helped during the war. As a whole I dislike them intensely,” and Sally drew her lips together vindictively. “When there is a battle I rejoice when we defeat them; but when any of them are in trouble, or danger, I never can think of them only as mothers’ sons, and so, and so——”

Peggy leaned forward and kissed her.

“I think thee is the dearest girl in the world, Sally Evans,” she said. “Does thee remember that there is a penalty for harboring escaping prisoners?”

“Well, yes; but friendship would not be worth much if it were not willing to incur some risk,” answered her friend sagely. “Where is he?”

“In the chamber above the kitchen, Sally. Let’s go out there. I am consumed with anxiety lest he be discovered.”

The sheriff, followed by his associate Mr. Ledie, David Owen, Robert and Fairfax, having made the rounds of the house came into the entry way just as Sally and Peggy entered it. The men who had been detailed to make the search of the outbuildings and grounds joined them a few moments later.

“He stood just here,” observed the sheriff indicating the place behind the door. “You can see his tracks. What puzzles me is the fact that there are no further traces. He did not go away, as there are no tracks leading away from this place. Neither are there any inside, and the sand on the kitchen floor hath not been disturbed save by the darkey.”

“Hast thou searched the wash-house and the servants’ quarters?” queried Mr. Owen anxiously. “They are all in this building.”

“We have looked through it thoroughly,” declared the sheriff emphatically. “And the barn, and all other buildings. ’Tis most mysterious. He hath disappeared as unaccountably as though whisked out of sight on a witch’s broom. Well, boys, scatter about the grounds again, and see if you can’t find some trace. Some one in the house hath aided in the escape,” he said, turning again to Mr. Owen as the men obeyed his order.

“I do not see who could have done so,” returned David Owen with a troubled look. “There is not one of the household who is not a consistent Whig, and there hath been no opportunity for anything of the sort. When we have not been together in the sitting-room we have been at the table. The girls washed the dishes in the dining-room, but joined us immediately afterward. From the laughter that accompanied the act I would be willing to wager that no British prisoner had any share in it.”

Peggy did not see the quick glance that passed between Robert Dale and Fairfax Johnson. She had been absent from the room fully a half hour longer than the other girls, but evidently her father had not noticed the fact. Fairfax Johnson spoke abruptly:

“Suppose we take a look about the grounds, Major Dale.”

“Your pardon, gentlemen,” interposed Sheriff Will. “I cannot allow you to go unless one of my men accompanies you. You see all of you are more or less under suspicion until the matter is cleared up, and I prefer that you remain in sight.”

“Just as you say, sir,” replied the youth quickly. “I thought only to be of service.”

“I see not where the fellow could have gone,” mused David Owen, whose distress was evident. “Would that he might be found, if only to release us from suspicion.”

“Well, have you found anything?” demanded the sheriff as his men reëntered the dwelling. “Come into the kitchen, boys. It grows cold.”

“And dark, Mr. Will,” announced one of the men. “Too dark to see much. We shall have to give up for the night.”

“I fear so,” answered the sheriff grumblingly. His manner showed that he was far from satisfied with the result of the search. The house had been gone through thoroughly, and every place that could afford a possible hiding-place ransacked. David Owen and the two youths were of the army. The family was noted for its patriotism, and had offered no objection to the search, yet he showed that he was reluctant to give up. He stood meditatively before the fire, his hands clasped behind him, his glance roving about the room. Suddenly he started forward, and an excited “Ah!” escaped him.

Peggy turned pale, for his eye was resting upon the trap-door. Her father’s glance followed the sheriff’s.

“If any went through that door, Friend Will,” he said casually, “’twas one who is much younger than either of us. In truth, none but a slender youth could draw himself through that door.”

“True,” answered the officer gazing at the door thoughtfully. “True, Mr. Owen, yet am I minded to explore it. I like not to leave any place unsearched. It may be that our man is young, and that that is the very place where he lies concealed. Is there a ladder?”

“There was one, but ’tis at the carpenter’s shop to be mended,” answered Mr. Owen. He looked vaguely about the kitchen. “I see not how thee is to get up,” he said.

“I think I could get up there.” Fairfax Johnson sprang lightly upon the table as he spoke. “Will some one hand me a chair?”

“That’s the idea,” cried the sheriff approvingly. “Still, young man, before you undertake this you must understand that there is risk attending it. You will be completely at the mercy of any one who happens to be up there. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Well, some one must go,” replied Fairfax. “One of your men would take the risk in case I don’t. Won’t he?”

“Yes; but—— Well, go on.” A chair was passed up to him, and the youth mounting it pushed the trap-door back slowly.

Peggy’s hand involuntarily went to her heart, and she trembled so that she could scarcely stand. The watchers grew very still as Fairfax Johnson stood for a moment before swinging himself up through the opening. Sally gave a little gasp as he disappeared into the darkness.

“What if—if he should shoot?” she murmured unconsciously speaking aloud.

“’Tis what I’m afraid of,” answered Sheriff Will. “What is it?” he cried, springing upon the table and mounting the chair in a vain effort to see what was taking place in the attic. “Have you found him?” For an unmistakable chuckle came from overhead. It sounded to Peggy as though it were her cousin’s voice. She told herself that she was mistaken, however, when Fairfax Johnson appeared at the opening.

“It’s a rug,” he called, a broad smile illuminating his countenance. “When I stumbled over it I thought it was a bear. I suppose Miss Peggy hath put it up here anent her housekeeping time. Shall I throw it down?”

“No,” answered Sheriff Will, in disgusted tones. “If that’s all there is up there you might as well come down. We are not hunting articles to set Miss Peggy up.”

“If any of the rest of you wish to come up I think I could help draw him up.” The youth leaned over the side of the opening suggestively.

“No, no,” interposed Mr. Ledie, commissioner of prisoners. “The fellow is evidently not up there, and there is no use wasting time. He must be somewhere else about the premises, or else we have overlooked his tracks.”

“I don’t see how we could,” declared the sheriff. “Anyhow, ’tis getting too dark to do any more to-night. You seem to have found some cobwebs, if you did not find a prisoner, my friend,” he said as Fairfax Johnson swung himself down to the table. “I suppose that we must wish you good-night, Mr. Owen. We may drop in to-morrow.”

“Nay, gentlemen, go not so,” spoke Mr. Owen. “Come, refresh yourselves, I pray you. You will take supper with us after so hard a search. It will not be long before ’tis ready, and ’tis o’er cold to go forth without something warming. Lass, canst thou not help Sukey to get it quickly?”

“Yes, father,” answered Peggy. She was quite herself by this time, but filled with amazement at Fairfax. What a queer compound he was, she thought, glancing over to where the youth stood. He was blushing as Sally helped him to remove the cobwebs from his clothing, and seemed unable to answer the chaff with which she and Robert were plying him. Yet but a short time since he had made that little joke concerning the fur rug and her housekeeping. Had he really seen Clifford?

“Let all of us young people help,” cried Betty gayly coming into the kitchen as Mr. Owen with the sheriff and his men left it.

“Thy help must be confined to the dining-room, Betty,” answered Peggy. “Thee must not be out here in that gown.”

“Then I will set the table,” said Betty. “My, my! what a party we’re having.”

“And we will help too, Peggy,” spoke Robert Dale. “Have you nothing that two great fellows like the captain and myself can do?”

“Plenty, plenty,” laughed Peggy. “Thee may slice the roast beef, Robert, while Friend Fairfax may take the ham. Sally and I will attend to the bread and cake. Sukey, will thee need more wood?”

“No’m,” grumbled Sukey. “I shouldn’t t’ink yer pa’d want ter feed dem folkes aftah de way dey done pried ’roun’ inter ebberyt’ing.”

“Well, it is annoying, of course, Sukey, but after all they were but doing their duty,” answered Peggy slowly.

“Yes’m,” said the black giving her young mistress a sharp look, then turning she busied herself about the fire.

Each one was attending strictly to the task before him, and resolving to embrace the opportunity to talk a few moments with Fairfax Johnson, Peggy took the loaf of bread she was cutting over to the table where the youth was slicing ham.

CHAPTER V

FRIENDS IN NEED

“Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown!
Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token,
That teaches me, when seeming most alone,
Friends are around us, though no word be spoken.”

—Longfellow.

“He must not stay there, Mistress Peggy,” said Fairfax in a low tone as the maiden joined him. “The sheriff is not satisfied, and I doubt not will make the search again. He will not wish me to go above again, but will choose one of his own men. It is not safe for your cousin.”

“Thee saw him, then?” breathed Peggy. “Oh, Friend Fairfax, how good thee is not to betray him.”

“It is your cousin,” he said simply. “It was my duty, but friendship hath a duty too. But of that more anon. The thing to do now is to get him down from there while they are at supper.”

“Sally says he may go home with her,” Peggy told him eagerly. “Will thee help us to manage it, Friend Fairfax?”

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised earnestly. “Is she not talking of going after supper?”

“Yes.”

“Let him get down, then, while they are at table, and come boldly to the front door for her. ’Twould be quite natural for some one to call for her, would it not?”

“Why, ’tis the very thing,” cried Peggy. “Of course her mother would send for her on such a night. Only I like not to send her away before she hath finished her supper. ’Tis monstrously inhospitable.”

“’Twill be easier to get him away then than at any other time,” he declared. “She will mind it not if she really wishes to aid you.”

“She will do anything for me,” said Peggy tremulously. Her heart was very full of love toward these friends for the aid they were rendering. “Friend Fairfax, thee has certainly hit upon the very thing.”

“And his boots,” continued the youth. “He hath on the English top-boots of narrow make. ’Twas by them that he was so easily traced. Of late we of the states have manufactured our own boots, and all citizens wear them save the macaronis. They are not so well finished,” he glanced at his own boots as he spoke with something of regret, “but ’tis that very thing that makes the difference. I have another pair in my portmanteau, Mistress Peggy. I will get them, and you must contrive to have your cousin wear them. He can take his own with him. In this manner the snow will give no trace of his going, for the boots are such as all citizens wear.”

“Thank thee,” said Peggy gratefully. “Thee has taken a great load from my mind, Friend Fairfax. I make no doubt but that all will fall out as thee has planned. What is it, Betty?”

“I was just wondering what there was about slicing cold ham that called for such absorbing interest,” cried Betty who vacillated between the kitchen and the dining-room. “Robert spoke to thee once, and I asked Captain Johnson a question. Neither of you deigned to answer us.”

“Thee may take my place and find the secret,” said Peggy mischievously, so relieved over the plan as outlined by Fairfax that she could enjoy the diffidence that once more overwhelmed him at Betty’s approach. “I will help Sally with that cake.”

“’Tis just the thing,” declared Sally as Peggy unfolded the arrangement. “And how simple! I like thy friend, Peggy, and yet I cannot help but laugh at his blushes and shyness.”

“I feel the same, Sally,” confessed Peggy with remorse. “He is a dear lad, for all his diffidence, and yet there are times when I am beset with a desire to tease him. Why is it, I wonder, that we females delight to torment such even though they are in very truth heroes?”

“I know not,” answered Sally. “I only know that ’tis true, and ’tis pity we are so constituted. And see, Peggy! The poor fellow is so beset by Betty that he can scarce cut the ham. Shall we go to his rescue?”

“Indeed ’tis time,” laughed Peggy. “Everything is ready for the supper too. Robert, thee has cut that beef well. I knew not that the domestic arts were so well taught in camp.”

“We learn many things, Peggy,” returned he. “Camp hath taught me to carve all foods. And not only the art of carving hath been taught me, but the far greater one of obtaining the food to carve. Our friend yonder hath evidently not had so much experience, or else Betty’s presence hath converted his fingers into thumbs.”

“’Tis Betty, I fear,” answered Peggy with a laugh. “Do help him, Robert, while the rest of us carry in the things.”

Fairfax resigned the ham to Robert Dale with relief, but did not stay to profit by his expertness. Instead he took a large platter which Peggy was carrying from her, and passed through the entry into the dining-room.

“I will run up for the boots,” he told the girl on coming back to the hallway. “I shall put them in the entry way.”

Peggy nodded, and went in to see that all was in readiness for the meal. The sheriff and his men viewed the bountifully spread table with looks of complacence, and presently every one was gathered around the table. As was natural in the daughter of the house Peggy assisted in the waiting, and was back and forth from the kitchen with tea, hot chocolate, rusks, or whatever might be needed. At length, the opportunity she wished for came, and she found herself alone in the kitchen with Sukey safe for the time being in the dining-room. She lost not a moment.

“Clifford,” she called softly.

“Yes, my cousin.” The trap-door was swung back, and Clifford Owen’s face appeared at the opening. “I say,” he said, “that was a close shave, wasn’t it? If our friend Fairfax had not been the prince of good fellows where would I be now?”

“Where thee will be unless thee acts quickly,” replied his cousin. “He fears that the sheriff will make another search. Thee must swing thyself down, Clifford.” She placed a chair upon the table as she finished speaking, and held it to steady it. In an instant he stood beside her.

“Thou art to go home with my friend, Sally Evans,” explained the girl. “’Tis dangerous to stay here, my cousin.”

“Yes, I know,” he answered. “I heard them talking. I tell you I held my breath when Fairfax stumbled over me.”

“Yes, yes,” she said hurriedly. “Thee must not talk now, Clifford, but act. Fairfax brought down a pair of his boots for thee. Thou art to put them on, and carry thine own. Thine are of English make, and leave telltale marks. Then thee must betake thyself to the front door, and sound the knocker boldly. Thou art to say that thou hast come for Mistress Sally Evans. Sally will join thee, and take thee to her mother’s where thee can remain safely until ’tis fitting weather for thee to pursue thy journey to New York. Does thee understand?”

“Peggy,” he said sorrowfully, “I am putting too much risk upon you and this friend of yours. I might as well let the sheriff take me and be done with it. I will do it rather than cause you so much worry.”

“Oh, will thee hurry,” pleaded the girl bringing the boots from the entry way. “There is so little time, my cousin. To-morrow I will come to thee at Sally’s, and then we can have a long talk. Now thee must act. Sukey may come in at any time. Or Tom. Oh!” in a despairing tone as the latch of the door leading into the main building clicked its warning. “’Tis too late. Why, ’tis Sally!”

“Thee forgot the quince conserve, Peggy,” said Sally trying vainly to act as though Peggy was alone. “Thy mother sent me for it. She told Sukey to come, but I jumped up and said that I would get it.”

“Sally, this is Clifford,” spoke Peggy. “And oh, he won’t hurry. He talks of trouble and worry when he should be doing. Clifford, this is my dearest friend, Sally Evans.”

“Truly thee would better be in haste,” said Sally, making her best bow. “Thee must see that every moment adds to thy cousin’s distress, and also to thy danger. I marvel that the sheriff’s men have left us so long alone. Mother and I will in truth welcome thee.”

“But I have no claim upon you,” he expostulated. “For you to take such a risk for an Englishman——”

“As an Englishman thee hasn’t a particle of claim, of course,” interrupted Sally. “As an Englishman thee deserves anything that might happen, but as a human being in distress thee has every claim upon us. Now hadn’t thee better be moving? Where is the conserve, Peggy?”

“How do I know that I can trust you?” he said abruptly.

“Clifford!” exclaimed Peggy indignantly, but Sally laughed, and swept him a deep courtesy.

