“CAN I BE OF ANY ASSISTANCE?”

Peggy Owen Patriot

A Story for Girls

BY

Lucy Foster Madison

Author of

“Peggy Owen”

“Peggy Owen at Yorktown”

“Peggy Owen and Liberty”

Illustrated by H.J. Peck

The Penn Publishing Company

Philadelphia MCMXVII

COPYRIGHT

1910 BY

THE PENN

PUBLISHING

COMPANY

Introduction

In “Peggy Owen,” the preceding book of the series, the heroine, a little Quaker maid, lives across from the State House in Philadelphia. By reason of this she becomes much interested in the movements of the Continental Congress, and when her father, in spite of his religion, takes up arms for the Whigs she too becomes an ardent patriot. While David Owen is with the army before Boston, Peggy and her mother find a kinsman of his—William Owen, a colonel in the English army—a prisoner in the city’s new jail.

They succeed in having him released on parole, and take him into their home, where he requites their kindness by selfishness and arrogance, even killing Peggy’s pet dog, Pilot. He is exchanged at length, but before leaving he brings one James Molesworth to the house, claiming that he does not like to leave them unprotected. This man Peggy discovers to be a spy.

Upon the advance of the British toward Philadelphia Peggy and her mother go to their farm on the banks of the Wissahickon. Here they are almost denuded of supplies by foragers, one party of which is headed by their own kinsman, Colonel Owen. American troopers arrive, and a sharp skirmish takes place, in which Colonel Owen is wounded. While caring for him word is received that David Owen is a prisoner in Philadelphia, and ill of a fever. General Howe proposes to have him exchanged for one Thomas Shale, and Peggy rides to Valley Forge to secure the consent of General Washington. Owing to the fact that the man is a spy and a deserter the exchange cannot take place, and, in a blaze of anger at finding her cousin so comfortable while her own father lies ill, Peggy denounces him, and forces him to accede to the proposal that he be exchanged for her father. The book closes with the evacuation of Philadelphia by the British.

The present volume shows the Owens at Washington’s camp in northern New Jersey. Peggy’s further adventures are continued in “Peggy Owen at Yorktown” and “Peggy Owen and Liberty.”

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Peggy Owen, Patriot

CHAPTER I—ON THE ROAD TO PHILADELPHIA

“Oh, gracious!”

The exclamation burst from the lips of a slender girl mounted upon a small black mare, and she drew rein abruptly.

“What is it, Peggy?” asked a sweet-faced matron, leaning from the side of a “one horse chair” drawn up under the shade of a tree by the roadside. “What hath happened? Thee seems dismayed.”

“I am, mother,” answered the girl, springing lightly from the back of the horse. “My saddle girth hath broken, and both Robert and Tom are back with the wagons. There is a breakdown. What shall I do? This will cause another delay, I fear.”

“Thee can do nothing, Peggy, until Robert returns. Try to content thyself until then.”

“I could repair it myself, I believe, if I only had a string,” said the maiden. “I wonder if there isn’t one in the chaise. Let’s look, mother.”

Throwing the bridle over her arm the girl joined her mother, and the two began a hasty search of the vehicle.

It was a golden day in September, 1778, and the afternoon sun was flooding with light the calm and radiant landscape afforded by the wooded slopes of Chestnut Hill, penetrating even the dense branches that overarched the highroad leading to Germantown.

It was one of those soft, balmy days when the fathomless daylight seemed to stand and dream. A cool elixir was in the air. The distant range of hills beyond the river Schuylkill was bound with a faint haze, a frail transparency whose lucid purple barely veiled the valleys. From the motionless trees the long clean shadows swept over tangles of underbrush brightened by the purple coronets of asters, feathery plumes of goldenrod, and the burning glory of the scarlet sumac. Ranks of silken thistles blown to seed disputed possession of the roadside with lowly poke-bushes laden with Tyrian fruit.

The view from the crest of the hill where the chaise had stopped was beautiful. The great forest land spread out beneath seemed boundless in extent, for the farms scattered among the woodland were scarcely visible from the height, but the maiden and her mother were so intent upon the mishap of the broken strap as to be for the nonce insensible to the delights of the scenery. So absorbed were they that they started violently when a voice exclaimed:

“Your servant, ladies! Can I be of any assistance?”

“Why,” gasped Peggy, turning about in amazement as a lad of about eighteen, whose appearance was far from reassuring, stepped from the woods into the road. “Who art thou, and what does thee want?”

“I want to help you mend your saddle,” said the youth coolly, doffing a tattered beaver with some grace. “Didst not say that the girth had broke?”

“Yes, but,” began the girl, when her mother spoke:

“Art sure that thou canst aid us, my lad?” she asked mildly. “Thou wilt not mind if I say that thee looks in need of aid thyself.”

“As to that, madam, it can be discussed later,” he rejoined. “For the present, permit me to say that here is a piece of rawhide, and here a jack-knife. What doth hinder the repairing of the saddle but your permission?”

“And that thou hast,” returned the lady. “We shall be indeed grateful to thee for thy aid.”

At once the youth stepped to the side of the mare, and inspected the broken band critically. Then, removing the saddle to the ground, he set to work upon it with a dexterity that showed him to be no novice. “What is the name of the pony?” he asked, addressing the maiden directly.

“Star,” answered she regarding him with curious eyes.

He was in truth a spectacle to excite both curiosity and pity. He was haggard and unkempt, and his garments hung about him in tatters. His form was thin to emaciation, and, while he boasted the remains of a beaver, his feet were without covering of any sort.

“’Tis a pretty beast,” he remarked, seeming not at all concerned as to his rags. “One of the likeliest bits of horse-flesh I’ve seen in many a day. Are you fond of her?”

“I am indeed,” answered the girl, patting the mare gently. “My father gave her to me, and I would not lose her for anything. He is now with the army at White Plains, New York.”

“Are you not Quakers?” he queried, glancing up in surprise.

“We are of the Society of Friends, which the world’s people call Quakers,” interposed the matron from the chaise.

“And they, methought, were neutral,” he observed with a smile.

“Not all, friend. There be some who are called Free Quakers, because they choose to range themselves upon the side of their country. Methinks thou shouldst have heard of them.”

“I have,” he rejoined, “but as Fighting or Hickory Quakers.”

“It doesn’t matter what we are called so long as we are of service to the country,” exclaimed Peggy with some warmth. “Is thee not of the army too? Thou art an American.”

The lad hesitated, and then said quickly: “Not now. I have been.” And then, abruptly—“Are you ladies alone?”

“No,” replied the girl, casting an anxious glance down the roadway. The highways of Pennsylvania, once so peaceful and serene, were by this period of the war so infected with outlaws and ruffians as to be scarcely safe for travelers. “We have an escort who are coming up with the wagons. One broke, and it took all hands to repair it. They should be here at any time now.”

“There!” spoke the youth, rising. “I think, mistress, that you will find your saddle in prime order for the rest of your journey.”

“Thank thee,” said Peggy gratefully. “It is well done. And now what shall we do for thee? How can we serve thee for thy kindness?”

“Are you bound for Philadelphia, or do you stop in Germantown?” he asked.

“Philadelphia, my lad,” spoke the mother.

“Would thee——” She hesitated a moment and then drew forth some bills. “Would thee accept some of these? ’Tis all I have to offer in the shape of money. Hard coin is seldom met with these days.”