“Peggy must have told thee what an ogress I am,” she said. “Know then, Friend Clifford, that I have a deep and dark dungeon where I cast all Englishmen of thy profession. If thee is afraid thee would better take thy chances with the night and storm.”

“Afraid?” he echoed, a deep flush mantling his brow. “I, Clifford Owen, afraid?”

“Then thee had better put on those boots, and be about thy departure,” said Sally calmly. “Peggy, if we don’t take in those conserves the supper will be over. Hurry, friend. Keep thy cloak well about thee to hide that uniform, and on no account venture into the hall. Thee will not have to wait for me. Come, Peggy.”

But before Peggy followed her she ran to Clifford and clasped his hand.

“’Tis the only way, my cousin,” she whispered. “And oh, do be quick.”

“I will, Peggy,” he replied. “Fear nothing. I will carry out my part.”

With palpitating heart Peggy went with Sally into the dining-room, and resumed her task of waiting on the table. Sally reseated herself and joined merrily in the conversation. It seemed a long time ere the great knocker on the front door sounded. In reality it was but a few moments after the girls left the kitchen. Sukey entered the hall to answer it before Peggy could reach the door. The darkey reëntered the room almost immediately.

“A pusson has come fer Miss Sally,” she announced. “He say he am come ter take her home.”

“He?” Sheriff Will looked up with a laugh. “Come, come! that sounds interesting. Let’s have him in, Miss Sally, and see what he looks like.”

“Yes, my dear,” spoke Mrs. Owen. “Thee has not finished thy supper. Sit down, and thy escort shall come in, and have supper too.”

Peggy’s heart almost stopped beating at this, and the color forsook Sally’s cheeks. Neither of them had foreseen anything of this kind, and they were rendered speechless by the untoward incident. Sally was saved the necessity of a reply by Robert Dale.

“I think I object, Mistress Owen,” he said speaking with deliberation. “Any one who is going to take Sally away from us doesn’t deserve any supper. I was promising myself the pleasure of seeing her home.”

“Oh, ho!” roared the sheriff. “Sits the wind in that quarter!”

“Never mind, Mrs. Owen,” spoke Sally, her quick wit taking advantage of the diversion. “I will bring him to see thee when Robert isn’t about. And I really must go. Mother expected me this afternoon, but so much hath happened that I overstayed my time. I dare say she is waiting supper for me. Good-night, and good-bye to all,” she added. She made a fetching little mouth at Robert as she went through the door but her eyes held a look of gratitude.

Peggy accompanied her into the hall. Clifford was waiting outside on the steps, and none of the three spoke until, wrapped and bundled for the trip, Sally joined him.

“I’ll never forget this, Sally,” murmured Peggy, giving her friend a little squeeze. “And I’ll be down to-morrow.”

“Be sure to,” answered Sally. “Come, friend,” turning to Clifford. “We must not linger.”

Full of relief and gladness Peggy reëntered the dining-room.

CHAPTER VI

APPEARANCES AGAINST HER

“Who trusts himself to woman, or to waves,
Should never hazard what he fears to lose.”

—Oldmixon.

During the evening Peggy congratulated herself more than once that Clifford was well away from the house; for the sheriff, in company with her father, again went over the dwelling. Every nook that might afford a hiding-place was examined thoroughly, and, as Fairfax had foreseen, another man was sent up to search the kitchen chamber. At length, all his joviality gone, Sheriff Will sat down by the sitting-room fire in puzzled perplexity.

“I can’t understand it,” he said more to himself than to Mr. Owen. “We have found no track going away. His boots make an impression that could not be mistaken. Unless he hath taken wings unto himself he should be somewhere in the house.”

“Nay, friend; it cannot be,” replied Mr. Owen, shaking his head positively. “We have searched every place that ’twould be possible for a man to be concealed. We have even gone into places where no one, not a member of the family, would think of hiding.”

“That’s just it,” exclaimed the officer. “Some member of the family helped him. Were it not so we could not have missed the fellow.”

“In that, friend, thou art mistaken. I believe that I could give an account of the actions and whereabouts of each member, yea, I will include our guests also, since my arrival home.”

“What time was that, sir?”

“About one of the clock, I should judge.”

“Well, the matter is beyond me,” responded the sheriff rising. “There is naught to do but to go home and think it over.”

And to Peggy’s great relief he left, taking his men with him. The occurrence seemed to have thrown a damper over the spirits of the party, even Betty being unusually silent, so the household soon separated for the night.

It was not until the afternoon of the next day that Peggy found an opportunity of going to Sally’s. By that time, accompanied by Robert Dale, Betty had left for home; Mr. Owen had taken Fairfax with him into the city, the two ladies were deep in conversation on the mysteries of preserve making, and Peggy was at liberty. With a word of explanation to her mother the girl slipped on her wraps, and started for Sally’s house.

Though still cold the day was clear and bright. The footways had not been cleared of snow, but paths had been beaten by the impact of many feet, and Peggy found walking not at all difficult. As she turned into Fourth Street she was astonished to encounter Sheriff Will. He returned her courteous greeting with an abrupt bow, and passed on.

“I wonder if he is going to the house again,” she mused, stopping to look after him. “He must be,” she concluded as she saw that he turned into Chestnut Street. “He is not satisfied about not finding Clifford. Oh, dear! what would have happened if Sally had not taken my cousin home with her? Well, I must hasten.”

A brisk walk soon brought her to Sally’s house on Little Dock Street. The dwelling was of stone. It was two stories in height, with a high-pitched roof, and with a garret room lighted in front by three dormer windows, and in the rear by a dormer on each side. Sally herself came to the door in answer to the knocker.

“I have been watching for thee all day, Peggy,” she cried, drawing her into the room. The front door did not open into an entry, but directly into a large room occupied as a sitting-room. “I thought thee would never come. Thy cousin hath worried lest some ill had befallen thee. Come in, and tell me all that happened after we left. Was it not fine in Robert to speak as he did? Does thee think that he knew what we were about? And oh, Peggy! I do like thy cousin so much. Thee remembers how we used to laugh at Harriet because she was always extolling her brother at the expense of any youth she met? Well, I blame her no longer. Mother, too, is charmed with him. Well, why doesn’t thee talk, and tell me all that hath occurred?”

Peggy laughed outright.

“I was just waiting for a chance, Sally,” she replied. “Let me see. About Robert first: How could he have known anything anent Clifford, yet what he said was so opportune? It hath puzzled me. I know not what we should have done had he not so spoken. I could think of naught to say, and I saw that thee was affected in the same manner. Where is my cousin? Let us go to him at once, for I must not stay long. I will tell ye both what hath occurred.”

“Come,” quoth Sally, leading the way to the staircase, which was at the back of the house, and approached from a side entrance. “We have put him in the front chamber, which contains the ‘Auger Hole.’ Thee remembers it, Peggy? For further safety we have drawn the bedstead in front of the door. Unless ’twas known no one would think of looking in that closet for a hiding-place. There is also an old loom in a corner up attic which might serve right well for concealment, but mother thought the chamber with the ‘Auger Hole’ best; although we showed Clifford both places.”

“Thee has done thy best, Sally,” remarked Peggy approvingly. The “Auger Hole,” as it was playfully called, had been built, for what reason was not known, as a place of concealment. It was a small room, entirely dark, which could be approached only through a linen closet. In order to get at it, the linen had to be taken from the shelves, the shelves drawn out, and a small door opened at the back of the closet, quite low down, so that the room could be entered only by stooping. Its existence was known to but few people. So Peggy smiled with satisfaction, as she added: “I dare say that he will not need to use either. Thee would never be suspected of having a British prisoner in hiding.”

“True,” answered Sally, “but ’tis as well to be prepared for an emergency. Here we are, Peggy.”

“And how does thee do to-day, my cousin?” cried Peggy as her friend opened the door.

Clifford Owen rose from the easy chair drawn up before the fire, and turned toward her beamingly. Peggy reflected that she had never seen him appear to better advantage. His fine eyes were glowing, his form was erect, and his manner held a graciousness that was charming.

“Well, my little cousin! well indeed,” he responded. “Methought that fur rug yesterday was sumptuous after my experience with the wind and snow, but your friends have lodged me like a king. Yon tester bed feels as though ’twere meant for royalty. I doubt if King George rests upon one so easy.”

“It wouldn’t rest easy if I had the making of it,” spoke Sally pertly.

“The sheriff made another search after thee left, my cousin,” interposed Peggy hastily. “And, just as Fairfax thought, he sent another man to explore the kitchen chamber. What if thee had been there?”

“’Twould have been all up with me,” remarked Clifford easily. “How seemed he, Peggy? Suspicious?”

“He was greatly dissatisfied,” returned Peggy, a troubled look clouding her eyes. “He said that some member of the family must have helped in the escape, though father insisted that it could not be. And oh! I met him as I was coming here.”

“Who? The sheriff?” questioned Clifford startled.

“Yes; he was going to our house, I think. At least I saw him turn into Chestnut Street.”

“Did he turn to watch you, Peggy?” inquired her cousin with some anxiety.

“Why no; why should he?” asked she simply.

“Because——” he began, when a loud peal of the knocker brought the remark to an abrupt stop.

Sally arose with precipitancy.

“Mother is busy in the kitchen,” she said. “’Twill be best for me to see who it is. I don’t believe that ’tis any one who will wish to come up here, but if it should be thy cousin must run for the closet, Peggy. I will leave the door ajar, and should I be saying anything when I come to the stairway thee will know that ’tis some one who insists upon coming up.”

The two cousins sat in silence as Sally went down-stairs, fearful of what the visit might portend. Peggy was openly anxious, and Clifford, too, seemed uneasy. The murmur of voices could be heard, and while the words could not be distinguished it seemed to Peggy that the tones were those of command. A slight commotion followed as though several persons had entered the dwelling, and presently the stairway door opened and closed quickly.

“Peggy!” came in a shrill whisper from the foot of the stairs. Peggy was out of the chamber and at the head of the stairs in an instant. Sally stood below, and though the stairway was so dimly lighted that Peggy could scarcely distinguish the outlines of her form, she knew that her friend was greatly excited. She was telling her something in so low a tone that Peggy could hardly hear what it was, but she gathered enough to send her flying back to her cousin.

“’Tis the sheriff,” she cried. “Get into the closet, quick.”

Clifford Owen stayed not for a second bidding. He darted into the closet back of the great tester bed, and the door of the concealed room clicked softly. In anticipation of such an emergency the shelves had been removed, and Peggy now replaced them. Hurriedly she tossed some piles of linen on them, and then resumed her seat before the fire. She had barely done so when the door opened, and Sally, followed by Sheriff Will and two of his men, appeared on the threshold. To Peggy’s amazement the girl was laughing.

“What does thee think, Peggy?” she cried gaily. “The sheriff insists that he must look here for that escaped prisoner. He hath almost scared mother out of her wits, and now he is trying to fright us. I have told him to search all he wishes.”

“I hope that you are as innocent as you appear, Miss Sally,” spoke Sheriff Will gruffly. “I’ve a suspicion that you two fooled me nicely last night, but ’twon’t happen again. I said down-stairs that I was aware that the closet in this room concealed a hiding-place.”

“La, la!” laughed Sally saucily. “So thee did. And how will thee find it, friend?”

“Sam, give a hand with this bed, will you?” ordered the sheriff.

To Peggy’s consternation the men moved the heavy bedstead out into the room, and Sheriff Will opened the door of the closet. Deliberately he threw the linen on the floor, and began to draw out the shelves. A mist swam before her eyes. She felt her senses going, and then sat up suddenly as Sally ran to the door, now fully exposed to view.

“Doesn’t thee want me to open it for thee, Friend Will?” she asked merrily. “Behold what thee will behold!” With this she flung wide the door.

“Sally!” gasped Peggy in agonized tones. “Oh, Sally, how could thee?” For the open door revealed Clifford Owen sitting on the floor of the concealed room.

All the color faded from Sally’s face at sight of him. She stood a picture of consternation, looking from one cousin to the other seemingly unable to speak.

“Thank you, Miss Sally,” spoke Sheriff Will sarcastically. “’Twas well played, but I think you overreached yourself for the nonce. Something went awry. Come out, young fellow! ’Tis a pretty chase you’ve given me. Come out, or I’ll shoot.”

“I yield, sir,” answered Clifford Owen crawling out. “I yield—to treachery. I congratulate you, Mistress Sally. The dungeon of which you spoke was not so much of a myth as I had supposed.”

But at that Sally regained her tongue.

“Peggy,” she cried flinging herself down beside her friend, “didn’t thee hear me? I said the loom. I said the loom, Peggy. Oh, I never meant—I didn’t think he was there. Tell him, Peggy! Make him believe me. Thee knows that I wouldn’t do such a thing. Tell him, Peggy.”

“‘Thus do all traitors,’” quoted Clifford with an upward curl of his lip. “‘If their purgation did consist in words, they are as innocent as grace itself.’ I was a fool to trust a woman. Officer, take me where you must. Any place is preferable to breathing the same air with treachery.”

“Clifford, Clifford!” cried Peggy going to him. “I am so sorry that it hath come out so. Oh, Clifford, what can I do for thee now? And Sally! I know that it happened as she hath said. She would not——”

“You can do naught, my cousin,” answered he, his eyes softening as they rested upon her. “You, at least, are guiltless of overt act toward me.”

“And Sally also,” she began eagerly, but the boy’s lips set in a straight line.

“We will not discuss it,” he answered loftily. “I hope that no trouble will come to you, Peggy.”

“Trouble,” echoed Sheriff Will “They shall both be indicted for this. ’Twas a neat trick, but ye won’t find the Supreme Executive Council so easily deluded. Was your father concerned in this, Miss Peggy?”

“No,” replied she quickly. “He knows no more of it than thee does, Friend Will. I alone am to blame for all that hath occurred. Sally only helped for friendship sake.”

“You shall hear of it,” spoke the sheriff grimly. “Come on, young man. We have wasted too much time on you already.”

“Don’t hurry him away, Friend Will,” pleaded Sally sobbing. “Let me tell him how it was. Do let me talk to him a moment.”

“Lead on,” commanded Clifford, turning his back upon her decidedly. “Why dally longer?”

Without another glance at the weeping Sally he was led away between two of the men.

CHAPTER VII

DAVID OWEN IS INFORMED OF THE FACTS

“Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,
Unapt to toil, and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions, and our hearts,
Should well agree with our external parts?”

—“Taming of the Shrew.”

“I didn’t mean it, Peggy,” sobbed Sally over and over. “Thee knows that I didn’t mean it to turn out so. Thee knows that I wouldn’t do such a thing, doesn’t thee? I said the loom. Truly I said the loom. I ran to the stairway just as quickly as I could after the sheriff said he knew of the closet, and I called to thee to tell him to go to the loom. And thee didn’t hear me? Oh, Peggy! Peggy I thee knows that I wouldn’t betray thy cousin knowingly. Thee knows it, Peggy?”

“There, Sally,” soothed Peggy. “I know that thee would do naught that was not honorable. I see it all. All that was intended. Thee thought that Clifford would go up attic behind the loom, and that by assuming a bold front thee could deceive the sheriff into believing that he was not on the place. Sheriff Will would naturally go to the closet, as he knew of it. I am to blame too, Sally. It was just a miserable misapprehension on both our parts.”

“But Clifford will always believe that I betrayed him,” said Sally chokingly, lifting her tear-stained face. “And oh, I did like him so much! What will they do with him, Peggy?”