“Nay,” said the boy with a gesture of scorn. “Keep your bills, madam. I have had my fill of Continental money. ’Twould take all that you have to purchase a meal that would be filling, and I doubt whether the farmers hereabouts would take them.”

“There is a law now compelling every one to take them,” cried Peggy. “They will have to take the Continental money whether they wish to or not. And they should. Every good patriot should stand by the country’s currency.”

“You are all for the patriots, I see,” he remarked. “When one has suffered in the cause, and received naught from an ungrateful country one doesn’t feel so warmly toward them.”

“But, my lad,” broke in the lady, “thee will pardon me, I know, if I say again that thee looks in need of assistance. If we cannot aid thee here perchance in the city we could be of service. I am Lowry Owen, David Owen’s wife. Thou mayst have heard of him?”

“Perchance then, madam, you would not mind if I accompanied you to the city?” queried the lad. “Wilt let me ride with you?”

“With pleasure,” answered Mrs. Owen. “Thou shalt sit in the chaise with me while Tom may go in the wagons. This chair is not so comfortable as a coach, because it hath no springs or leather bands, but thou wilt not find it unbearable.”

“’Twill be better than walking,” he returned with easy assurance. His assurance deserted him suddenly, and he sank upon the ground abruptly. “I am faint,” he murmured.

“The poor lad is ill,” cried Peggy hastening to his side. “Oh, mother! what does thee think is the matter?”

“’Tis hunger, I fear,” replied Mrs. Owen hastily descending from the chair. “Peggy, fetch me the portmanteau from under the seat. Why did I not ask as to thy needs?” she added with grave self-reproach as the youth reached eagerly for the food. “There! Be not too ravenous, my lad. Thou shalt have thy fill.”

“Oh, but——” uttered the boy, clutching the provisions. He said no more, but ate with frantic haste, as though he feared the viands would be taken from him. Mrs. Owen and Peggy regarded him with pitying eyes. Presently he looked at them with something of his former jauntiness. “’Tis the first real food that I have eaten for three days,” he told them. “I have been living on wild grapes, and corn whenever I could find a field. I thank you, madam; and you also, mistress.”

“And hast thou no home, or place to go that thou art reduced to such a pass?” asked the lady.

“There is no place near. Perhaps when I reach Philadelphia I shall find a way to get to mine own home, and then——”

“Ah! there comes Robert with the wagons,” exclaimed Peggy, as four wagons escorted by as many troopers appeared from behind a bend in the highway. “I am so glad, for now we can start again. He will know what to do for thee, thou poor lad!”

“Is he—is he a soldier?” asked the boy gazing at the approaching wagon train with evident alarm.

“Why, yes; of course,” answered Peggy. “He is aide for the time being to General Arnold, who hath charge of Philadelphia. Why——”

“I thank you again,” cried the lad, springing to his feet with such a sudden accession of strength that the girl and her mother were astonished. “I thank you, and bid you good-morrow.” Darting across the road, he plunged into the forest, and was soon lost to sight, leaving Peggy and Mrs. Owen staring blankly after him.

“Heigh ho!” gasped Peggy when she had presently recovered herself. “I wonder why he did that? There is naught about Robert to fear.”

“Perhaps Robert can explain,” said her mother with a peculiar smile. “I rather think ’twas because he feared to meet a soldier.”

“But why?” persisted the girl. “I see not why he should fear—mother,” she broke off suddenly as a thought came to her, “was the lad a deserter?”

“I fear so, Peggy. There are many such roaming the country, I hear.”

“Oh, Robert,” cried the maiden as a youth of soldierly bearing rode up to them. “We have had such an adventure! My saddle girth broke, and a youth came out of the woods and mended it. Then he was faint for the want of food, and mother fed him. He was to go with us to the city, but when he heard that thee was a soldier, he thanked us and disappeared into the forest. Mother thinks him a deserter.”

“I make no doubt of it,” spoke the young man gravely. “The woods are full of such fellows. Why! Are you alone? Where is Tom? I sent him to stay with you, as we were delayed by a breakage. You should not have been here alone.”

“Tom?” Peggy looked her dismay. “Why, we have not seen him since he went with thee. Was he not at the wagons? Oh! I hope that naught hath befallen him.”

“He must be about somewhere,” said the youth comfortingly. Nevertheless he dismounted and began to look among the bushes that overhung the roadside. “Why, you black rascal,” he shouted as he came upon a negro asleep behind some brush. “Get up! I thought I sent you to guard your mistresses?”

“Dere wuzn’t nuffin’ ter guard ’em frum,” yawned Tom, who counted himself a privileged character. “I seed dey wuz all right, so I ‘prooves de shinin’ hour by gittin’ a li’l res’. Yo’ ain’t a gwine ter ‘ject ter dat, is yer, Marster Dale?”

“And your mistress might have been robbed while you were doing so,” began Robert Dale sternly. “I’ve a mind——”

“Don’t scold him, Robert,” pleaded Peggy. “The ride hath been a long one from the farm. I wonder not that he is tired. Why,” closing her bright eyes in a vain attempt to look drowsy, “I could almost go to sleep myself.”

“You spoil that darkey,” remonstrated the youth as Tom, knowing that his case was won, climbed to his place in the chaise. “Let me look at that saddle, Peggy. If it is all right we must start at once, else ’twill be night ere we reach the city. Ah! ’tis well done,” he added with approval, after an inspection of the band. “Our deserter, if such he be, understands such things. Come, Peggy!”

He adjusted the saddle, assisted the maiden to it, then mounting his own horse gave the command, and the journey was resumed.

CHAPTER II—THE HOME-COMING

The bells of Christ Church were pealing out the joyous chime

“Market-day to-morrow!”

as the girl and Robert Dale, followed immediately by the chaise and more remotely by the wagons, cantered into Front Street. It was Tuesday evening, or in Quaker parlance, Third Day, and the streets were full of stir and bustle incident to the preparation for next day’s market.

“Oh!” cried Peggy drawing a deep breath. “How good it is to be home once more! How musical sounds the rattling of even the carriages!”

“Very harsh music, methinks,” smiled the youth.

“But preferable to the croaking frogs and screeching owls of farm life,” said the girl quickly. “If thee had been away for a year I make no doubt but that thee would be as glad to return to this dear city as I am.”

“I make no doubt of it too,” he agreed.

“Just think,” went on Peggy. “I have not seen either Sally or Betty since the Fourth of July. Had it not been for thee I would know naught of what hath occurred since then. Thou hast been very kind to us, Robert.”

“It hath been a pleasure,” returned he gravely. “I think you cannot know what a relief it is to get away from the incessant round of gaiety with which the city seems beset. I weary of it, and long to be in the field.”

“I hope that thee will not go just as we have returned to town,” remarked the maiden. “Mother and I will welcome the chance to return some of thy favors.”

“Don’t, Peggy,” exclaimed the lad coloring. “I like not for you to speak of requiting favors as though you and your mother owed aught to me. It hath been a pleasure, as I have said.”

“Thee is too modest, Robert. None the less we owe thee much, even though thee does try to deny it. How, sir, could we have come to the city without thy escort? With father away thee knows that ’twould have been impossible for mother and me to have managed the wagons. And——But oh, Robert! Aren’t the shops opened yet? So many seemed to be closed.”