“I don’t know,” answered Peggy thoughtfully. “Take him back to Lancaster, probably. Father said this morning that the sheriff told him a number of the prisoners had escaped. Clifford, it seems, had stopped at the sheriff’s own house to inquire the way to the State House. I told him, I remember, that we lived just across from it. His cloak had fallen apart and disclosed his uniform, and some one suspected that ’twas one of the British prisoners. The sheriff was not at home at the time, but when he came he was told of the occurrence, and at once went in pursuit of him. But now,” Peggy concluded soberly, “we must take heed to ourselves. I hope that he believed me when I told him that father had naught to do with the matter. If only the punishment would fall on me, and not on thee, or father, I would not mind what happened.”

“Thee must go to him at once and unravel the whole affair,” counseled Mrs. Evans who had joined them as soon as the sheriff left. “’Tis best that he should know of it at once. Sally, thee must go with Peggy, and tell of thy share in it.”

“Yes, mother,” assented Sally meekly. “Peggy, will thee ever love me again?”

“I haven’t stopped yet, Sally,” replied Peggy kissing her. “Thee must not feel so bad. After all the sheriff might have found him up attic. Thee knows how carefully he searches.”

“I would not have been to blame for that, Peggy. Now Clifford will always believe that I did it on purpose.”

“Perchance there may come a time when thee can explain all to him,” comforted her friend. “Let us go to father now, Sally. He must know all that hath occurred.”

THE TWO GIRLS SET FORTH.

Without further ado the two girls set forth for Peggy’s home. The distant hills that ridged the west bank of the Schuylkill stretched a luminous belt in the glistening sunshine. The city was clothed in a garb of pure white, a dazzling garment that was symbolical of the peace with which The Founder desired his beloved city to be filled. But there was little peace in the hearts of the two maidens who wended their way sadly and silently toward the Owen home in Chestnut Street.

David Owen, his wife, Nurse Johnson, Robert and Fairfax were assembled in the living-room of the dwelling. They rose with exclamations of dismay at sight of Peggy’s pale face, and Sally’s red eyes.

“What hath happened, lass?” cried her father. “Thou art in trouble. Is it of a serious nature?”

“Yes, father,” answered the girl tremulously. “It may be grave trouble for thee, though it should be for me alone, as I am solely to blame.” She paused for a moment to steady her voice, then continued: “Father, the escaped prisoner whom the sheriff sought was Clifford. He came here yesterday just after dinner asking for shelter. I could not turn him away in such a storm. Indeed, he would not have sought us out at all had it not been for the weather. And—and I hid him in the kitchen chamber.”

“Clifford!” ejaculated her father. “Thy Cousin Clifford? But where is he now? The kitchen chamber was searched, but we found no one there. Where is he?”

“The sheriff hath him,” Peggy told him chokingly. “Sally took him home with her last night, and I went there to see him this afternoon. I met the sheriff in Fourth Street as I left here, and he must have followed me; for I had scarce begun to talk to Clifford when he came and took my cousin. He talks of an indictment.”

Both girls were crying by this time, and with an exclamation of concern Mrs. Owen hastened to them, and drew them into an embrace.

“There! There!” she said soothingly. “David will manage it somehow. Don’t sob so, Sally. After all thee is not so much to blame. Perchance the Council will excuse what thee did, as ’twas to help Peggy.”

“I don’t care for the old Council,” flashed Sally through her tears. “’Tis that Peggy’s cousin thinks that I betrayed him. I thought he was up attic, and he wasn’t. I told Peggy to tell him to go there, but she did not hear me. Thee knows my fault, Mrs. Owen,” she wailed in an agony of self-reproach. “Thee knows just how froward and saucy I can be, and I was just that way with the sheriff, and—and pert. He spoke of the closet, showing that he knew of it, and I was so sure that Clifford was up attic that I asked the sheriff if I should open the door for him. I did, and there was Clifford,” she ended with a fresh burst of tears.

“I know just how you feel,” interposed Nurse Johnson sympathetically. “And so the prisoner was Clifford? Well, I am sorry that he was taken. Tell us all about it, Peggy.”

“Yes, lass,” spoke David Owen. “Calm thyself as soon as may be, and let me know the matter in detail. I must know all concerning it.”

Mr. Owen spoke gravely. Well he knew what the feeling was toward those who assisted prisoners of war in escaping. Aiding or abetting the enemy in any way was not tolerated, either in the city or the country at large. The systematic cruelties practiced toward the American prisoners both in the dreadful prison ships and the jails, the barbarities perpetrated toward their countrymen in the South, the harassing of the coasts, the raids of the refugees, the capture of their merchantmen by British privateers; all these things and many others served to keep the hearts of Americans inflamed with rancor toward the English. They were not disposed to overlook any indulgence displayed toward such an enemy.

Presently Peggy had so far recovered her usual composure that she was able to relate succinctly all that had occurred. Her father listened attentively.

“Why did thee not come to me for aid, lass?” he asked when she had finished the recital.

“Why, father, ’twould go hard with thee were it to become known that thee had given aid to a prisoner,” answered Peggy. “I wished to keep thee clear of it. Then, too, thee might have deemed it duty to give up my cousin, and I could not bear that; yet I should want thee to do what was right.”

“I think I understand, lass,” he said, “’Twas most ingenious to think of having him come to the door as Sally’s escort. I knew not that thou hadst so much of daring in thee to originate such a plan.”

Peggy flushed scarlet at this. She had suppressed all mention of Fairfax’s connection with the matter, wishing not to implicate him. So she stared at her father in an embarrassed silence, uneasy at the praise she did not merit.

“But why was he not discovered?” went on David Owen musingly. “The room was searched twice. By the way,” turning suddenly toward Fairfax Johnson, “captain, was it not thee who went up there first?”

“It was, sir,” answered the young man promptly. “I stumbled over Clifford, who was lying wrapped up in a fur rug. He chuckled as I did so, and I knew at once who it was. I had known him in Williamsburgh, you remember.”

“Why didst thou not cry out? Thou wert taken unawares, as it were. I marvel at thy command,” and Mr. Owen regarded him keenly.

“Well,” hesitated the youth, “I went up there because I suspected that Miss Peggy had some one hidden there, and I wanted to help her.”

“Thou knew of it? But how?”

“Because she was out of the room longer than any one after dinner, and had time to make arrangements of that nature if she so desired, sir. Then too she did not reply when the sheriff asked us all to say whether we had seen anything of a British prisoner.”

“All this went on, and I saw naught of it!” exclaimed Mr. Owen. “Why! where were my eyes? I would have affirmed that I could account for every action of every member of the household.”

“We younger people were together a great deal yesterday, sir. We had more opportunities for observing if anything was amiss with one of our number than you would have.”

“Was it thou who wast responsible for the plan of getting away?” questioned Mr. Owen. “Methought ’twas too daring to have originated with Peggy.”

“Well, yes,” acknowledged Fairfax flushing. “The daring lay only in the execution of it. The girls and Clifford furnished that.”

“But to risk thy liberty for such a thing, lad! Was it worth while to jeopardize thy new commission to aid Peggy with her cousin?”

Fairfax stirred restlessly.

“But I was under great obligations to Clifford too, sir,” he made answer presently. “He kept my mother from molestation in Williamsburgh when the enemy was in possession of the place. I was in duty bound to help him.”

“And next I shall hear that Robert hath been concerned in the affair too,” uttered David Owen, turning to Robert Dale with a glimmer of a smile. “I begin to believe that there hath been a regular conspiracy among you young people. Speak up, lad. What did thee do?”

“Very little,” answered the youth frankly. “Not so much as I should have liked to do, Mr. Owen. I did not know that ’twas Peggy’s cousin whom she was hiding. I did know that there was some one. I suspected who Sally’s escort might be, and when I saw that she was dismayed at the prospect of having to bring him to the table, I spoke as I did to help her.”

“Without knowing who it might be, Robert?” exclaimed Mr. Owen in amazement.

“Peggy would conceal no one without thinking it right, sir,” returned Robert simply. “I think we all know that is the reason we stood by her.”

“Well, upon my word!” David Owen rubbed his hands thoughtfully. “And how is Betty concerned?”

“Betty is entirely exempt from the matter, I believe,” remarked Major Dale smiling. “The rest of us are guilty.”

“Did I do wrong, father?” asked Peggy timidly. “Is thee angry with me?”

“Nay, lass. With thy soft heart thee could not do otherwise. Yesterday was no day to turn any one from shelter, even though he were not thy cousin. I would not have thee insensible to mercy, no matter who asked it. I grieve only that such an act should involve thy young friends in consequences which may prove of serious character to all concerned.”

“We are willing to abide by the consequences,” spoke the two youths simultaneously. Mr. Owen shook his head.

“Nay,” he said. “I will not permit it. Peggy alone must be held responsible for what hath occurred. ’Tis just and right. I will see if aught can be done with the Council. I want also to find where Clifford hath been put, to see if I shall be allowed to do anything for him. At times food and comforts are given to prisoners, and perchance we may be permitted to do this for him.”

“And oh, Mr. Owen! if thee does see him, tell him how it happened,” pleaded Sally. “I could bear a term of imprisonment better than that he should esteem me a treacherous friend.”

“I will do what I can, Sally,” he promised her.

David Owen was absent for nearly two hours, and an anxious time of waiting it proved. The girls were comforted and petted by the two ladies, while the youths made them relate over and over all the incidents leading to the capture of Clifford. At length Mr. Owen returned.

“Clifford is in the new jail pending his return to Lancaster,” he told them. “I saw and talked with him. I told him all that thee wished, Sally, and that thee had naught to do with his capture. He exonerates Peggy from all thought of treachery, but I grieve to say that the lad exhibits a perverse disbelief in thee, Sally. He would hear of no excuse for thee, though I tried to make him understand how it all came about.”

“I knew it,” said Sally with tears. “I knew he would not believe in me.”

“Never mind, Sally,” said Peggy. “I will try to see him, and I will make him listen to reason.”

“Thee will not be permitted, lass. It was granted me as a great favor, but, because of the aid which thou didst render him, ’twould be most unwise for thee to seek to see him. I arranged with Mr. Ledie that as much comfort should be given him as is compatible with his state as prisoner. ’Tis all that can be done.”

“And the Council, David?” queried his wife, anxiously. “Could thee do anything about that?”

“The Council have consented that Peggy and Sally shall appear before them on the morning of Second-day at ten of the clock, to show cause why they should not be indicted. ’Tis an unheard of thing to permit it, as ’tis usual to petition, but I asked for their appearance, knowing that their youth would be in their favor. ’Tis a grave matter, as they acknowledged, but I think the most of them feel kindly toward ye. I talked with several.”

But Mrs. Owen saw that he spoke with assumed lightness. “I think,” she said, “that we ought to have Sally’s mother with us. To-morrow is First-day, which will give time to discuss the subject in all its bearings. She should be with us. Robert, wilt thou go for her?”

“With pleasure, Mrs. Owen,” he responded rising. “And we must not forget that Uncle Jacob Deering is one of the Council.”

“True,” exclaimed Lowry Owen, her face lighting up. “True; I had forgotten.”

CHAPTER VIII

BEFORE THE COUNCIL

“Then call them to our presence. Face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
The accuser and accused freely speak.”

—Richard II.

Monday, Second-day in Quaker parlance, dawned. The intense cold had abated though the air remained crisp and keen. A venturesome robin perched upon the bare bough of a cherry tree that grew near one of the sitting-room windows, and gave vent to his short and frequent song. Sally called Peggy’s attention to him.

“Dost hear what he says?” she cried. “Cheer up! Cheer up! Cheer up! ’Tis a harbinger of spring, and flowers, and warmer weather. Who knows but that he brings good luck to us too, Peggy?”

Peggy smiled sadly.

“I hope so,” she made answer. “But oh! I do wish this interview with the Council were over.”

“And so do I,” agreed Sally soberly. “’Twill soon be now, Peggy, for here comes thy mother to call us to get ready.”

“Yes,” spoke Mrs. Owen overhearing the words. “David says that as soon as ye have donned your wraps ’twill be time to go.”

Peggy and Sally were Quaker maidens, well drilled in art of self-repression, so they made no scene as they bade their mothers farewell, and took leave of Nurse Johnson, her son and Robert Dale. In spite of their training, however, their eyes were wet, and neither was able to speak for a few moments after they left the house. Then Sally broke the silence.

“Peggy,” she said, “after this I shall always have the greatest sympathy for the poor wretches who are executed. I feel just as though I was about to be hanged.”

“So do I, Sally. How great a change is wrought by war! A few short years ago neither of us thought to be called before the highest tribunal of the state. How happy we were before this awful war with its weary years of fighting came! Then we had no thought of sorrow, and friend was not against friend, misconstruing every act and deed of kindness.”

“I think I would not pursue that line of talk, lassies,” commented David Owen who walked in front of them. “See how brightly the sun shines! How blue the sky is! Beyond that azure is One in the hollow of whose hand ye are. Have courage.”

“Yes, Mr. Owen,” gasped Sally, stopping abruptly as they reached the walk leading to the State House entrance. “Yes; but what hath happened to the State House? ’Tis so big. I knew not that ’twas so large.”

Peggy stopped too and looked up at the State House, which stood some twenty-five or thirty feet back from the street. It was large, she reflected, its size impressing for the first time in her life with a sense of awe. She had always lived across from the building. Had loved it, and had been proud of the fact that it was deemed the most imposing edifice in the new world; now its aspect was one of forbidding unfamiliarity. David Owen gave them no time to indulge in fears, but hurried them at once along the walk and up the flight of five steps which led to the entry. The door opening into the East Chamber stood ajar. He glanced toward it quickly.

“The Congress is in session,” he remarked. “There are matters of import before it to-day, I hear. His Excellency meets with it.”

Lingering not, though he cast a wishful look toward the room, he led them to the second story of the building, pausing presently before the door of a chamber on the west side.

“I can go no further with ye,” he said sadly. “Ye will have to depend upon yourselves now, but there is naught to fear. Be of good courage, and answer all that is asked of ye with exact truth. And now farewell!”

He turned from them abruptly, and went hastily down the stairs as though he feared that he might give way to emotion. For a brief second the maidens stood, and then the door was opened, and the doorkeeper bade them enter. Summoning all her courage, Peggy grasped Sally’s hand, and went in.

At this time the government of Pennsylvania differed slightly from that of the other states. The old Committee of Safety had merged into what was called The Supreme Executive Council. There was an Assembly, which, in session with the Council, elected a Governor who was called the President of the state, the Vice-president being elected in the same manner. The President was Captain-General, and Commander-in-chief of all of Pennsylvania’s forces, and upon the Council devolved the administrations of all war matters. Its chief executive committees constituted a Board of War and a Navy Board. The former had charge of the land service; the latter of the water, both under the direction of the Council. A very careful and exact account of affairs in the state was kept by means of ward committees in the cities and districts, and any infraction of measures adopted for the public safety was known almost immediately to the Council. It was before this high tribunal that the girls had to appear.

Peggy’s heart sank as they entered the chamber, and she encountered the grave glances of the men assembled there. There were not more than a dozen in session, for the Council was a small body. Some of the members she knew well, others only slightly. They were courteous, kindly men with the best interests of their country at heart, but stern and implacable toward the least infringement of patriotism. And so the girl’s heart beat tumultuously as she advanced timidly toward the platform upon which the President, Mr. Moore, was seated.