“Not all are open, Peggy. Everything is fast becoming as ’twas before the coming of the British, but it will take some time to restore matters to a normal condition. ’Tis but September, and they only left in June.”

“I know,” observed she thoughtfully, “that ’twill be indeed long before we are as we were before their coming. An enemy makes sad havoc, does it not?”

“Yes,” he agreed. And then, as the memory of all that the British occupation had brought came to them, they fell into a silence.

In common with many Whig families Lowry Owen and her daughter had deferred their permanent return to the city until it had regained some semblance of its former order. Under the command of Major-General Arnold, Philadelphia, bruised, and sore, and shaken after the occupation for nine long months by the British, was striving to become once more the city of brotherly love, but the throes of reconstruction had not yet settled into the calm of its former serenity. Something of this was discernible even to the lenient eyes of the overjoyed maiden, and cast a momentary shadow over her happiness at being once more within the confines of her native city. But, as they entered Chestnut Street, the tinge of sadness vanished, and her eyes sparkled.

“I cannot wait for thee, Robert,” she called, giving her mare a gentle pat. “Perhaps the girls may be waiting.”

She smiled a farewell, and set off at speed, drawing rein presently before a large double brick house at the western extremity of the town, just across from the State House.

Before she could dismount the door of the dwelling was thrown wide, and two girls came running down the steps, and flung themselves upon her.

“Oh, Peggy! Peggy!” they cried simultaneously. “We were waiting for thee. Robert told us that we might look for thee to-day. What kept thee so long? And where is thy mother? And Robert? Is not he with thee?”

“Oh, girls!” exclaimed Peggy, returning their embraces rapturously. “How good it is to see you. Sally, thee is prettier than ever! And how Betty hath grown!”

“Oh, Peggy, I have a thousand things to tell thee,” cried Sally Evans. “I will give thee so droll an account of my adventures that thee will smile.”

“I am prepared to hear amazing things,” answered Peggy. “And I too have adventures to tell.”

“’Tis time for thee to come back, Peggy Owen,” exclaimed Betty Williams. “For what with the routs and the tea drinkings the city is monstrously gay. The Tories had it all their way while the British were here, but now ’tis the Whigs’ turn.”

“I am not so sure about that, Betty,” demurred Sally. “If there is any difference made ’tis in favor of the Tories.”

“I have heard Robert say they were favored,” observed Peggy. “It seems strange. What causes such conduct?”

“Has thee not heard?” laughed Sally, a mischievous sparkle in her blue eyes. “Know then, Mistress Peggy Owen, that it originates at headquarters. Cupid hath given our general a more mortal wound than all the hosts of Britons could. In other words, report hath it that General Arnold is to marry our Miss Peggy Shippen. ’Tis union of Whig and Tory, and the Tories are in high favor in consequence.”

“Perhaps,” said Peggy, “that the general wishes not to carry the animosities of the field into the drawing-room. I have heard that gallant soldiers never make war on our sex.”

“Well, he certainly is gallant,” conceded Sally. “There are many tales afloat concerning his prowess. I make no doubt but that thee has hit the heart of the matter. Ah! here is Robert,” as the youth rode up. “Peggy did not need thy assistance to dismount, sir,” she cried. “Betty and I lifted her from Star ourselves.”

“I expected it,” laughed Robert Dale. “Let me take Star, Peggy. I will care for her until Tom comes.”

“Oh, but,” began Peggy in expostulation, when Sally interrupted her.

“Let him take her, Peggy. Is he not an aide? ’Tis his duty.”

“Sally, thee is saucy,” laughed Peggy resigning the mare into the lad’s keeping. “Come, girls!” leading the way into the dwelling. “Now tell me everything.”

“First,” began Betty, “thee is to go with us to see a wonderful aloe tree on Fifth Day morn, but more of that anon. Where is thy mother?”

“She is coming in the chaise with Tom, and should be here now. Girls, you should have seen Robert caring for the wagons. He looked like a woodsman. You would have thought that he was about to start for the frontier.”

“She belies me,” said Dale entering at this moment. “I will leave it to Mistress Owen if I looked like one, though I would I had the marksmanship of a backwoodsman. Our companies of sharpshooters are almost the mainstay of the army.”

“The army?” spoke Mrs. Owen catching the last word as she came into the room unperceived. “Is there news, Robert? And what about the chances for peace?”

“The conditions have not changed, Mistress Owen, since last we spoke of them,” returned the lad. “And peace seems as far off as ever. Sir Henry Clinton still holds New York City, while General Washington watches him from the highlands of the Hudson. Along the frontier the savage warfare which began with the massacre at Wyoming continues, and these, aside from skirmishes, constitute all of action there hath been since Monmouth. It seems now to be a question of endurance on the part of the patriots, and of artifice and trickery on the British side.”

“But with the French to help us,” spoke the lady returning the greetings of her daughter’s friends warmly. “The alliance which Dr. Franklin hath at last succeeded in effecting. Surely with such aid the war must soon be brought to a close.”

“The allies have not been as effective so far as ’twas hoped they would prove,” announced he. “Many of the people are seriously disaffected toward the French, declaring that ’tis only a question of English or French supremacy. The soldiers, I grieve to say, incline toward this view, and the loyalists are doing all they can to further such belief.”

“Well, here is one who is not disaffected toward the French,” broke in Sally. “Oh, Peggy, thee should have been here to attend the entertainment which the French minister gave in honor of the king’s birthday. ’Twas highly spoke of, and everybody attended. And he was so considerate of the Quakers.”

“In what way, Sally?” asked Mrs. Owen.

“Why, he hung a veil between the ballroom and the chamber in which they sat that they might view such worldly pleasures with discretion,” laughed Sally.

“But Sally would not endure it,” spoke Betty. “When General Arnold came in she told him that she did not wish to take the veil, as she had not yet turned papist, and desired to partake of her pleasures more openly.”

“Sally, thee didn’t,” gasped Peggy.

“But I did,” declared Sally with a toss of her head. “He laughed, and immediately took me without. And the dressing, Peggy! There never was so much as there is now. Thee will thank thy stars that thee has been made to embroider and learn fine sewing, for thee will need it.”

“But is there naught but tea drinking, and dancing and dressing?” asked Peggy perplexed. “We used to do so much for the army. Is nothing done now?”

“Oh, yes;” Sally blushed a little and then brightened up. “I have set a stocking on the needles,” she said. “True, ’twas some time since, but I am going to finish it. Mrs. Bache, she that was Sally Franklin, talks of a society for making shirts and gathering supplies for the soldiers. I fancy the most of us will belong, and then there will be something beside enjoyment. Does that suit thee, Miss Peggy?”

“Yes,” returned Peggy thoughtfully. “Not that I object to the enjoyment, Sally, but I think we ought to do some of both.”

“Well, here comes the beginning of the enjoyment,” exclaimed Betty from the window. “Here is a soldier from headquarters, and I know that he bears an invitation from the general for tea. We had ours this morning.”

It was as Betty said, and an orderly was announced almost immediately.

“I cry you pardon, madam,” he said advancing toward Mrs. Owen, “for intruding so soon upon you. But a certain aide hath importuned our general so urgently that you should be waited upon directly upon your return that he dared not delay an instant beyond your arrival to deliver this invitation to you and to your daughter. He bids me welcome you back to the city in his name, and will do himself the honor to wait upon you in person before the day set.”