He rose as the trembling maidens paused before him, and stood for a moment looking at them in silence. It seemed to Peggy that his glance searched every recess of her heart. She grew pale before his intense gaze, and her eyes fell. Sally, on the contrary, seemed to have recovered her customary composure. She suddenly stood erect, and looked about her. Presently she saw Mr. Jacob Deering, and smiled a greeting. The old gentleman was visibly uneasy under her glance, and opening his snuff-box he took a huge pinch of snuff.

“Margaret Owen.” Peggy started as the unaccustomed appellation fell from the lips of the President. “It hath been brought to the attention of this Council that you have given aid to a prisoner of war. That you have harbored one of the enemy, and have tried to abet his escape. What have you to answer to this charge?”

“’Tis true,” faltered the girl in a low tone.

“When did it occur?”

“Last Sixth-day.”

“Which was Friday, the first day of this month. Was your father at home at the time?”

“Yes,” answered Peggy quickly, “but he knew naught of it.”

“And did you not know that it was a misdemeanor to succor one of the enemy?”

“Yes, friend; I knew it.”

“You knew that ’twas a misdemeanor, and yet unbeknown to your father you still committed it?” he asked, as though amazed at such duplicity. “Did you not know that such an act might bring suspicion upon him? Did you not know that even though he had given good service to the cause, even that would not avail him if he were suspected of abetting a prisoner’s escape? Whom can we trust since General Arnold failed us?”

Peggy was too full of emotion to be able to do more than nod acquiescence.

“Then if you knew these things, why did you do this?” he demanded, his brow darkening.

“He was my cousin, Clifford Owen,” she told him brokenly. “I could not refuse him shelter in such a storm.”

“Clifford Owen? A son of that Colonel Owen who as a prisoner on parole stayed at your house?”

“Yes,” answered Peggy.

“A brother to that Mistress Harriet Owen who played the spy with our army at Middlebrook, and who while at your house tried to communicate with the enemy at New York and was banished for so doing?”

“Yes,” answered the girl again.

“And to favor one of these cousins you would do that which might cause doubt to be cast upon your father’s patriotism, and bring this friend here under displeasure of this tribunal? This friend who hath served us so nobly as nurse.”

“Thee must not do anything to Sally,” cried Peggy, roused by this speech. “I alone am to blame for everything. None knew that I hid my cousin, and Sally helped only because she saw how greatly I was distressed lest Clifford should be taken. She did not know him, and only helped me out of friendship. Ye must do naught to her. There is no one to blame but me.”

“And do you justify yourself for involving a loyal friend in difficulty by the mere fact that the prisoner was your cousin?” he asked, and the cold incisiveness of his tone made the girl shiver. “You have said that he was your cousin, Margaret Owen, as though that were excuse for disloyalty. Ye have both attended Master Benezet’s school; while there did ye not read of one Junius Brutus, who sentenced his own sons to death when he found them implicated in a conspiracy against the country?”

“Yes, we read of it,” interposed Sally so shrilly that the grave men who composed the semicircle were startled into keen attention. “We read of it, Friend Moore; but does thee think their mother would have done it? I’ve often wondered where Mistress Junius Brutus was. Had he been my husband,” with an impressive shake of her curly head, “I’d have led him a life of it after such an act. ’Twas unnatural and cruel, I think. Of course Peggy hid her cousin. Is she not a female? Think ye that females are made of such stern fiber that a relative, even though he were an enemy, would ask aid and be refused? I don’t believe that there is one of ye but what would do the same thing under like circumstances. Thee has spoken of what I have done for the Cause. Why doesn’t thee mention Peggy’s services? Didn’t she ride in the cold and the storm to inform General Putnam of the spy, Molesworth’s plot? Hasn’t she worked to keep the hands, and the feet, and the backs of the army warm? I don’t believe that another girl in the Union hath knit so many mittens and socks, or made so many shirts as Peggy Owen hath. I can’t begin to tell all she hath done for the Cause; and yet just because she hath regard for her kin, which being a woman she cannot help, ye want to convict her of a misdemeanor. ’Tis monstrous! How can she help softness of heart? Hath she not been taught every First-day to do good to them that despitefully use her? When I first went into nursing I hated the English intensely, and when the wounded were brought in I’d attend to our own soldiers first, no matter how badly the others were hurt. And then one day, Dr. Cochrane said to me: ‘They’re all mothers’ sons, Miss Sally. Somewhere, some woman is waiting and praying for each one of them. Our own boys might be in like predicament with the enemy. Treat them as you would like our own treated.’ Since then,” Sally continued half crying, “I’ve tended them all alike—American or English, French or Hessian.”

“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Jacob Deering, as the maiden’s voice broke. Like a flash she turned upon him.

“Thee has a niece, Kitty, hasn’t thee, Friend Deering?” she cried.

“Why, so I have, Miss Sally. So I have.”

“And she married an Englishman, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” he answered with a bewildered air. “Yes, she did.”

“Now, Friend Deering,” she cried, shaking her finger at him earnestly, “just suppose that Kitty’s Englishman had come to thy house for shelter last Sixth-day, when it was so cold and stormy that thee would feel bad if the house cat was left outside? Suppose he had come asking for shelter? Would thee be any the less a friend to thy country if thee should listen to the dictates of humanity and give him shelter?”

“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Mr. Deering, again helping himself liberally to snuff. “Bless my soul!”

“Wouldn’t thee give him shelter?” persisted she. “Wouldn’t thee, Friend Deering?”

“Zounds! Of course I would,” he cried. “Englishman, or not. No matter what he was, I would turn no man from my door on such a day.”

“Of course thee wouldn’t,” she cried in a blaze of indignation. “Yet thee and thy fellows here want to indict Peggy and me for the very thing ye would do yourselves. Shame on ye!”

“Indict ye!” cried the old gentleman, getting to his feet with the agility of a youth. “Indict ye!” he roared, shaking his fist at the council belligerently. “If any man dares to indict so much as a hair of your pretty heads he shall answer to Jacob Deering.”

CHAPTER IX

OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN INTO THE FIRE

“Long war without and frequent broil within
Had made a path for blood and giant sin,
That waited but a signal to begin
New havoc, such as civil discord blends,
Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends.”

—“Count Lara,” Byron.

The two mothers were at the door to greet them as David Owen brought the girls back. Both girls were much excited, half laughing, half crying, over the turn events had taken.

“’Tis good news, I can see,” said Mrs. Owen leading them into the sitting-room. “As to how it came about I can gather nothing clearly.”

“Oh, ’twas Sally, Sally,” cried Peggy. “’Tis said that Mr. Henry of Virginia is eloquent, but ye should have heard Sally. He could not excel her.”

“’Twas a complete rout,” declared Mr. Owen, his usual composure somewhat ruffled. “Here I was down-stairs beset with anxiety lest untoward sentences be passed upon the girls when down from the Council chamber they came, escorted by Mr. Jacob Deering and President Moore himself. Sally addressed the honorable body with so much unction, I hear, that thy uncle, Robert, at once declared for them. In fact, his championship took the form of a direct challenge, which caused so much merriment that the Council was unable to proceed with the business before it, and an adjournment was taken until this afternoon.”

“But what happened? What did you say? Do tell us, Sally,” urged Robert Dale. “I acknowledge that I am consumed with curiosity. I am sure the others are affected in like manner. We were just sitting here while you were gone trying to cheer each other by hoping that the sentence would be fines rather than imprisonment. And here you come back with neither, it seems, and colors flying. Do tell us what happened.”

“Well,” laughed Sally, who was plainly elated over the matter, “I was greatly frightened until we entered the Council chamber; but do ye know,” she broke off excitedly, “just as soon as I saw those men I knew that there was not one of them who would have refused Clifford shelter that stormy day? So I told them so. That’s all.”

A shout of laughter greeted this explanation. When it subsided Peggy spoke.

“Thee didn’t tell them about Brutus, Sally,” she chided. “’Twas that that first excited thy ire.” With that she related in detail all that had taken place.

“Hurrah for Sally! And hurrah for Uncle Jacob too,” cried Robert. “’Twas wonderful, as Peggy says. How did you happen to think of it, Sally?”

“’Twas high time that I did something to redeem myself,” answered Sally. “After all,” she continued a trifle wearily, for in spite of the petting and being made much of even her buoyant nature was beginning to feel the strain of events, “after all, I should not have been obliged to do it. Peggy and I are in our own city. It hath been a long war, and from the first we have shown our patriotism by doing what we could. Whenever anything of this sort occurs it should not be necessary to do aught but explain how the matter came about without fear of punishment.”

“War breeds suspicion, my child,” explained Mr. Owen gravely. “The purest patriots are open to it; for sometimes treason lurks where ’tis least suspected. Were it not that a close watch is kept we should have been betrayed to our undoing long since by traitors and spies. For greater security, therefore, Whigs submit to an espionage that at times is most irksome and unpleasant.”

“I see,” said Sally. “I see. I—— Oh, I’m so tired!”

And with that—here was Sally on the floor in a dead faint. With an exclamation of alarm Peggy bent over her.

“All this hath been too much for her,” she cried. “And ’tis my fault. Oh! I should not have let her help with Clifford.”

“Nay, Peggy; she hath not been strong for some time,” returned Mrs. Evans, as Mrs. Owen and Nurse Johnson brought burnt feathers and vinegar. “She overtaxed her strength at the hospital which is the reason that she hath remained at home this spring. She must have a change when a little stronger.”

So, on her return to consciousness, Sally found herself put to bed and declared an invalid. Peggy insisted on being installed as chief nurse.

“But I shall go down-stairs to-day, Peggy,” spoke Sally on the morning of Wednesday. “I heard Nurse Johnson say last night that thy father was to start for Lancaster this afternoon.”

“He is, Sally. And what does thee think? Robert is to go with him.”

“Robert?” exclaimed Sally amazed. “Why, Peggy, his furlough hath but just begun.”

“I know. Father reminded him of it, but he thought the prospect alluring, because father spoke of the danger of robbers. It seems that the woods of the great road to Lancaster is infested with them, and that government stores are their especial prey. The journey will be fraught with no little peril.”

“How quickly he tired of us,” mused Sally. “Here ’twas only Fifth-day of last week that he came, and now he is to take to the field again. Fie, fie! Is that the gallantry of the military?”

“Perchance,” answered Peggy laughing at her friend, “perchance, Sally, he hath been without leave for so long that he doth not know what to do with himself when off duty.”

“I dare say, Peggy. Oh, dear! would I were going somewhere. I would not care how much danger there was if I could get away for a time.” Sally sighed deeply. “I have been here all my life, Peggy, save for the summers we’ve spent at the farm. I wish I could have a change.”

Nurse Johnson entered the room as the girl concluded her remarks.

“It is anent that very thing that I have come to speak to you both,” she said seating herself on the side of the bed. “Why could not you and Peggy go to Jersey with me for a while? You need a change, Miss Sally, and my sister is near enough to the coast for you to have the benefit of the sea air. She hath a large house, and likes young company. We will give you a fine time, and ’twould do you no end of good. Will ye go?”

“Oh, I should like it,” cried Sally eagerly. “If Peggy will go I am sure that mother would be pleased to have me accept, Friend Nurse. Will thee, Peggy?”

“I’ll have to see mother about it, Sally,” answered Peggy slowly. She did not like the thought of leaving home again even for a few days, but Sally did need a change. She had extricated her from a grave difficulty, and so, stifling a sigh, she added: “I will go if mother will consent to it.”

“I’m going to get up,” spoke Sally decidedly. “When did thee wish to start, Friend Nurse?”

“I should like to go to-morrow,” answered Nurse Johnson. “Fairfax hath made arrangements for a large sled to use in place of the double wagon in which we came. That will make traveling easy, and we should start while the snow is on the ground. Should there come a warm spell the roads would be terrible.”

“Let’s go right down-stairs to see about it,” cried Sally. “If we go to-morrow there will be need for haste. See, Friend Nurse, the mere thought of going with thee hath given me strength. How much better I do feel already.”

“I’ll see that you have some color in these pale cheeks before I’m through with you,” declared Nurse Johnson pinching them lightly. “With Peggy and me to look after you a few days will make a great difference in you. Yes; let’s see about it right away.”

After all the matter was not mentioned immediately. David Owen had received some further orders which hastened his departure, and in the confusion of preparation the subject was not broached. It was at the tea table that Nurse Johnson unfolded the plan.

“And the raids, Friend Johnson?” spoke Mistress Owen. “Doth thy sister live where she would be subjected to them?”

“When Brother Tom wrote he said that there had been no trouble since Yorktown,” answered Nurse Johnson. “Did I think for one moment that there was danger I should not wish to take them into it. But Freehold is some distance from the coast, though the sea breezes have an appreciable effect upon the climate, and ’twill be of benefit to both girls to get away for a little while. Miss Sally certainly needs the change. I would take good care of them.”

“I do not doubt it, friend,” answered Peggy’s mother. She saw that Sally was eager for the trip, and knew that the girl’s mother would consent to it only on condition that Peggy would go also. Both Mrs. Owen and her daughter felt that it would be ungracious to refuse, and consent was given.

So it came about that the next morning, so well wrapped up that they declared themselves unable to breathe, Peggy and Sally were helped into the big double sleigh that Fairfax had secured, and the journey toward New Jersey was begun.

There is something exhilarating about the beginning of any journey. Add to it youth, brilliant sunshine, the keen air of a frosty morning, and the high spirits of the maidens will be understood. Sally was almost wild with delight.

“Oh, Friend Fairfax,” she cried leaning forward to speak to him as the party sped away, the snow creaking under the runners, “isn’t this just the nicest ride thee ever took? Isn’t thee having just the best time?”

“Yes,” answered the youth so briefly that her face clouded. Fairfax was once more enveloped in his garb of bashfulness, and attended strictly to the driving, letting the task of entertaining their guests fall upon his mother.

“I do believe that he is feeling bad because Betty hath not come,” pouted Sally in a mischievous aside. “Doesn’t thee, Peggy?”

To Peggy’s amusement the youth turned quickly:

“I am, Mistress Sally. I—I’d like all three here.”

And thus, with laughter and light conversation, the day passed. The beautiful country places which had bordered the road near Philadelphia gave way to pleasant villages, and these in turn were succeeded by thick woods whose pure clean beauty elicited exclamations of delight. In many places the road was unbroken, and the sleigh passed under white laden branches which drooped heavily, and which at the slightest jar would discharge their burden over the party in miniature snow-storms. They had made such a late start that it was decided to lie at Bristol for the night, and reached that place as the afternoon sun began to cast long chill shadows through the darkening woods and to shroud the way in fast deepening obscurity.

Across the Delaware the road took them through dense forests, and over trackless vacancies of snow-clad spaces into which the highway disappeared. There were a few scattering villages, and near these they encountered travelers, but on the highroad they met no one. In spite of themselves this fact wore upon them. The cold was not severe, but there was a stillness that held a penetrating chillness of its own. The country was undulating, swelling into an elevation called the Atlantic Highlands near the coast, and into the range of mountains in the north known as the Kittatinny Hills. All were well covered with forests of pine.

By noon of the third day they emerged from the woods, and found a long stretch of white-clad country before them. A few farms could be seen in the far distance, but otherwise there was no sign of life on the wide expanse. It seemed to Peggy and Sally that the highway lay over vast snow fields, and the glare of the sunlight on the snow began to blur and blind them.

“I should welcome the sight of bird or beast,” observed Nurse Johnson. “The stillness hath been oppressive to-day. ’Tis the hard part of winter travel. In summer there is always the hum of insect, or the song of bird to while away the monotony of a journey, but in the winter there is naught to break the quiet. ’Tis as though all Nature slept under the blanket of snow. Still, the riding hath not been hard. A sleigh is so much easier than a wagon. You girls are tired, though, I can see. What are you looking at, Sally?”

“There seems to be something moving over there,” answered Sally indicating some small elevations about three miles to the north of the road. “Thee will get thy wish, Friend Nurse, for something is surely moving about. We have seen naught for so long that any living thing is curious. What are those specks, Friend Fairfax? They are too large for ducks.”

The youth turned and gazed steadily at the sand-hills to which she pointed. They were covered with snow which made them appear like ice hummocks in the sunshine, and which rendered the small black objects moving among them very distinct.

“They look to me like men,” remarked Peggy who sat on the front seat beside Fairfax.

“They are men,” he responded. “Men and horses.”

“I wonder what they are doing there,” cried Sally.

The youth did not reply, and Peggy caught the look that passed between him and his mother. She bent toward him quickly.

“What is it?” she asked. “What does thee fear?”

“I fear they are desperadoes,” he replied. “I must make yon farmhouse.”

With an exclamation the girl turned to look again at the sand-hills. To her amazement the spots that had been so indeterminate a few moments since now had become a body of horsemen, which was moving rapidly toward them. Fairfax was pale. He leaned forward and spoke to the horses just as Sally cried:

“They see us, Fairfax. They are coming on the run.”

“Can you drive, Peggy?” he asked.

“Yes,” she told him breathlessly.

“Then take my place,” he said. “See the farmhouse to the right on that crossroad? We must make that, Peggy. I must get out the guns. If they catch us there will be a fight.”

“I have the ammunition, son,” said Nurse Johnson. “Get over here, and let me do the loading.”

Peggy took the lines, and the youth stooped down and drew the muskets from under the front seat of the sleigh.

“Drive, Peggy,” he called excitedly as he rose with the weapons. “Drive as you never drove before. They are gaining on us.”

CHAPTER X

A RACE FOR LIFE

“What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife,
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life?

* * * * *

In either cause, one rage alone possess’d
The empire of the alternate victor’s breast;
And they that smote for freedom or for sway,
Deem’d few were slain while more remain to slay.”

—Byron.

Peggy cast a fleeting glance backward, and the rich bloom of her cheeks faded to paleness as she saw what amazing progress the horsemen had made. Their own horses had been on the road since early morning, and should the beasts of their pursuers be fresher she feared for the result. With this reflection she cast aside her scruples and, taking the whip out of its socket, let it fall in a stinging cut. The horses leaped under the lash, then steadied to a rapid trot. Far behind sounded a faint halloa, but she did not turn her head. The horses demanded all her attention. How far away that farmhouse seemed! Could they reach it before these lawless wretches overtook them? They must. Again she let the lash fall, and the horses were off in a mad gallop.

In some manner Sally and Fairfax contrived to exchange places, and with stern set features the youth sat watching the rapid advance of the enemy, his musket ready for instant use. There were two guns. His mother held the other, and the ammunition lay on the seat between them. Not one of the little party voiced the thought that was in their minds, for each one realized the awful consequences that would follow capture by these desperadoes.

During the latter part of the Revolution there had sprung into existence a class of men which might be termed banditti. They were marauding bands which were restrained from robbery and outrage by no military authority. They infested the woods and preyed upon lone travelers, or small parties journeying upon the highways, and desolated solitary farmhouses at will. No outrage was too great for them to commit. Each state had its quota of these lawless wretches which superadded to the horrors of war.

The state of New Jersey was particularly beset, owing to its geographical situation between the two large cities of New York and Philadelphia. The pines of Monmouth County, in whose boundaries Peggy and her friends now were, afforded a safe hiding-place for numbers of such robbers. They had caves burrowed in the sand-hills near the margin of swamps in the most secluded situations, which were covered with brush so as to be undiscoverable. The inhabitants were kept in a state of constant terror by their visitations, for the object of such visits was to plunder, burn and murder. The farmers were obliged to carry their muskets with them even into the fields. After Yorktown their depredations ceased for a time, but as the British government delayed peace their atrocities were renewed. It was a mongrel crew of this character that was giving chase to the sleigh and its occupants. They were easily recognized by their accouterments.

On! And on! And on! To Peggy the whole landscape was featureless save for the farmhouse in the far distance. The sand-hills with their pines, and the salt marshes to the eastward blended together in an indistinguishable white blur. The wind whistled in their teeth, a rushing, roaring gale, filled with a salt flavor. Her calash had blown off, and her hair was flying, but the girl was conscious of but one thing which was that the thud of horses’ feet was drawing steadily nearer.

“Faster, Peggy,” cried Fairfax imploringly. “Faster!” As he spoke there came the report of muskets.

A scream burst from Sally’s lips as a bullet fell just short of the sleigh. An answering roar came from Fairfax’s gun, and the unequal fight was on. Peggy dared not look around.

“The whip,” she gasped hoarsely to Sally, for the lash had dropped from her hand and lay in the bed of the sleigh. “The whip.”

In an instant Sally had found it, and leaning over the dashboard she let it fall again and again on the horses. Infuriated at such treatment the animals plunged forward madly, and it was all Peggy could do to guide them. The crossroad leading to the farmhouse was but half a mile distant now. There were clumps of pines bordering it which would afford some protection from the bullets of the enemy. Could they reach it? The road swung to the south abruptly, and the horses took it on a sheer run. The noble animals were at their highest speed and doing their utmost, but to Peggy they seemed to move at snail’s pace. The yelling, shouting band of ruffians was undoubtedly coming closer. It was amazing with what speed they had borne down upon the sleigh, but they were better horsed. Suddenly the outcries took a louder note. A shower of bullets fell about the sleigh, and in agonized tones Fairfax called to the others to get under the seats. Peggy did not know whether Sally and Nurse Johnson obeyed the command or not, but she did not stir. She could not. She was possessed with the determination to reach the crossroad, with its protecting pines. If they could but reach that road! Sally was sobbing, and Peggy’s own breath came gaspingly. She leaned forward, and in utter desperation tried to call to the horses, but her cries were lost in a series of blood-curdling yells from the pursuers.

A SHOWER OF BULLETS FELL ABOUT THE SLEIGH.

Fairfax was making a gallant defense, but the odds were greatly against him. It was a miracle that he was not hit by some of the bullets that were falling about them. His own aim had been more fortunate, and three ruffians had toppled from their saddles. Still, it could be but a question of time ere the greater number would be victorious, and that the robbers were aware of this was apparent in their shouts of triumph.

Presently the leader of the band, who was astride a big bay, spurred his horse forward.

“Halt!” he cried. “Halt, young man!” The youth’s reply was a shot, and the bay went down.

A howl of rage arose from the marauders, and they tore down the road like so many demons. Just as the sleigh reached the crossroad two of them dashed past to the heads of the horses, and with shouts of exultation reached out to grasp the bits. And then, from out of the thickets of pines, little jets of smoke puffed forth and the two rascals tumbled to the ground. Before the occupants of the sleigh could realize what had happened a body of twenty or thirty troopers rode from among the trees, and made a dash for the enemy. Fairfax uttered a whoop of joy.

“The Jersey Dragoons!” he cried.

At sight of them the bandits turned to flee, but the dragoons were after them on the run, shouting, yelling, and with pistol-balls flying. All became in an instant a scene of the most lively confusion. Volley after volley the troopers poured into the fleeing ruffians, and here and there men and horses dropped.

The air reeked with the smell of gunpowder, and many riderless horses, snorting with fear and pain, galloped with flying reins up and down the road. The ground was strewn with dead and dying, and the snow was trampled and bloody. The onset of the dragoons was pitiless, incessant, furious; no quarter being given. The state wanted these wretches extirpated, and whenever an encounter took place the conflict was sure to be a sanguinary one. Soon the shattered ranks of the ruffian band scattered for the sand-hills, and the captain, knowing that the bandits would have the advantage once the hills were reached, sounded the recall. Reluctantly, his men gave up the chase.

As the dragoons charged the bandits Fairfax had taken the lines from Peggy, and driven beyond range of the bullets, then stopped to watch the assault. Their escape had been so narrow that none of them could realize that their safety was assured. Peggy and Sally were white and shaken, and Nurse Johnson retained her composure with difficulty. Now as the troopers came up to them they welcomed them with deep gratitude.

“’Twas a close call,” was the captain’s comment to Fairfax. “You were doing nobly, sir, but the odds were hopeless.”

“Had you not come, captain, I dare not think of the result,” said Fairfax with emotion. “There was but one more round of ammunition left when you appeared with your men, though I knew not of it. Mother here was doing the loading, and she did not tell me.”

“I am glad that we happened along,” said the officer. “The highways are not safe these days. Our state troops are doing what we can toward making them so, but good men are scarce and robbers many. ’Twas the merest accident that we chose that spot for our midday meal. We were right in the midst of it when you were seen with those miscreants in pursuit.”

“But,” spoke the youth with some bewilderment, “my uncle wrote that their depredations had ceased since Yorktown.”

“And so they did for a time, but the respite was short. What with these robbers, and the raids of the refugees Jerseymen scarce know which way to turn. The state is in truth sorely tried. Where does your uncle live, and for what place are you bound?”

“Thomas Ashley is my uncle. He lives at Freehold, which should not be many miles distant,” answered Fairfax. “We came to make our home there. That is, my mother and I did. These two young ladies are visitors.”

“Their welcome, while a warm one, is not much to their liking, I’ll warrant,” said the officer with a light laugh, and a quick glance at the pale faces of the maidens. “Well, you will have no more trouble from this on. This stretch of the turnpike is the most dangerous in the county, and once past it one is safe from molestation. Good-bye! A safe journey to you. I think we shall finish that dinner now.”

He would not listen to their thanks, but saluting, wheeled, and rode back to the conflict ground where some troopers were attending to the wounded. Fairfax spoke to the horses, and silently the journey which had had such a tragic interruption was resumed.

CHAPTER XI

THE CHOICE OF FAIRFAX

“Ours are no hirelings trained to the fight,
With cymbal and clarion, all glittering and bright;
No prancing of chargers, no martial display;
No war-trump is heard from our silent array.
O’er the proud heads of our freemen our star-banner
waves;
Men, firm as their mountains, and still as their
graves.”

—T. Graves.

Although each member of the little party had borne himself well in the face of peril, now each one found himself in the utter exhaustion that follows unusual stress of mind or body. It was no longer possible to lighten the tediousness of travel by conversation, and for this reason the remainder of the journey seemed long and exceedingly wearisome. Had conditions been other than they were both Peggy and Sally would have noticed the broad morasses which bisected the wide plains they were now traversing. They would have exclaimed at the acres of reeds which covered the vast extent of these marshes, and at the wild fowl which rose in clouds from them; for already the ducks were flying. They would have discussed how these swamps became dangerous quagmires at a later season, and how the sandy soil, now so firm and solid under its blanket of snow, would become soft and yielding so that horses could scarce travel through it.

All these things failed to rouse them from the weariness that held them. The over-hanging branches of the leafless trees arched over the highway, and obscured the light of the westering sun. Further on, the road left the forest and ran by open fields and hedgerows of cultivated lands. It was not until they had passed through a low lying plain, and crossed the broad marsh which separated it from the wooded heights of Freehold that it occurred to any of them that they were passing over the battle-ground of Monmouth. Then, as the high peaked roof of the court-house came into view, Nurse Johnson roused herself.

“Is it not somewhere hereabouts that the Battle of Monmouth was fought?” she asked. “Methinks I remember ’twas at the seat of Monmouth County that His Excellency’s forces overtook the English.”

“Yes.” Fairfax looked about him. “The hottest part of the battle occurred at yon parsonage; although I’ve heard that there was hard fighting over the entire plain.”

“Oh, don’t talk of battles,” broke in Sally glancing about fearfully. “Every bush and tree seems but made to hide an enemy.”

“Give me pardon, my dear,” spoke Nurse Johnson contritely. “’Tis small wonder that you wish not to hear of battles after the experience of the day. I make no doubt but that all of us will be glad when we are within the sheltering walls of a house. Are we almost there, son?”

“Yes, mother. ’Tis just beyond the village a short distance, though I know not in which direction the farm lies. I will have to inquire at the tavern.”

The amber light of dusk was tipping the trees when the youth turned from the highway into the wooded road leading to his uncle’s dwelling. The farmhouse was gray and weather-beaten, set in a circle of cleared land, and ringed by the forest. There was something about the well-sweep, the orchard, the gardens, that spoke of neglect and desolation, and Peggy felt a chill go through her as she noted no stir of life about the place. From the open doors of the barn came no movement of restless horse, or low of cattle. Not a twitter nor cheep from the hen-house broke the quiet that brooded over everything. Though it was still early twilight the wooden shutters were tightly closed, and had it not been for the light which streamed through their crescentic openings the house would have been deemed deserted. The girl started nervously as a night-owl hooted suddenly from a near-by thicket.

“I wonder if they are at home?” she mused aloud.

“Why, of course they are, Peggy,” answered Sally. “Does thee not see the light?”

“Yes; but——” began Peggy, and paused expectantly as Fairfax, who had alighted, knocked loudly upon the door.

It was a full moment before a reply came; then a man’s voice demanded sharply:

“What’s wanted?”

“’Tis your nephew, Uncle Tom,” answered the lad cheerily.

“Nephew, heigh? I haven’t any in this part of the country. You can’t put in a take-off like that on Tom Ashley. Clear out! My firelock’s ready.”

“Well, this is a fine welcome, I must say,” cried Nurse Johnson indignantly. “Write for us to come all the way from Virginia to visit you, and then find a firelock ready for us. I don’t think much of such doings, Tom Ashley!”

“Why a pox on me!” came in excited accents from behind the closed door. “Didst hear that, Mary? That’s Hannah Johnson’s voice as sure as preaching. It must be Hannah and her boy.”

There followed the rattle of a chain, the drawing of bolts, then the door was flung wide, and the light from a blazing fire in the fireplace threw into strong relief the forms of a man and a woman standing on the threshold.

“Have in, have in,” cried the man genially. “Mary, see to the opening of the stable while I bring the folks in. Ye are as welcome as the spring would be, though ye did give us a great scare. ’Twas a most unmannerly greeting, but ’twas not meant for ye. The times are such that no man dares to open his door to a visitor when dark is coming on without he knows who ’tis. This is a surprise. I had writ ye not to come.”

“You had, uncle?” queried Fairfax as they shook hands. Thomas Ashley had left the door by this time, and now stood beside the sleigh. “When? We did not get it.”

“’Tis not to be wondered at considering the state of the country. I sent it the last of January. Still, so long as ye didn’t get it I’m glad ye are here. So you brought your sweetheart along, heigh? Which one is she?”

A ripple of laughter rose to Peggy’s lips at the remark. Her spirits had revived as soon as she understood that their reception was due to caution rather than to the lack of welcome, and she spoke roguishly as the farmer assisted her out of the sleigh:

“We did not bring her, friend. Thy nephew hath had to content himself with Sally and me because Betty could not come.”