So saying he handed Mistress Owen two cards upon which were written the invitations, and bowed himself out.

“Oh, Robert, thee must be the aide of whom he spoke,” cried Peggy receiving her card excitedly. “See, girls! ’tis for tea on Fifth Day week. How delightsome! May we go, mother? How exciting town life is! I had forgot ’twas so gay.”

“Too gay, I fear me,” said her mother looking at the invitation dubiously. “Yes; we will go, Peggy, because ’tis right that we should pay respect to General Arnold. He hath no small task to restore the city to order, but I do not wish to be drawn into a round of frivolity.”

“But thee must let Peggy frivol a little,” protested Sally. “It hath been long since she hath been with us, Mistress Owen.”

Mrs. Owen laughed.

“A little, Sally, I am willing for. But I wish not that nothing else should be thought about. It seems as though the city hath gone wild with merrymaking. I like it not.”

“Of a truth there is too much tea drinking and feasting, madam,” spoke Robert Dale soberly. “There are many who are dissatisfied with the state of things while the army is ill-fed and ill-clothed. I for one would far rather be yonder in the field, even in misery, than here dancing attendance upon routs, and the whims of females.”

“Oh, Robert!” came in a reproachful chorus from the girls. “Thee is unmannerly.”

“Your pardon,” said the youth sweeping them a profound curtsey to hide his confusion. “I meant no offense to any present, but spoke of the sex in general.”

“Thee does not deserve forgiveness; does he, Peggy?” pouted Sally.

“If ’twere for aught else than the army, I should say no,” answered Peggy laughing. “But because he would rather be in the field for the country we shall have to forgive him, Sally.”

“Thank you, Peggy,” said the lad gratefully. “I will try to make amends for my untoward speech at another time. Now I must attend my general. Shall I bear your acceptance of his invitation, Mrs. Owen?”

“If thee will, Robert,” answered she with a smile.

“Thee is routed, Robert,” cried Sally saucily as he left them.

CHAPTER III—AN OLD TIME ADVERTISEMENT

It was Thursday morning, and Mrs. Owen and Peggy had been very busy bringing the house and grounds into something like order. Now, however, both mother and daughter were surveying ruefully a pile of garments that constituted the remains of their depleted wardrobes. Presently the lady laid down a gray gown of tabby silk with a sigh.

“There is no help for it, my daughter. Thee must have a new frock. I see not how thou art to go to General Arnold’s tea otherwise.”

“Oh!” breathed Peggy a look of pleasure irradiating her face. Then as a thought came to her: “But are not goods very high, mother? How can we afford it?”

“We must, my child. Thou hast had no new frocks since Lexington, and ’tis quite time for others.”

“But neither hast thou, mother. Does thee not remember that we covenanted together that whatever we had to spend on clothes should be given for garments for the soldiers? Now if I have a new gown, thee must also.”

“We will see, Peggy. But a gown thee must have. We will go to the mercer’s to-day; but stay! Did not Sally speak of coming for thee to go to see a tree of some sort? That will delay us for another day.”

“How thee remembers, mother! She did, and ’tis nine of the clock now. If she is coming ’tis time she were here. Does thee not hear horses, mother? Perhaps that is she now.”

She ran to the window just in time to see a party of youths and maidens draw rein before the door. Sally Evans dismounted and ran quickly into the dwelling.

“Art ready, Peggy?” she cried. “We are going now to see the aloe tree.”

“What aloe tree is it, Sally?” queried Peggy. “I have lived in Philadelphia all my life, yet never before did I ever hear of one.”

“’Tis because it hath only of late become remarkable,” answered Sally. “Mr. Dunlap hath an account of it in the last ‘Packet.’ This is the only one in the whole state, and every one is going to see it.”

“But I don’t understand, Sally. Why should every one go? How is it remarkable?”

“Oh, Peggy! Peggy! That comes from staying on a farm and not reading the papers. Know then,” assuming a didactic tone, “that the morning after the arrival of the French Ambassador this tree shot forth its spire, which it never does but once in the course of its existence, and in some climates not less than a hundred years. This one has been planted about forty-five years in the neighborhood of this city, and heretofore has produced every year four leaves, but this spring early it spread forth thirteen. And the spire,” concluded Sally impressively, “is thirteen inches round, and hath grown thirteen feet in thirteen days.”

“But that is marvelous!” exclaimed the amazed Peggy.

“Is ’t not? ’Tis regarded as a wonderful omen anent the French alliance and the thirteen states. Now do get ready, Peggy. Have Tom to bring Star around at once. The others are waiting.”

“Shall I wear a loo-mask or a vizard, mother?” questioned Peggy, giving an anxious glance at her reflection in the mirror.

“The loo-mask, Peggy. ’Tis easier held in place. Not thy gray duffle riding frock, child. ’Tis o’er warm for that. Methinks that a safeguard petticoat over the gown that thee has on with a short camlet cloak will do nicely. I will tell Tom to bring Star around for thee.”

“Sally, what does thee think? I am to have a new frock for General Arnold’s tea,” confided Peggy as her mother left the room. “I did not dream that we could spare money for furbelows, but mother insists that I shall have it.”

“Oh, but that is charmante!” exclaimed Sally. “Would that my mother thought likewise, but I fear me that I shall have to wear the same muslin frock that I’ve been wearing. Hey day! Thee is a fortunate girl, Peggy.”

“Am I not?” said Peggy gaily. “I have had no new one for so long that it quite upsets me. I think of nothing else, and long for the time to come to choose it.”

“Yes; but do hurry now,” cried Sally impatiently. “Thou art sufficiently smart for a country lass.”

“Thee is saucy, Sally,” answered Peggy giving her a playful push. “Don’t call me a country girl. Thou art not so citified.”

“Well, I haven’t spent a whole year on a farm,” retorted Sally. “Peggy, if thee gives another stroke to thy hair thy cap will slip off. ’Tis as smooth as satin now.”

“There! I am ready at last,” declared Peggy adjusting her riding mask. “Oh, Sally, ’tis so good to be home again!”

“And ’tis so good to have thee, Peggy,” returned her friend. “Nothing is the same without thee. Why, when the city was under Sir William Howe——”

“Something hath happened,” interrupted Peggy hastily, bending her head to listen. “Mother is calling, and she seems upset. Come, Sally.”

They hurried out of the room, and went quickly to the eastern piazza where Mrs. Owen and Tom, the groom, stood.

“What is it, mother?” asked Peggy noting their disturbed looks.

“Peggy,” said her mother going to her, “thee must be very brave, my child. Star is gone. She hath been stolen from the stable.”

“Star! My pony stolen!” cried the girl as though unable to believe her ears. “My pony! Oh, mother, it can’t be true!”

“I fear that it is only too true,” answered the lady sorrowfully.

“But stolen? Who would steal Star? Tom,”—turning quickly to the negro groom,—“when did thee see her last? Didn’t thee feed her this morning?

“No’m; I ain’t seed her dis mo’nin’,” answered Tom who seemed stupefied by the occurrence. “I fed her las’ night, Miss Peggy, but when I kum out dis mo’nin’ she wuz gone. De back doah wuz open, an’ I know’d she wuz stole, kase I fas’n’d dat doah my own sef las’ night.”