“I’ll warrant the boy hath not found the consolation irksome,” laughed Mr. Ashley. A twinkle came into his eye as he noted the youth’s blushes and the mischievous glances of the girls. “Well, well,” he said, “ye are welcome anyway. Now, Hannah, go right in with these girls while nevvy helps me with the horses.”

“You surely don’t keep that barn door open when there are horses inside, do you, Tom?” Nurse Johnson’s disapproval of the lax fastening of the barn was plainly evident in her tones.

“It won’t make any difference, Hannah, whether ’tis fastened or not. If there’s horses there somebody gets them anyway. We leave the door open to save them the trouble of breaking the bolt.”

“Then why do we put the horses there?” queried Fairfax in blank consternation.

“We don’t, nevvy.” The farmer chuckled. “If we did we wouldn’t have them long. Wait a minute. There! There’s Mary now.”

The dwelling was a story and a half house, with a lean-to attached to one end. Just as Farmer Ashley finished speaking the whole front of the lean-to swung open in a great door, disclosing an aperture large enough to admit both horses and sleigh. Mrs. Ashley emerged from the dark interior as the door swung back, and came toward them.

“Well, that is a contrivance,” ejaculated Nurse Johnson after she had greeted her sister. “Who would think of finding a stable right in the house?”

“’Tis the only way we can keep a horse,” explained the farmer’s wife. “’Tis right next the kitchen, so we know the minute anything is wrong, if we have a horse there; which we have not at present. We believe that no one outside the family knows of its use for such purpose, and ’tis something to have a hiding-place for animals. But come in! Here we stand talking, and you must be both cold and hungry. Come, Hannah! And ye also, my dears. I am glad that the supper is belated to-night, for now ’twill be hot, which is well after a long journey.”

Thus talking she led them into the house, carefully bolting the door after them. A door on one side the chimney gave entrance to the lean-to. Another, on the other side of the room, opened into another apartment, but the kitchen itself seemed to be the main living-room. It was large and roomy, and a table drawn up before the hearth was spread for the evening meal. A great fire of pine boughs blazed in the deep-throated fireplace filling the room with fragrance and cheerfulness. The maidens ran to it with exclamations of pleasure.

“Oh!” cried Sally with a deep breath. “How pleasant and homey it is. I feel as though this afternoon were a dreadful dream, and that naught could befall us here. Dost see, Peggy? There is a quilt on the frame. ’Twill be a fine chance to teach Captain Johnson the stitches. ’Twill give him relaxation from military duty.”

“He will have small time for relaxation, I fear me,” spoke the farmer entering at this moment with Fairfax from the lean-to. “There is to be great activity in the army this summer, I hear. ’Tis to be hoped that something will be done to help us. The Jerseys have suffered greatly in the war, and Monmouth County more than the rest of the state put together.”

“We had a taste of what you are going through this afternoon,” Fairfax informed them quietly. “We were set upon by robbers, and had it not been for the opportune coming of some state dragoons you would not have had to give us welcome.”

“Robbers!” exclaimed the farmer and his wife simultaneously. “Why did you not tell us sooner? Was any one hurt?”

“No,” answered the youth. “Of course we were upset, which is small cause for wonderment.”

“Tell us about it, nevvy,” began Thomas Ashley eagerly, but his wife interposed:

“Now, father, if no one hath received a hurt let’s eat before the supper gets cold. A good story will keep better than hot victuals. We shall have the night to talk in. ’Tis a long journey from Virginia, and belike they are hungry. But first, Hannah, tell us who these young friends are.”

“Mercy on me, Mary,” gasped Nurse Johnson, drawing the girls forward. “I clear forgot my manners. This is Mistress Margaret Owen, who went back with me to Williamsburgh when I was here last year. I have writ you anent her visit, as I make no doubt you remember. And this is her friend, Mistress Sarah Evans. She hath been ailing of late, and methought the change would be of benefit. We call them Peggy and Sally.”

“You are both welcome,” said the hostess warmly, “though I would the times were not so troublous. What with the pine robbers, the freebooters and the Tories we are in daily dread of attack.”

“A plague take the rascals,” cried Mr. Ashley excitedly. “No man’s life, liberty, or property is safe these days. We are set upon in the fields, and upon the highways. Our dwellings are sacked and burned, and we are thankful if life is left. I tell ye,” he cried bringing down his fist upon the table with so much vim that the dishes rattled, “I tell ye New Jersey hath stood the brunt of the war. She hath been, and is now, the battle-field of the new nation. Things have come to such a pass that some way, somehow, relief must be had from these internal enemies.”

“But hath nothing been done to rid the state of them?” asked the youth.

“Done? Everything hath been done, nevvy. We have not only furnished our quota of men to the main army, but also formed companies of militia, both cavalry and infantry, to fight these pests. The Legislature is endeavoring to establish a strict patrol of the coast and the highways. In addition, we men who are too old for constant service have formed an association to retaliate upon our greatest enemies, the Tories, and to go out as necessity demands. Why, think of it! Up there in New York City are many of our friends and neighbors formed into a corps called The Associated Loyalists, under the leadership of our former governor, William Franklin. An unworthy son of a great father! At his command this corps harasses the state at will. Knowing the country ’tis easy for it to slip in where the greatest harm can be done, and out it goes before we know ’tis here. Staten Island and Sandy Hook are handy refuges for such raiders. We might handle the robbers, could we be rid of these incursions. We hoped for peace after Yorktown, but the depredations are now worse than ever. Something must be done, for New Jersey’s very existence is threatened.”

“There seems to be a need of men,” remarked the young man musingly. “When am I to report for duty, Uncle Tom?”

Mr. Ashley turned toward him quickly.

“There is need of men,” he said. “Your commission was to be with the regular army, if you wanted it so. Colonel Elias Dayton, who now commands the Jersey Brigade at Chatham, wants every man to report for duty this month. But——”

“But what, Uncle Tom?” asked Fairfax as the farmer paused abruptly.

“But I wish ye’d stay in Monmouth, nevvy. We need every man we can get to help us defend our homes. We have sent and sent to the main army until we are almost stripped of fighting men. General Washington may have to go against the English this summer, and then again he may have to lie inactive. It all depends upon the instructions which England will give to the new general who is to supersede Clinton. Of course, with a campaign there would be more chance for glory with the regular line. Such distinction as that must appeal to a lad of parts; but, boy, New Jersey needs you. Why, Washington depends on us for flour, and how can we raise the grain when we are shot down as we plow the fields? A man can do service, and great service, right here in the militia. There won’t be much glory, nevvy, but there will be plenty of action. In Freehold there is a company now of twenty-five twelvemonth boys that needs a captain. The Legislature will gladly give you the commission. Now, nevvy, the choice is with you. What will you do?”

The youth let his head fall upon his breast in thought. The supper had long since been finished, and the other members of the group sat interested listeners to the conversation between uncle and nephew. Peggy looked at the young fellow wonderingly. A captain’s commission in the regular army was to be desired. She remembered how John Drayton had had to serve for years to obtain one. Such an office gave a rank that no militia could offer. Could any youth deliberately cast aside the distinction? A glance at Fairfax gave no clue to his mental attitude. It seemed a long time that he sat there meditating, but presently he looked up and met the questioning gaze of Thomas Ashley with a smile.

“The greatest need seems to be right here,” he said. “I think I’d like to help clear out the Tories, and to get a whack at those pine robbers. I have a reckoning to settle with them on my own account. This field will suit me all right.”

“Good for you, nevvy,” cried his uncle in a shout. “I thought you’d do it. You are a lad after my own heart. Still, it is only fair that you should know that your task will be fraught with danger. The Tories single out for vengeance any man who fights with unction against them. Let him proceed with too much ardor and he becomes a marked man.”

“That is true in any part of the country, uncle, as well as in New Jersey,” was the lad’s rejoinder. “I am ready for whatever goes with the work.”

But at this there came a cry from his mother:

“Tom Ashley, what are you getting my boy into?”

“Nothing that my own boys have not endured, Hannah. One fell in the great battle on yonder plain near the court-house, and lies now in Freehold burying-ground. The other, Charley, made the same choice as your boy, and is down at Tom’s River helping to defend old Monmouth.”

“But oh——” she began when Fairfax interrupted her:

“It’s all right, mother. It means no more danger than I’d have to encounter with the regular army, or than I have already faced in the militia at home.”

“It may be,” she answered, but her eyes were troubled. “It may be.”

“It waxes late,” exclaimed Mrs. Ashley glancing at Sally whose eyelids were drooping in spite of herself. “These girls, at least, are ready for bed; and to bed they must go.”

And without heeding their protests the good woman hurried them up to a little room under the eaves, nor would she depart until they were tucked warmly in the great feather-bed. Sally’s drowsiness left her as soon as she found herself alone with Peggy.

“Peggy,” she whispered, snuggling close to her friend, “what does thee think of it all?”

“’Tis like the Carolinas and Virginia were,” returned Peggy soberly. “Oh, Sally! is it not awful that men should so hunt and hound each other? The poor people of the states have stood so much that ’tis marvelous that any are left for resistance. Nurse Johnson whispered to me that she should not feel easy until we were back in Philadelphia.”

“Would that we were,” said Sally earnestly. “Peggy!”

“Yes, Sally.”

“I was afraid this afternoon when the robbers attacked us. What if I were to be fearful all the time?”

“We must not be, Sally,” spoke Peggy quickly. “’Twould wherrit these kind friends if we were to show fear. They will take excellent care of us, and take us home soon, I make no doubt.”

“Isn’t thee ever afraid, Peggy?”

“Why, yes; of course,” answered Peggy. “Every one is, I think. But mother told me once never to anticipate trouble, and so I try not to think about what might happen. We must be bright and cheerful whatever occurs. It should be easy for thee, Sally. Thee is always happy in the hospital.”

“That is because I have something to do,” responded Sally sagely. “If one is so busy that one has no time to think one can’t be afraid.”

“I make no doubt then thee will soon have plenty to occupy thee when Fairfax joins his company, Sally.”

Sally laughed as Peggy had intended she should.

“I like Fairfax,” she said with emphasis. “But didst notice, Peggy? He spoke not once to either of us after we entered the house. Truly, his diffidence doth envelop him like a mantle; yet, when those robbers were giving us chase, he had no difficulty in telling us just what to do. Indeed, he was then as much at ease in speaking to us as thy father or Robert would have been.”

“Then he was doing ‘man’s duty,’” laughed Peggy. “’Tis marvelous how an emergency doth make him shed his shyness.”

“I like him,” repeated Sally. “In very truth, Peggy Owen, doth thee not consider him the very nicest lad that we know?”

“And yet,” observed Peggy meditatively, addressing the darkness, “methinks there was a girl, not a hundred miles from this very bed, who told me that she agreed with my Cousin Harriet that Clifford excelled all other youths.”

“I am going to sleep,” announced Sally, turning over hastily. “Does thee not think it time? We had a wearisome journey.”

Peggy giggled appreciatively.

“That was a well directed shot,” she remarked, “since it hath reduced the ranks to silence.”

CHAPTER XII

“THEY MUST GO HOME”

“It wounds, indeed,
To bear affronts too great to be forgiven,
And not have power to punish.”

—“Spanish Friar,” Dryden.

“Let them sleep, Hannah. I make no doubt but that they are greatly fatigued.”

“Yet methinks they would not care to be left behind if we go to the meeting-house, Mary. Both maidens have regard for the Sabbath. First-day, they call it.”

Peggy sat up quickly as the foregoing words penetrated her drowsed consciousness, and parting the curtains of the bed looked out. The door leading into the adjoining chamber was ajar, and through it the voices of the two women sounded distinctly. A flood of bright sunshine filled the little room with dazzling light, and she uttered an exclamation of dismay at the lateness of the hour.

“Sally,” she called, bending over her still sleeping friend and shaking her gently, “’tis time to get up. I fear me that we have over-slept.”

Sally stirred protestingly between the lavender-scented sheets, then opened her blue eyes sleepily.

“Did mother call?” she murmured. “Oh, dear! I don’t want to get up.”

“Thy wits are wool-gathering, Sally,” laughed Peggy slipping from the high bed without touching the small flight of steps generally used for descending. “Thee is not at home, but in Freehold. We must dress with speed, for the friends wish to go to the meeting-house.”

“Heigh-ho!” yawned Sally rubbing her eyes. “Methought I was in Philadelphia, and here we are in—— Is it East or West Jersey, Peggy?”

“Neither. ’Tis New Jersey, Sally.”

“But which would it be had they not gone together to make New Jersey?” persisted Sally.

“It seems to me, miss, that for so sleepy a damsel thee is consumed with a great thirst for geographical knowledge,” was Peggy’s comment as she dipped her face in the washing bowl.

“Does thee really know, Peggy Owen?”

“I don’t, Sally. Is thee pleased?”

“Yes,” declared Sally. “I thought of course thee would be informed, as thee has traveled so much. Peggy!”

“Well?”

“Did thee name the bedposts to find who would be thy fate? And at which one did thee look? Betty and I always do it when we sleep in a strange bed.”

“Yes, Sally. And I looked at this one.” Peggy lightly touched the post nearest her.

“Why, that’s the very one I saw first,” cried Sally excitedly. “For whom did thee name it, Peggy? What if it should be the same as mine! I called it—Fairfax.”

“Fairfax,” came from Peggy at the same moment. A merry peal of laughter filled the chamber as they uttered the name in unison.

“And how shall it be decided?” cried Sally gaily. “I shall never be second, Peggy.”

“What if Betty were here?” queried Peggy mirthfully.

“We should both have to give up then, of course. I’ll tell thee what: Being of the sect of Friends we cannot fight a duel, as the world’s people do, so when we go down-stairs let’s note which one of us he addresses first. That one shall be The One,” she ended impressively.

“Very well. Is thee ready, Sally?”

Arm in arm they descended the stairs. A chorus of “Good-mornings” greeted them as they entered the living-room. Mrs. Ashley, who was just putting breakfast on the table, glanced at them smilingly.

“You are both as bright as the morning,” she remarked approvingly. “’Tis no need to ask how ye slept. Truly your experience of yesterday doth not seem to have weighed upon you as I feared it would.”

“And how I did sleep!” exclaimed Sally. “The bed was so downy that Peggy had hard work to make me get up. What virtue does thee give thy feathers, Mistress Ashley, to make them bestow so sound a slumber?”

“Methinks any bed would have served the purpose when you were so fatigued, child,” answered the hostess, pleased nevertheless by the girl’s tribute to her feathers. “Nevvy, will you find places for the girls at the table?”

“Certainly, Aunt Mary.” Fairfax placed the chairs around the table, then drawing out two of them, turned toward the maidens, his face flushing at the necessity of addressing them, his whole manner betokening the diffidence that beset him. With demure looks but twinkling eyes the girls awaited his next words eagerly. “Have these chairs,” he said.

An irrepressible giggle came from Sally. Peggy bit her lips to keep back her laughter, and cast down her eyes quickly. The youth had included both in his speech, and, during the meal that followed, his few remarks were characterized by a like impartiality. When at length all were in the sleigh bound for the meeting-house at Freehold both girls were bubbling over with mischief.

“What spirits you two are in this morning,” observed Nurse Johnson. “Do tell us the fun.”

“’Tis thy son,” explained Sally in a whisper. “We want to see which one of us he addresses singly, because we both named the same bedpost after him, and ’tis the only way to decide our fate. He won’t speak to either of us alone,” she ended plaintively.

Nurse Johnson laughed heartily, well knowing that these girls liked her boy, and that such teasing as they indulged in was partly girlish fun, and partly a desire to cure him of his bashfulness.

“What a thing it is to be young,” she commented almost enviously. “Mary, did we ever do such things?”

“As naming bedposts, do you mean, Hannah? Truly. Many and many a post have we both named.”

“And how did it turn out?” asked Sally eagerly. Before the lady could reply Peggy spoke suddenly:

“Why do thy husband and Fairfax carry their muskets?” she inquired with surprise.

“’Tis not safe to go to meeting without them, child,” responded the matron gravely. “To such a state hath New Jersey come that ’tis impossible to go from one’s door without firelocks.”

“’Tis as it was when the country was first settled,” remarked Nurse Johnson. “Only then, ’twas fear of the savages, and now——”

“’Tis of a foe no less savage, Hannah,” completed her sister. “The long years of warfare have rendered the enemy cruel and pitiless in the extreme.”

“’Tis as bad here as on the frontiers,” commented Peggy. “Before we came ’twas talked at Philadelphia that an uprising of the Indians was looked for along the borders. In truth, methinks there hath already been atrocities committed upon the settlers, but affairs seem no worse with them than they are here with you.”

When they finally drew up before the Freehold meeting-house it was obvious to the least heedful that something unusual was astir. Although the snow lay deep in front of the building and a keen nip was in the air, there were groups of men scattered over the green. Despite the chill, some sat upon the steps of the church, others clustered about the wagons in the wagon-shed, and still others stood about, stamping their feet or swinging their arms to keep warm. But whether sitting or standing each man held a musket in the hollow of his arm ready for instant use, while about the church two men patrolled as sentinels. All the light and laughter died out of the faces of the maidens at these warlike signs, and unconsciously they drew closer together.

“I wonder what hath happened,” mused Farmer Ashley stopping before the horse-block. “What’s to do, neighbor?” he called to a man in a near-by group.

“Sam Nathan’s farm was raided by the loyalists last night, Tom,” came the startling response. “His house and barns were burned, and Sam himself killed. His wife and daughter escaped into the woods, and reached Freehold this morning half dead from shock and exposure.”

“Sam Nathan!” ejaculated Mrs. Ashley becoming pale. “Why, that was only five miles from us, father. ’Twill be our turn next.”

“Now don’t go to looking for trouble, Mary,” chided her husband. “You women-folks go right into the meeting-house, and whatever you do, be cheerful. Nevvy and I will come in presently.”

The church was partly filled with sad-eyed, patient-faced women, whose quiet demeanor was more heartrending than tears would have been. Some gave them the welcome that those who are united in the bonds of affliction give each other; others only stared at them with stony, unseeing eyes. Whose turn would be the next? was the thought that filled every breast. Oppressed and saddened, Peggy thoughtfully took the seat assigned her, and, as Sally sank down beside her, she slipped her hand into her friend’s protectingly. Sally responded with a reassuring pressure, and so with clasped hands the two sat throughout the service. And a memorable service it was. While the minister preached, the men took turns in patrolling the building and watching the horses. Beside every pew stood a musket, ready for instant use. Even in the house of God these people were not secure from the attacks of their enemies.

And without the sun shone brightly upon the hills and plains of Monmouth. Over the meadows lay the snow, and on the streams a thick coating of ice; but the pines were green in the woodlands, and the air—though sharp and nipping—still breathed of spring and hope. The land was fair to see in its winter garb. Man alone was the discordant note in Nature’s harmony.

As Thomas Ashley had said, all New Jersey was roused to action. Harassed and harried as no other state had been, with the exception of South Carolina, at this time it seemed on the verge of extinction, and its condition was in truth deplorable. In the earlier years of the war it had been swept like a plague by the horde of hireling Hessians and the British army. In addition, the main army of the patriots had wintered for several years among its mountains, and drawn upon it for supplies until the state was all but beggared. But if liberty live the army must eat; so the farmers plowed, and sowed, and reaped, even though many dropped in the fields from the crack of an ambushed rifle.

As though suffering from the depredations of the pine robbers were not enough, there was added to the state’s afflictions the incursions of the freebooters of the sea, and, far more bitter to bear—for civil war is ever without mercy and compassion—were the heinous outrages of the Tories. It was no wonder, with foes without and foes within, that the temper of the people had risen to fever heat, and that they were making determined efforts to rid themselves of their enemies.

The meeting was ended finally, and with saddened mien the family reëntered the sleigh. Farmer Ashley’s face wore a grave expression, while Fairfax’s countenance betokened a set determination. He turned toward his mother abruptly.

“Mother,” he said, “these girls must go home. New Jersey is no place for them.”

“You never spoke a truer word, nevvy,” chimed in his uncle. “They must go home; the sooner they start, the better ’twill be. So long as the snow lasts, the riding will be easy. Now, if you are willing to risk another encounter with the robbers, we will start with them Tuesday.”

“But would not Friend Nurse and thy wife be left unprotected while ye were away?” questioned Peggy in troubled accents.

“Now, Peggy, don’t wherrit over that,” spoke Nurse Johnson. “The first thing to attend to is getting you girls home. I should never have another minute’s peace if anything befell you. I ought never to have brought you into such danger, but I knew not that things were as they are here. Mary and I can take care of ourselves.”

“It won’t do, Hannah,” said Thomas Ashley decidedly. “The girls must go of a truth, but you and Mary must have protection, too. Capable ye both are, but ’twould not do to leave ye alone. The journey to Philadelphia would take all of six days, there and back. That would mean fast going at that. Should there come a thaw there’s no telling when we’d get home.”

“Friend,” broke in Peggy eagerly, “if thee could get us to Trenton there would be no need for thee to go on to Philadelphia. Both Sally and I have friends there who would see that we reached home safely. Beside, the stage runs thrice a week from that point to our city, and should other means fail, we could take that.”

“Come! that’s well thought of,” he cried quickly. “’Twould be but a day’s travel to Trenton, if the snow holds. Mary and Hannah could bide in Freehold until our return; so we’ll call the matter settled. Nevvy, we will start Tuesday.”

“Then on Tuesday ye will both be gone,” said Fairfax with such a sigh of relief that Sally, despite the gravity of the situation, could not forbear a little laugh.

“Oh, Peggy!” she cried, “why weren’t we named Betty? Had we been Captain Johnson would not wish us gone as soon as we arrived.”

“’Tis not as you think, Mistress Sally,” he protested earnestly. “Indeed, in truth”—he faltered, then continued manfully—“did I regard your friend as your words imply I would not consent to wait until Tuesday to take her back.”

A puzzled look spread over Sally’s face.

“Doth he mean that he is indeed fond of Betty?” she whispered to Peggy under cover of Thomas Ashley’s laughter which followed the youth’s response.

“I fear to say,” was Peggy’s amused reply.

And so, in spite of the fact that ravage and pillage had come very near to them in the night, they returned to the farm in much better spirits than would have been deemed possible when they left the meeting-house.

CHAPTER XIII

A WOMAN’S WIT

“Man is not born alone to act, or be
The sole asserter of man’s liberty;
But so God shares the gifts of head and heart,
And crowns blest woman with a hero’s part.”

—Author Unknown.

“Surely thee is not unpacking, Peggy?” questioned Sally as she entered their little room for the night. Peggy had preceded her by a few moments, and was now bending over her portmanteau. “It hardly seems worth while when we return so soon.”

“I am just getting my diary, Sally,” answered Peggy, drawing forth the book after several attempts to locate it. “Methought the time was propitious to make an entry. And of a verity that encounter with those robbers ought to make exciting reading for the Social Select Circle.”

“’Twas a wondrous adventure,” cried Sally with a shiver of pure enjoyment. “Since none of us received injury ’tis delightsome to have so stirring a thing to record for the girls. And oh, Peggy! is it not charming that I am with thee?”

“It is indeed, Sally. Anything is always more enjoyable when thee shares it with me; although I agree with Fairfax in wishing that we were at home.”

“If we start Third-day we should be there soon, Peggy. Were it not for the danger I should like to stay a little longer.”

“And so should I,” responded Peggy. “There! that entry is finished, with a half page to spare. Wouldn’t thee like to add something, Sally?”

“I’ll wait until morning,” decided Sally. “Although,” she added, “perchance ’twould be best to do it now, as to-morrow will be the day before we leave, and consequently we are quite apt to be busy.”

But Monday morning brought a clouded and softened sky; a brisk south wind arose, and the rain came driving. By Tuesday the wind had increased to a heavy gale, and the rain came with violence from the southwest. The snow-drifts that had been so white and fair became yellow, and smirched, and muddy, and lost their curves and lines. The roads were troughs of slush and water, impassable for any sort of vehicle. In spite of this condition of things Fairfax Johnson insisted that the maidens should be taken to Trenton.

“Why, son, ’twould be monstrous to send them forth in such weather,” remonstrated his mother. “They would get drenched.”

“Better that than to stay here,” he declared, but his uncle interposed:

“’Twould never do, nevvy. You couldn’t get as far as Freehold with the roads as they are. The rain won’t last more than a few days; and if it keeps us in it works the same with the raiders by keeping them out. They won’t venture into Monmouth County until the weather changes. They know too well the danger of the quagmires. We must bide our time, nevvy.”

And with this the lad was forced to content himself. For three days the rain continued, and with its ceasing every vestige of snow had disappeared, leaving conditions worse than ever. The roads were very soft and heavy, and most perilous where they crossed the marshes. Even the youth acknowledged that travel with a wagon was utterly out of the question. But he himself managed to ride into Freehold daily that he might meet with his company, and begin preparations to take the field as soon as offensive operations by the raiders were resumed.

So the days went by, but they were pleasant and busy ones for Peggy and Sally. True to their resolve to accept with cheerfulness whatever befell, their gay spirits softened and enlivened the gloom which might otherwise have settled upon the family. The mornings were devoted to housework and cookery; the afternoons to quilting the homespun bed-quilt which Sally had noticed in the frames on the night of their arrival. In the evenings all gathered about the great fireplace and indulged in such recreations as the farmhouse afforded. The girls had each set a pair of stockings upon the needles which they declared were for Fairfax, and, much to his embarrassment, he was called upon every evening to note the progress of the work. After the fashion of the time the name, Fairfax, and the date, 1782, were knit in the threads.

Soon the raw winds of March gave place to softer ones which blew caressingly from the south, dispelling all fear of frost. The soft wet of the ground disappeared under the balmy sunshine, and the air was a fount of freshness. The glad earth reveled under the warmth of the sun, and hill and valley, wood and meadow, blossomed under the touch of spring.

Along the Hudson, Washington gathered his forces for a final campaign, for not yet would England consent to terms of peace, and urged with entreaty upon the states the need of men and supplies. But with resources drained, and rendered apathetic by the long years of fighting, the country believed that the crisis had passed, and so responded slowly to the appeals of their leader. Each state had its own troubles that demanded attention, and the general welfare was lost sight of in the specific need. In New Jersey particularly, rent as it was by the internecine warfare, nothing was talked or thought but the putting down of its own individual enemies. As soon as the weather permitted the attacks of the loyalists were renewed with increased virulence. It was as though these people realized that with the coming of peace nothing would remain for them but expatriation, and so were determined to leave behind them naught but desolation.

And to stay this lawlessness the young captain with his company rode hither and thither over the county, pursuing the raiders with so much zeal and intrepidity that their rancor was aroused toward him. There came a day when Fairfax did not return in the evening as was his custom. Far away from the south-eastern part of the county had come the alarm that the refugees, under the leadership of Frank Edwards—a notorious desperado loyalist—had come down from Sandy Hook, and were approaching the neighborhood of Cedar Creek. Upon receipt of the intelligence the young captain had immediately set forth to prevent their marauding progress into the interior. A sharp skirmish took place which resulted in victory for the Monmouth defenders, and when at length they reëntered Freehold, they bore with them the notorious Edwards, a prisoner, together with a majority of his Tory band. Thomas Ashley was jubilant when the youth arrived with the news.

“Keep after ’em, nevvy,” he cried. “A few more such captures and old Monmouth may rest secure.”

“Report hath it that nothing short of hanging will be given Edwards,” Fairfax told him. “Few of the band will escape a sentence of some sort. Do you not think, Uncle Tom, that a few days could be taken now to get these maidens home? It preys upon my mind that they are still here.”

“And upon mine also, son,” said his mother gravely. “If these Tories are as vindictive as I hear they are there will be no safety for any of us since you have taken one of their leaders.”

“She speaks truth, nevvy. These girls have no part in this war. Pennsylvania hath woes of her own to endure. It is not just, or fitting that any of her citizens should be called upon to bear ours also. They shall go home.”

So once again Peggy and Sally gathered their belongings together for an early start to Trenton. All the day before the maidens were in a pleasurable state of excitement. Each realized that New Jersey was no longer a place for them, so they were glad to go; still, there were regrets at parting from these people who had been so kind, and whom the vicissitudes of fortune might preclude them from ever seeing again. Full of this feeling, Peggy found herself the victim of a pleasing melancholy the night before they were to leave, and it was long past midnight ere she was able to sleep. How long she slept she did not know, but it seemed to her that she had just fallen into slumber when something caused her to open her eyes. For a few moments she lay in that strange debatable region between sleeping and waking when the mind cannot distinguish between the real and the imaginary. All at once she sat up, fully awake, every sense strained and alert. Something was wrong. What was it? She listened intently, but such an intense stillness reigned throughout the house that Sally’s soft breathing smote her with a sense of disturbance. Parting the curtains of the bed she glanced apprehensively about the little chamber. The wooden shutters were closed, but through their bow-shaped openings came such a brilliant light that every object in the little room was plainly visible.

“How brightly the moon shines,” was her thought, and completely reassured she was about to draw the curtains when again there came the mysterious sound that had awakened her.

It was a crackling, snapping sound such as seasoned wood makes when the flame catches it in the open air. Very much alarmed Peggy slipped from the bed and ran to one of the windows. Softly she raised the sash, then cautiously swung back one of the shutters. She gave a low cry at the sight that met her gaze, and leaned far out of the window. The barn was a mass of flames, and there were dark forms flitting about among the budding trees. The raiders! For a moment she stood stricken with terror. Then the necessity for action roused her. Fairfax! Thomas Ashley! They must not be caught asleep. What would be their portion should these men find them? Full of excitement, her heart beating hard and fast, she sped into the adjoining room where Nurse Johnson slept.

“Awake!” she cried shaking her violently, her whisper rendered sharp and penetrating by fear. “The raiders are here. Thy son, Friend Nurse! There is danger. Oh, wake! wake!”

“What is it, Peggy?” Nurse Johnson was roused at last. “Are you ill?”

“The Tories,” gasped the maiden. “They are here. The barn is burning.”

In an instant Nurse Johnson was out of the bed, and had started for the door when the calm voice of her son spoke from the entrance:

“I hear. You women get in the middle room, and don’t go near a window. Uncle Tom is getting the muskets ready for the assault.”

Peggy ran back to close the shutter of the window she had opened, but could not forego a glance downward as she did so. The men, satisfied that nothing would be left of the barn, were now advancing stealthily toward the house, each bearing a lighted pine-knot. The girl’s heart beat pitifully as she divined their intention, which was obviously to set fire to the dwelling. She closed the shutter tightly, and then awakened Sally.