“Oh, but she can’t be,” cried Peggy with a sob. “Maybe she has just strayed away. Has thee looked in the garden, Tom? Or through the orchard?”

“I hab looked ebberwhar, Miss Peggy,” declared the black with dignity. “Torm warn’t gwine ter take any chances ob not seein’ dat are mare when she de onlyest piece ob hoss-flesh dat we has dat mounts ter a row ob pins. No’m; she stole. Dat’s all dere is to it.”

“Peggy, Peggy!” called Robert Dale who, grown tired of waiting, had come in search of the girls. “What keeps you so long?”

“Oh, Robert!” wailed Peggy bursting into tears. “My horse is stolen! My pretty, pretty pony that father gave me!”

“Star stolen?” cried the youth aghast. Tom told his story again.

“And the door was fastened last night, you say? How about the door into the yard, Tom?”

“I lock hit wid a padlock,” declared Tom. “Dey wuz both fasten’d, Marster Dale. ‘Clare ter goodness dey wuz! I did it my own sef. I fastens de inside doah on de inside, an’ de outside one on de outside. De front one wuz locked dis mo’nin’, but de back one wuz wide open.”

“Then some one must have been hiding inside,” declared Robert. “I will take a look through the barn.”

With Sally’s arm about her, Peggy and her friend followed the youth to the stables. The lad mounted the ladder that led to the mow, and presently called down excitedly:

“There hath been some one here of a truth. Here is a place where he hath lain concealed in the straw, and the remnants of food that hath been eaten. ’Tis all as plain as day!”

“But Star?” questioned Peggy with quivering lips as Robert descended the ladder and stood once more beside them.

“We’ll do everything we can to find her, Peggy,” answered the boy as cheerfully as he could. “Now let us tell the others. They will be wondering what the matter is.”

“Oh, Peggy, what will you do for a horse to go with us?” cried Betty Williams as the party of young people heard the news.

“She may take mine,” suggested Robert. “I will stay here to see what can be done about Star.”

“That is good of thee,” said Peggy, wiping her eyes. “Do thou, Sally, and all the others go on as planned. If Robert will stay to do whatever can be done there is no need of any one else. ’Twould be mean to spoil thy pleasuring just for my sake.”

And so, despite their protests the young people were sent on, and Robert turned to Peggy.

“Weep no more,” he entreated, “but give me your aid in writing an advertisement. This we will put in ‘The Packet,’ as that paper will appear before ‘The Gazette,’ and that may bring some result. That will be the best thing to do, will it not, Madam Owen?”

“I think so, Robert. And offer a reward also. It may meet the eye of the person who took the mare and induce him to return her. I like not to think of any taking her, though. Philadelphia is changed indeed.”

“It is, madam. Naught is safe though General Arnold strives to enforce strict military rule. War doth indeed cause sad havoc with the morals of people. How much shall the reward be?”

“One hundred dollars,” answered the lady, after a moment’s calculation. “What a help thou art.”

“’Tis a pleasure,” returned he gallantly. “Beside, is not your husband in the field while we who dally here have naught to do? ’Tis good to have something beside pleasuring to divert the mind. And the advertisement? ’Tis highly fashionable to have it writ in verse. I like it not, but anything in the mode commands more attention. If you will help me, Peggy, perhaps I can compass it, though straight prose is more to my liking.”

So, drying her eyes, Peggy brought forth inkhorn and quills, and the two evolved the following advertisement, which followed the fashion of the day:

ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD!
Last night was stole away from me
A likely jet-black mare was she
Just four years old this month or nigh,
About fourteen and half hands high;
She’s in good order and doth trot,
And paceth some, I’m sure of that;
Is wondrous pretty; a small star
In her forehead there doth appear;
Her tail was waved three days ago
Just like her mane, you’ll find it so;
Above her eyes, if you come near,
She’s very hollow, that is clear;
She has new fore shoes on, this I know—
I had her shod a week ago.
The above reward it will be sure
To any person that secures
Said thief and mare, that I may see
My mare again restor’d to me.
Or Fifty Dollars for the mare,
If the thief should happen to get clear;
All traveling charges if brought home
Upon the nail I will pay down.

“There!” declared Robert Dale when the two had completed their labor. “There will be no more elegant effusion in the paper. ’Tis finely writ and to the point. I’ll take it at once to Mr. Dunlap, so that he may put it into Saturday’s ‘Packet.’ If that doesn’t fetch your mare back, Peggy, I don’t know what will.”

CHAPTER IV—A GIRL’S SACRIFICE

“Thee is troubled, mother,” observed Peggy as she and Mrs. Owen left the yard of Christ Church where they had been attending morning service.

The meeting-house which was built for the use of those Quakers who had so far departed from the tenets of the Society of Friends as to array themselves on the side of their country had not yet been erected, and the Free Quakers, as they were called, were therefore compelled to attend worship of other churches, or content themselves with “religious retirement,” as family service was called.

“I am, Peggy,” answered the lady a look of anxiety overcasting her face. “Let us walk for a little before returning home. It may be that the air will soothe my feelings.”

Seeing that her mother wished to be left in quiet the girl walked sedately by her side, ever and anon stealing a glance of apprehension at the lady’s face. Presently Mrs. Owen spoke:

“Tis naught to make thee look so uneasy, child. I am concerned over the city, and the extravagance that abounds on every side. See the ferment that it is in! Formerly on First Day the streets were orderly and quiet. Now observe what a noisy throng fills the thoroughfares. Let us walk on. Perchance at Wicaco we may find the peace and quiet we seek.”

The quiet, sedate city of Penn had in truth lost its air of demure respectability. As the metropolis of the colonies it attracted all those adventurers of the older countries who sought to mend their fortunes at the expense of the new United States. Many also who were sincere in their admiration of the struggle for liberty had come to offer Congress their services, and taverns and inns were filled to overflowing with strangers of distinction and otherwise. Militia drilled; troops marched and countermarched; while many British officers, prisoners on parole, paraded the streets, adding a bright bit of color with their scarlet coats.

Mother and daughter passed slowly below High Street and continued down Second. Past shops they went, and the City Tavern, crowded about with sedan chairs and chaises; past the Loxley House, in which lived that Lydia Darrach who had stolen out of the city the winter before to warn the patriots of a contemplated attack by the British; past the dwelling of the Cadwaladers; past also the great house built and formerly owned by the Shippens; and on past other mansions with their gardens until finally they paused involuntarily as the sound of singing came to them. The sounds were wafted from the old Swedish church of Gloria Dei, and the two stood in silence until the singing ceased.

“Friends believe not in hymns or singing,” remarked Mrs. Owen as they turned to retrace their steps. “But there is something about the intoning of the psalms that calms the mind. It has ever brought comfort to me.”

“Mother,” spoke Peggy shyly.

“Yes, my daughter.”

“The one thing that I have always minded about the Friends is that very lack of music. When I see other girls play the spinet I too would like dearly to play upon it. I have always loved music, mother.”

“I know thee has, Peggy. That is the reason that I have not chided thee when I heard thee singing the ballads and songs of the world’s people. Perhaps some time we may see our way to thy learning the spinet. If it is right thee will be led to it.”

“I know,” answered Peggy. And then, after a moment—“What troubled thee, mother?”

“Vanities, child. ’Twas the dressing, and the pomade, and the powder discovered in the meeting. I have never seen so much before. And also, I shame to confess it, Peggy, thy garb troubled me.”

“Mine, mother?” Peggy looked up in amazement, and then glanced down at her girlish frock of chintz. “Why, mother?”

“In the first enthusiasm of the war,” said Mrs. Owen, “thee remembers how we, thou and I, together with many patriotic women and girls, banded together in an association formed against the use of foreign goods. We pledged ourselves to wear homespun rather than buy any of the foreign calicoes and silks. Before the Declaration every patriotic woman was known by her clothes, and it so continued until we left the city at the coming of the British. Of course, now that the line of separation hath been drawn between Britain and her colonies, there no longer exists the same patriotic reason for such abstinence; but we seem to be the last to come to such knowledge.”

“Mother, I never knew thee to be concerned anent such things before,” said the girl quickly.

“Perchance it hath been because we have not been dressed with singularity before,” observed the lady. “I hold that every gentlewoman should be arrayed becomingly and with such due regard to the mode that her attire will not excite comment. Not that I wish thy thoughts altogether concerned about such matters. Thee knows how we have received warnings from good and wise men on the subject in our own meetings, but we must do credit to David. And,” she added with a slight smile, “while we are still ready to sacrifice our lives even for the cause of liberty, we cannot steer clear of the whirlpool of fashion if we are to remain in the city. Was thee not sensible of the difference between thy garb and that of thy friends?”

“Yes,” admitted the maiden candidly. “But I tried not to think about it. I have been longing for some new frocks, but since Star hath been taken I have not cared so much.”

“The city seems caught in a very vortex of luxury and extravagance,” went on the matron. “I do not mean that we should be of those who care for naught but self-adornment and useless waste. Were it not for thee——” She paused a moment and then continued: “Thou hast been very self-denying, my daughter, concerning this matter, and hast borne the filching of thy pony bravely. So then thou shalt have not only a frock for the general’s tea, but another also. And a cloak, and a hat, together with a quilted petticoat.”

“Mother, mother!” almost screamed Peggy. “Thee overwhelms me. Where will the money come from?”

“We have made a little from the harvests of the past summer, Peggy. Then the farm pays in other ways. Some of David’s ventures have turned out well, despite the war and the fact that he is in the army. We shall have to be careful, my daughter, and not run into extravagance, but there is enough to furnish thee with a simple wardrobe.”

“And thou?” questioned the girl.

“I shall do well as I am, dear child. And now let us turn our thoughts from this too worldly subject to others more befitting First Day. To-morrow we will go to the mercer’s for the things.”

And so, despite the fact that nothing had as yet been heard of the stolen pony, it was a very happy maiden that set forth with her mother the next day for the shops in Second Street.

“Friend,” said the lady to a mercer who came forward to wait upon them, “let us look at thy petticoats, calimanico; for,” she said in an aside to Peggy, “’twill be the part of wisdom to purchase the homely articles first, lest we be carried beyond our intention for the frocks. We shall have to be careful, as the prices, no doubt, have become higher. How much is this, friend?”

“Fifteen pounds, fifteen shillings,” answered he.

Mrs. Owen looked up in amazement, while Peggy, with less control, cried out:

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

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

Mrs. Owen laid down the garment gravely.

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

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

“And gauze for caps?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V—UP IN THE ATTIC

“I fear we have made a mistake in returning to town,” observed Mrs. Owen when at length they reached the dwelling after a silent walk home. “I had no idea things had become so dear. There is hardly such a thing as living in town, but David wished us to be here. In truth, with so many outlaws scouring the country, I feel that we are far safer than we would be on the farm. And yet what shall be done anent the matter of clothes? Thou must have a frock for the tea party.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Owen laughed, well pleased at her enthusiasm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[1] This, in fact, was not recovered until long afterward in London.

CHAPTER VI—TEA AT HEADQUARTERS

“Will I do, mother?” asked Peggy, taking up the old fan with the sandal wood sticks, and turning about slowly for the lady’s inspection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peggy looked troubled.

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

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

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

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

“I am a Quaker,” she told him simply.

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

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

“FRIEND—I SHOULD SAY—GENERAL ARNOLD”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII—A SUMMER SOLDIER

“Mother, what did thee think of the tea?” asked Peggy of Mrs. Owen the next morning.

Lowry Owen laid down her sewing and turned toward her daughter gravely:

“’Twas an enjoyable occasion in many respects, my daughter. ’Twas most pleasant to meet with old friends, but——”

“Yes, mother?” questioned the maiden as the lady hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, mother. Three long se’nnights.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mistress!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII—PEGGY’S RESOLVE

In an instant Peggy was out of the stable and running to the house.

“Mother,” she cried bursting in upon Mrs. Owen so suddenly that the lady started up in alarm, “the lad that mended my saddle is in the stable. He hath brought Star back, and I fear he hath fainted. Come quickly!”

“Fainted?” exclaimed the lady rising hastily. “And Star back? Tell Sukey to follow with Tom, Peggy.”

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

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

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

“Are we to keep him?” she queried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peggy’s face flushed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX—THE TALE OF A HERO

“Thee must excuse me, Friend John. I am late with thy dinner because General Arnold dined with us, and we sat long at table,” explained Peggy the next day as she entered the room where Drayton sat.

“Arnold?” cried the young fellow, starting up. “Was General Arnold here? Here? Under this very roof? Could I get a glimpse of him?”

He ran to the front window as he spoke and threw it open. Now this window faced upon Chestnut Street, and there was danger of being seen, so Peggy ran to him in great perturbation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drayton stirred restlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How we cheered when we saw him coming! Brandishing his broad-sword above his head, he dashed into the thickest of the fight, calling the old, ‘Come on, boys! Victory or death!’ and the regiments followed him like a whirlwind. The conflict was terrible, but in the midst of flame and smoke, and metal hail, he was everywhere. His voice rang out like a trumpet, animating and inspiring us to valor. He led us to victory, but just as the Hessians, terrified by his approach, turned to flee, they delivered a volley in their retreat that shot his horse from under him. At the same instant a wounded German private fired a shot which struck him in that same leg that had been so badly lacerated at Quebec, two years before.

“As he fell he cried out to us, ‘Rush on, my brave boys, rush on!’ But one, in fury at seeing the general wounded, dashed at the wounded German, and would have run him through with his bayonet had not the general cried: ‘Don’t hurt him, he but did his duty. He is a fine fellow.’”

“I don’t wonder that thee loves him,” cried Peggy, her eyes sparkling at the recital. “I believe with thee that though all others should fail he would fight the enemy even though he would fight alone. Oh, I must get thee to tell mother this! I knew not that he was so brave!”

“Yes,” reiterated Master Drayton positively. “He would fight even though he fought alone. But I am not made of such stuff. I am no hero, Mistress Peggy. Beside, have not the Parley-voos come over to fight for us? They have all the honors given them; let them have the miseries too.”

“But why should the French fight our battles for us?” demanded the girl bluntly. “They are only to help us. Why should they exert themselves to save that which we do not value enough to fight for?”

“’Tis expected by the army, anyway,” said Drayton. “I know that I’ll do no more.”

“Thee is a poor tired lad,” said the girl gently. “And thy dinner. See how little thou hast eaten. I have talked too long with thee to-day. Later we will renew the subject.”