“Can’t we do something?” whispered Sally, after the women and the two girls had waited in breathless suspense for a few moments. “This waiting in the dark is terrifying. I shall scream if I can’t do something.”

Before a reply could be made there came a snort of terror from the lean-to, and a shout of triumph broke from the raiders as the snorting discovered the whereabouts of the horses. A ripping, tearing sound betokening that the boards were being torn from the improvised stable to get at the animals followed. A roar of rage burst from Farmer Ashley.

“At ’em, nevvy,” he cried. “They’re after the horses. He who shoots first has the advantage of the enemy.”

The young captain’s reply was a shot from his musket. A howl of anger rose from the attackers as the report of Thomas Ashley’s gun followed quickly. The two men then ran to other windows and began firing, endeavoring by quick shifting of position to give the impression that a large force was in the house. There were six muskets altogether, and one was placed by each window.

“This is work for us,” said Nurse Johnson calmly, as the women and girls in answer to Sally’s plea came down-stairs. “We can load while you two do the shooting. Peggy, do you stay with me while Mary and Sally take that side.”

There ensued several minutes of brisk work from without as well as within, and bullets came spitefully through windows and doors. Presently Mary Ashley spoke shrilly:

“Father, where is the cartridge paper? There are no more cartridges made up.”

“I don’t know, mother,” shouted Mr. Ashley successfully dodging a bullet that came through a shutter. “Ask nevvy.”

But Fairfax turned a look of consternation on his aunt.

“If there are no more cartridges in the pouch we are done for,” he said. “There’s plenty of powder and ball, but I don’t know where to lay hand to wadding.”

“Any sort of paper will do, Mary,” interposed Nurse Johnson. “Get a book.”

Paper was a scarce commodity in those times, and few houses, especially country houses, kept it in quantity. Books were rarer still, so now Mrs. Ashley spoke with the calmness of despair:

“There isn’t a book on the place. I let——”

“Wait a minute,” cried Peggy. “I have one.” She ran up the stairs as she finished speaking and soon returned, a book in her hand.

“Oh, Peggy,” wailed Sally, “’tis thy diary. And how will the girls ever know what hath befallen us without it?”

“They are apt to know naught if we do not use it, Sally,” said Peggy with some excitement, proceeding to tear the leaves into squares. Presently she paused, powder-horn in hand. “How much powder do I put in, Friend Nurse?” she asked.

While Nurse Johnson was showing the proper amount the enemy’s fire slackened suddenly. Farmer Ashley and Fairfax exchanged apprehensive glances. Were they weary, or was their stock of cartridges getting low? Then the fire ceased altogether, and as the smoke lifted Fairfax stole a look through the opening in a shutter. He turned a troubled face toward them after a moment’s survey.

“There’s nothing to be seen,” he said. “Surely they have not gone away?”

At this juncture a call came from outside:

“Tom Ashley!”

“Well? What’s wanted?” cried the farmer.

“We want that nephew of yours, and we’re going to have him.”

“Come and get him, then,” growled Thomas Ashley.

“We’re going to, Tom. We’ve burned your barn, and taken your horses. Now unless you let us have that captain we’ll burn the house right over your head. Will you surrender Captain Johnson?”

“No,” came from the farmer in a roar. “What manner of man do you think I am that I’d let a pack of Tory scoundrels have my nephew?”

“The woods won’t be pleasant camping for your women-folks at this time of the year, Tom,” came in threatening accents.

“No,” shouted the farmer. “You can’t have him.”

“Uncle, I’d better go out to them,” said Fairfax. “If they will promise to let the rest of you alone, and not burn the house, I’ll——”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, nevvy,” spoke Tom Ashley gruffly. “If they spare the house now ’twill be only that they may burn it later. You can’t depend upon the word of a Tory. We will stay here as long as we can, then make a dash for the woods. Thanks to Peggy we have plenty of cartridges now.”

“Something is burning,” cried Sally suddenly, sniffing the air.

A peculiar odor came through the loopholes of the windows, and the wind whirled a puff of smoke into the room. The faces of the girls blanched, and they looked at each other fearfully. The entire party seemed benumbed for the moment, then Fairfax sprang to the door of the lean-to.

“I’m going out to them,” he announced determinedly. “You shan’t burn here like rats in a trap.”

“Don’t go, son,” screamed his mother.

And, “Don’t go, Friend Fairfax,” came from the girls. “’Tis death out there.”

“And death to all within if I stay,” he answered, opening the door resolutely. A burst of flame from the lean-to forced him to recoil, and before he could recover himself his uncle had closed the door quickly.

“You young idiot,” he growled, “stay where you are. ’Twould be a useless sacrifice. You’ll do more good by staying here, and helping to cover the retreat of the women should we have to take to the woods.”

Fairfax made no answer, but stood in a dejected attitude, his head sunk upon his breast. The stillness without was ominous. Presently jets of flame crept across the threshold of the door leading to the lean-to. The farmer uttered an exclamation almost of despair as he reached for the water bucket.

“We are all right as long as the water holds out,” he groaned, dashing the bucket’s contents on the blaze. “God help us when ’tis gone.”

“Uncle Tom,” spoke the youth imploringly, “they only want me. Let me at least make a dash for the woods. There would be a chance of escape, and ’twould draw them away from here.”

“Would they really take after Fairfax if they saw him taking to the woods?” queried Nurse Johnson abruptly.

“Of a truth, Hannah. You see they’d like to get him on account of capturing Edwards, but we won’t give him up. He’s too necessary to the country.”

“Another place is on fire, friend,” screamed Sally at this moment.

Both the youth and his uncle sprang for the blaze, beating the flames with heavy wet cloths. Under cover of the excitement Nurse Johnson threw her son’s long cloak around her, caught up his three-cornered hat, and, before they realized what she was about, had opened the rear door of the kitchen and darted out.

A shout went up from the raiders, telling that she had been seen. A few scattering shots followed, then the clarion tones of the leader rang out:

“Don’t shoot, boys. Take him alive. We’ve got him now.”

“Mother!” cried Fairfax, springing toward the door. Tom Ashley caught him in an iron grip.

“Be quiet, nevvy,” he said sternly. “Hannah’s got too much wit to be taken, and she hath saved you; and all of us, for that matter. You are too valuable to the country to be given to such wretches. Even though all the rest of us perish, you must live. Now help me put out this fire. Peggy, do you run up-stairs, and see what’s happening.”

Up the stairs darted Peggy, with Mrs. Ashley and Sally following after. Too eager to be cautious she flung back a shutter, and looked out. The night was now far spent, and in the dim gray light of early dawn Nurse Johnson’s tall figure was not unlike that of her son. The intrepid woman had cleared the open spaces of the yard, and was now under the great trees of the forest, with the raiders in full pursuit. A few moments, and hunted and hunters were swallowed up by the long dark shadows of the woods.

CHAPTER XIV

MARCHING ORDERS

“Our bugles sound gayly. To horse and away!
And over the mountains breaks the day;
Then ho! brothers, ho! for the ride or the fight,
There are deeds to be done ere we slumber
to-night!
And whether we fight or whether we fall
By saber-stroke or rifle ball,
The hearts of the free will remember us yet,
And our Country, our Country will never forget.”

—Rossiter Worthington Raymond.

It was not until morning that the farmer and his nephew succeeded in getting control of the fire. When at length it was extinguished only a few charred timbers remained of the lean-to, and the dwelling itself was badly damaged. A heap of ashes marked the spot where the barn had stood, and the scene was one of desolation. The day had come, but there was no glory in the sunshine. The dank smell of early morning rose from the dew-drenched earth, but its freshness and fragrance were marred by the overpowering odor of smoke, and wet, charred wood. In the countless trees of the forest the birds were singing, but their songs fell upon unheeding ears. To the inmates of the farmhouse instead of melody the pines whispered a message of menace and despair.

“And now,” spoke Fairfax Johnson, as Thomas Ashley declared that there was no further danger of fire, “now I am going to see what hath become of my mother.”

“And I’ll go with you, nevvy. You must not think me hard and unfeeling, boy, but just now, when men are so scarce, we cannot afford to lose one unnecessarily. To have gone out to those men would have been certain death for you, and your mother did the best thing that could have been done. To be a patriot demands a great deal of us. To die is a small matter, but how we die is much. Your work is not finished. Until it is, nevvy, your life is not yours to lose needlessly. It belongs to the country. Even though Hannah be captured, it would not follow that aught of harm would come to her. She is a woman. But come!”

“Peggy,” whispered Sally, “Friend Ashley reminds me of Brutus.”

“Yes,” answered Peggy gazing after Fairfax with misty eyes. “Duty to country is first, of course; but sometimes when the heart is torn with anguish over the sacrifice of a loved one it doth seem that duty asks too much of us. Oh, Sally! Sally! will peace ever come? Will the country ever be aught but torn and disrupted by warfare? I cannot bear it.”

“Don’t, Peggy,” came from Sally sharply.

Mrs. Ashley, who was moving about the fire preparing breakfast, came to them quickly. She gave each girl a gentle kiss, and a soft pat, saying:

“Now, now, ’twill not do. After being such brave, helpful girls all night, are ye going to give way now? ’Twill never do, sweetings. For the boy’s sake, ye must be brave. See! I have nice, hot coffee all ready. Run after them, and tell them that I want them to take a cup before going far.”

“And we were going to be so brave,” reminded Sally wiping her eyes.

“’Tis all my fault,” said Peggy, “but ’twas the thought of——”

“Now be quick, or they will be gone too far,” interrupted Mistress Ashley.

The two men were entering the confines of the forest when Peggy called to them:

“Mistress Ashley wishes that ye would take a cup of coffee before going, friends. She hath it already prepared.”

Fairfax shook his head.

“Mother first,” he said. “I could not take anything.”

The tears came again to Peggy’s eyes.

“Yes, yes,” she said chokingly. “Make sure of Friend Nurse’s whereabouts first. How brave she was! How——”

“Did I hear something said anent coffee, Peggy?” came Nurse Johnson’s voice, and from among the trees she came toward them. She was smiling, but her appearance was anything but cheerful. Her face was very pale, her hair was unbound and hung upon her shoulders in a tangled mass; her garments were dew drenched, and she limped painfully. With a bound her son reached her side.

“Mother! mother!” was all he could say.

“I thought ye’d get through, Hannah,” cried Thomas Ashley. “I was just telling the boy so. Mary, Mary! Hannah’s come.”

With cries and exclamations of wonder and joy they gathered about her, heaping caresses upon her until the good woman begged for mercy, declaring that she was hungry, and would have no breath left wherewith to partake of food. Then they bore her into the house, and while Sally and Peggy dressed the sprained ankle, Mrs. Ashley brought coffee, and Mr. Ashley cut great slices of ham, insisting that the occasion warranted a feast. But the son remained by her side as though he feared to leave her. They grew calm finally, and then Nurse Johnson told of her escape.

“’Tis naught to make such a pother about,” she said settling back comfortably in her chair, a cup of coffee in hand. “I knew that Tom wouldn’t be able to hold Fairfax much longer, and I wasn’t going to have those rascals get him if I could help it. Providence was on my side, for I seemed to have wings given me. I didn’t know that I could run so fast, but fear, aided by a few bullets, would develop speed in the most of us, I reckon.

“I had a little start of the Tories, though I knew that I could not keep it, when my foot caught in a vine, or root, and I fell. I tried to get up, but my ankle was sprained so I could not rise. Instead, in my efforts, I began to roll down the declivity, for the ground was slightly rolling where I had fallen, and over and over I went until presently the bottom was reached, and I came to a stop in a little hollow. Something stirred as I rolled into the thicket, and an animal, ’twas too dark to see what it was, though it seemed like a doe, or a fawn, leaped up and bounded away through the forest. I heard the men go crashing after it, and it came to me that if I did not move they might pass on, thinking that the deer was their prey. That is all there is to it. So you see I did naught after all. Save for the mishap of a sprained ankle, and a little chill, I am no worse off than ye are.”

“Oh! but the risk, Friend Nurse,” cried Peggy.

“Was no greater than to stay here. We did not know of a certainty that the men would leave the house in pursuit. It was just a chance, but it happened to work all right. Now, Tom, what shall be done? Do you think the raiders will return?”

“’Tis hard telling, Hannah. Sooner or later they will try to get the boy again. If Edwards is hanged they will stop at nothing to effect his capture. But, Hannah, every man in the company runs the same risk. The thing to do is to have the men make headquarters here. ’Twill be of mutual benefit, for ’twill throw a safeguard about each member of the company.”

“Yes,” she agreed thoughtfully.

“And the girls?” uttered Fairfax. “What of them?”

“Until we have horses we can do naught, nevvy.”

“Then horses we are going to have,” he said with determination. “I shall start for Freehold now to see what can be done. There may be other news of the raiders, too.”

“Go with him, Tom,” cried his mother quickly. “There may be skulkers in the woods.”

But Fairfax would not hear of this.

“Nay, mother,” he said. “Uncle Tom’s place is here. You are in more danger than I am, for the raiders may come back. You had your way last night; this morning ’tis my turn.”

With this he was gone. Some hours later when he returned, astride a bay mare of great beauty, he headed quite a cavalcade. Behind him rode the little company of twelvemonth men and militia of which he was captain; back of these came two large wagons.

“What think you?” he cried waving a folded document excitedly in greeting. “The Council of Safety hath confirmed my commission as captain, and hath ordered me to take the company to Tom’s River to garrison the fort there. The salt works are threatened, and there is some contraband trade to be checked. We came to take you with us.”

“To do what, nevvy?” gasped the farmer, bewildered by the suddenness of the matter.

“To take all of you with us,” repeated the youth, dismounting. “Think you that I could go, and leave you here unprotected? You will be safe there. At least,” he corrected himself, “as safe as ’tis possible to be in Monmouth County. The garrison will afford more security than you would have here. I brought these wagons for the very purpose of taking you. There must be haste, Uncle Tom. We must be off in an hour.”

“But——” began Thomas Ashley protestingly, when his wife interrupted him.

“Why, father! that’s where Charley is. ’Tis the very thing.”

So the youth had his way, and there ensued a busy hour. The wagons were shore wagons, owned by oystermen of Tom’s River who were returning to that village after bringing fish and oysters to the interior, he told them in explanation of the odor that clung to the vehicles. It was great good fortune that they could be had just at this time. Presently, here they were, with Nurse Johnson, comfortably installed upon a feather-bed, Mrs. Ashley and the two girls in one wagon, while the farmer rode in the other to look after such household effects as they were taking.

Both because of Nurse Johnson and the sandy nature of the soil they were obliged to proceed in a leisurely manner, but the family, rejoicing in the sense of security afforded by the presence of an armed escort, minded neither the manner nor the mode of travel. With the buoyancy of youth, Peggy and Sally soon regained their accustomed spirits, and chatted gaily.

Above was the blue and white woof of the spring sky. The plaint of the meadow-lark and the note of the robin sounded sweetly against the stillness of the air. A trio of crows sailed athwart the blue, their great wings beating the air to slow, solemn measure. The pine woodland added shelter and picturesqueness to the road, and to the light breeze its sweet resinous odor. And Fairfax was here, there, everywhere, looking after things with all the zeal of a young officer.