“Renew it an you will,” retorted the boy assuming again his jaunty manner, half defiance, half swagger. “’Twill make no difference. I have served my last. Unless the recruiting officer finds me you won’t catch me in the army again.”

Peggy smiled a knowing little smile, but made no answer.

“We shall see,” she thought as she left the room. “Methinks thee has some martial spirit left, Friend John.”

CHAPTER X—PEGGY TEACHES A LESSON

It was several days before Peggy could have another talk with Master Drayton, but meantime she set up the needles and began to knit vigorously on stockings, spun into thread more of the flax, and put Sukey to work weaving it into cloth.

“Peggy, what is thee so busy about?” asked Mrs. Owen, coming into the kitchen where the girl had been at work since the dawn.

Peggy looked up from the dye kettle with a puzzled look on her face, and gave an extra poke at the cloth reposing therein by way of emphasis.

“I am trying to dye some cloth, mother, but it doesn’t seem to come right. What shall be done to indigo to get a pretty blue? I had no trouble with the yellow dye. See how beautifully this piece came out. Such a soft fine buff! I am pleased with it—but this——”

She paused and turned inquiringly toward her mother. Mrs. Owen took the stick from her hand, and held up a piece of cloth from the steaming kettle, examining it critically.

“Fix another kettle of water, Peggy,” she said, “and let it be near to boiling. Into it put some salts of tin, alum and cream of tartar. It needs brightening, and will come a pretty blue when washed in the solution. There! Punch each part of the cloth down into the water, child, so that it may be thoroughly wetted. So! Now rinse well, and hang it out to dry. That done thou shalt tell me for what purpose thou hast dyed the cloth such especial colors. Thy father hath no need of a new uniform.”

“’Tis for Friend John,” said Peggy dabbling the cloth vigorously up and down in the rinsing water.

“Why! hath he expressed a wish to return?” exclaimed Mrs. Owen in amazement. “I had heard naught of it.”

Peggy laughed.

“Not yet, mother,” she cried, her eyes dancing with mirth. “But I see signs. Oh, I see signs. This must be ready anent the time he does wish to go. This, with socks, and weapons, and aught else he may need.”

“Hast thou been reasoning with him, Peggy, that thee feels so sure?”

“A little,” admitted the girl. “This afternoon, if none comes to interrupt, I shall do more. Mother, what would I do without thee? Thee did just the right thing to bring this cloth to the proper color. Is it not beautiful? Would I could do so well.”

“’Twill come in time, my daughter. Skill in dyeing as in aught else comes only from practice. But here is Sukey to tell us of visitors. Wash thy hands and join us, Peggy. If ’tis Sally Bache I make no doubt but that there is news from Dr. Franklin.”

’Twas customary at this time to pay morning visits in Philadelphia, and several came, one after another, so that by the time she had finished her interrupted tasks Peggy found the afternoon well on toward its close before she could pay her usual visit to Master Drayton. She found him awaiting her coming with eagerness.

“’Tis good to be sheltered and fed,” he said as the maiden entered the room, “but none the less ’tis monstrous tiresome to be cooped up. What shall be done to amuse me, Mistress Peggy?”

“Would thee like to have me read to thee?” she asked, a gleam of mischief coming into her eyes.

“The very thing,” he cried, seating himself comfortably on the settle. “Is it a tale? Or perchance you have brought a verse book?”

“Neither,” she answered. “Art sure that thou art comfortable, Friend John? Does thee need anything at all?”

“Nothing at all,” he replied pleased at her solicitude. “And now for the reading. I am curious to see what you have chosen, for I see that you have brought something with you.”

“Yes,” she responded, producing a pamphlet. “’Tis just a little something from a writer who calls himself, ‘Common Sense.’” Before he had time to expostulate she began hurriedly:

“‘These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of men and women. We have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.’”

“Now see here,” broke in the youth in an injured tone sitting bolt upright. “That’s mean! Downright mean, I say, to take advantage of a fellow like that. If you want to begin again on that summer soldier business, why say so right out.”

“Does thee object very seriously, John, to listening?” queried the maiden mildly. “I would like to read thee the article.”

“Oh, go ahead! I guess I can stand it.” Drayton set his lips together grimly, and half turned from her.

Peggy waited for no further permission. The pamphlet was one of the most powerful written by Thomas Paine, and, as he passed from paragraph to paragraph of the tremendous harangue, he touched with unfailing skill, with matchless power, the springs of anxiety, contempt, love of home, love of country, fortitude, cool deliberation and passionate resolve. Drayton listened for a time in silence, with a sullen and injured air. Slowly he turned toward the reader as though compelled against his will, and presently he sprang to his feet with something like a sob.

“In pity, cease,” he cried. “Hast no compassion for a man?”

SLOWLY HE TURNED TOWARD THE READER

But Peggy knew that now was the time to drive the lesson home, so steeling her heart to pity, she continued the pamphlet, closing with the peroration which was such a battle call as might almost startle slain patriots from their graves:

“‘Up and help us; lay your shoulders to the wheel; better have too much force than too little, when so great an object is at stake. Let it be told to the future world, that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive, the country and city, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet and repulse it.... It matters not where you live, or what rank of life you hold, the evil or the blessing will reach you all.... The heart that feels not now is dead. The blood of his children will curse his cowardice who shrinks back at a time when a little might have saved the whole, and made them happy. I love the man that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. ’Tis the business of little minds to shrink; but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles until death.... By perseverance and fortitude, we have the prospect of a glorious issue; by cowardice and submission the sad choice of a variety of evils,—a ravaged country, a depopulated city, habitations without safety, and slavery without hope. Look on this picture and weep over it; and if there yet remains one thoughtless wretch who believes it not, let him suffer it unlamented.’”

“No more,” cried the youth in great agitation. “I can bear no more. ‘’Tis the business of little minds to shrink; but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles until death.’ ’Tis true. Do not I know it. Until death! Until death! Wretch that I am, I know it. There have been times when I would have given my life to be back in the army. Do you think it is pleasant to skulk, to hide from honest men? To know always and always that one is a poltroon and a coward? I tell you no. Do you think that I have not heard the inward pleading of my conscience to go back? That I have not seen the accusing look in your eyes? You called me a summer soldier! I am worse than that, and I have lost my chance.”

“Thee has just found it, John,” cried she quickly. “Before thee served for thine own advancement; now thee will begin again, and fight for thy country alone. If preferment comes to thee, it will have been earned by unselfish devotion. But thy country, John, thy country! Let it be always in thy thoughts until its liberties are secured beyond recall.”

“Would you have me go back?” he cried, stopping before her in amazement.

“Why, of course thee is going back,” answered Peggy simply. “There is naught else for a man to do.”

Drayton noted the slight emphasis the girl laid upon the word man, and made an involuntary motion of assent.

“Did you know that deserters are ofttimes shot?” he asked suddenly.

Peggy clutched at the back of a chair, and turned very pale. “No,” she said faintly. “I did not know.”

“I thought not,” he said. “None the less what you have said is true. ‘There is naught else for a man to do.’ I am going back, Mistress Peggy. I shall try for another chance, but if it does not come, still I am going back.”

“And be shot?” she cried. “Oh, what have I done?”

“Shown me my duty,” he answered quietly. “Blame not yourself, for there hath been an inward cry toward that very thing ever since I ran away from my duty. I have stifled its calling, and tried to palliate my wrong-doing by excuses, but neither winter’s cold, nor the ingratitude of an unappreciative country will excuse a man’s not sticking by his convictions. Never again will you have it in your power to call me a summer soldier.”

“Thee is right,” faltered the girl. “I—I am glad that thee has so resolved, and yet——Oh! I hope that thee will not be shot.”

She burst into tears and ran out of the room. Girl-like, now that the end was accomplished, Peggy was rather aghast at the result.

CHAPTER XI—PEGGY PLEADS FOR DRAYTON

It was Mrs. Owen who found a way out of the situation.

“Nay, lad,” she said in her gentle way after Peggy had poured forth her fear that the boy might be shot, and Drayton had expressed himself as eager to go back at once. “Be not too hasty. Youth is ever impulsive, and prone to act on the resolve of the moment. Thee would prefer another chance, would thee not?”

“Yes,” answered the lad quickly. “If I could have it, I would show myself worthy of it. But if I cannot, Madam Owen, I am still resolved to go back, and face death like a man.”

“Thee is right, John,” she answered. “But if we could reach the proper authorities something might be done to give thee an opportunity to redeem thyself. Stay! I have it! Was not Mr. Arnold thy general?”

“Yes,” he said. “But oh, madam! is it necessary that he should know? Think, think what it would be should he learn that John Drayton, one of his soldiers, deserted. I could not bear to see him.”

“But would he not take more interest in thee than any other officer might? He alone would know all that thou didst endure in that march through the Maine wilderness. He would have a more complete understanding of thy privations, and how thou hast borne thyself under them. It is to him we must look to get thee thy chance.”

Drayton buried his face in his hands for a time, and sat in thought. Presently he looked up.

“You speak truly, madam,” he said. “’Tis the only way. He is the one to whom we must go. I am ashamed to face him, but I will. I’ll ask for another chance, but oh! this is a thing that he cannot understand: he who would give his life rather than fail in his duty. ’Tis a part of my punishment. I’d rather die than face him, but I will.”

“Once more, lad, let us not be too hasty,” said the lady again, laying a detaining hand upon his arm as he rose to his feet. “We must approach him with some little diplomacy. So much have I learned in this long war. He hath discovered a liking for Peggy here, and hath bestowed marked notice upon her upon several occasions. Therefore, while I like not to seem to take advantage of such favor, in this instance it might be well to send her as an advocate to him for thee. What does thee say, Peggy?”

“That ’tis the very thing,” cried Peggy, starting up. “Oh, I will gladly go to him. And I will plead, and plead, John, until he cannot help but give thee another chance.”

“It seems like shirking,” remonstrated Drayton, his restored manliness eager to begin an expiation.

“Thee has been advertised as a deserter, lad, and should thee attempt to go to him thee might be apprehended. Also, if the general were to see thee without first preparing him, he might not listen to thy explanation, and turn thee over to the recruiting officer. It will be the part of wisdom for Peggy to see him first.”

And so it was arranged. September had given place to the crisp bracing air of October, and on the uplands the trees were beginning to wear the glory of scarlet and yellow and opal green. Sunshine and shadow flecked the streets of the city, and as Peggy wended her way toward the headquarters of General Arnold, she was conscious of a feeling of melancholy.

“Is it because of the dying year, I wonder?” she asked herself as a dead leaf fell at her feet. “I know not why it is, but my spirits are very low. Is it because I fear the general will not give the lad his chance? Come, Peggy!” Addressing herself sternly, a way she had. “Put thy heart in attune with the weather, lest thee infects the general with thy megrims.”

So chiding herself she quickened her steps and assumed an aggressively cheerful manner. Just as she turned from Fifth Street into High she heard a great clamor. She stopped in alarm as a rabble of men and boys suddenly swept around a corner and flooded the street toward her. The girl stood for but a moment, and then ran back into Fifth Street, where she stopped so frightened that she did not notice a coach drawn by four horses driving rapidly down the street.

“Careful, my little maid! careful!” called a voice, and Peggy looked up to find General Arnold himself leaning out of the coach regarding her anxiously. “Why, ’tis Miss Peggy Owen,” he exclaimed. “Know you not that you but escaped being run down by my horses?”

“I—I—’tis plain to be seen,” stammered the maiden trembling.

“Sam, assist the young lady into the coach,” he commanded the coachman. Then, as Peggy was seated by his side: “I cry you pardon, Miss Peggy, for not getting out myself. I am not so nimble as I was. What is it? What hath frightened you?”

“Does thee not hear the noise?” cried Peggy.

Before he could reply the mob swept by. In the midst of it was a cart in which lay a rude pine coffin which the crowd was showering with stones.

“’Tis the body of James Molesworth, the spy,” he told her. “When he was executed ’twas first interred in the Potter’s Field; then when the British held possession of the city ’twas exhumed and buried with honors. Since the Whigs have the town again ’tis thought fitting to restore it to its old resting place in the Potter’s Field.”

“’Tis a shame not to let the poor man be,” she exclaimed, every drop of blood leaving her face. “Why do they not let him rest? He paid the debt of his guilt. It were sin to maltreat his bones.”

“’Tis best not to give utterance to those sentiments, Miss Peggy,” he cautioned. “They do honor to your heart, but the public temper is such that no mercy is shown toward those miscreants who serve as spies.”

“But it hath been so long since he was executed,” she said with quivering lips. “And is it not strange? When I came into the city to seek my father ’twas the very day that they had exhumed his body and were burying it with honors. Oh, doth it portend some dire disaster to us?”

“Come, come, Miss Peggy,” he said soothingly. “Calm yourself. I knew not that Quakers were superstitious, and had regard for omens. Why, I verily believe that you would look for a stranger should the points of the scissors stick into the floor if they fell accidentally.”

“I would,” she confessed. “I fancy all of us girls do. But this—this is different.”

“Not a whit,” he declared. “’Tis a mere coincidence that you should happen to be present on both occasions.” And then seeing that her color had not returned even though the last of the mob had gone by, he gave a word to the coachman. “I am going to take you for a short drive,” he announced, “and to your destination.”

“Why! I was coming to see thee,” cried Peggy with a sudden remembrance of her mission. “I wish to chat with thee anent something and—someone.”

“Robert Dale?” he questioned with a laugh. “He is a fine fellow, and well worthy of a chat.”

“Oh, no! Not about Robert, though he is indeed well worthy of it, as thee says. ’Tis about one John Drayton.”

“What? Another?” He laughed again, and settled himself back on the cushions with an amused air. Then as he met the innocent surprise of her clear eyes he became serious. “And what about him, Miss Peggy?”

“Does thee not remember him, Friend Arnold?” she queried in surprise. “He was with thee on thy march through the wilderness to Quebec.”

“Is that the Drayton you mean?” he asked amazed in turn. “I do indeed remember him. What of him? He is well, I hope. A lad of parts, I recall. And brave. Very brave!”

“He hath not been well, but is so now,” she said.

“You have something to ask of me,” he said keenly. “Speak out, Miss Peggy. I knew not that he was a friend of yours.”

“He hath not been until of late,” she answered troubled as to how she should broach the subject. “Sir,” she said presently, plunging boldly into the matter, “suppose that after serving three long years a soldier should weaken? Suppose that such an one grew faint hearted at the prospect of another winter such as the one just passed at Valley Forge; would thee find it in thy heart to blame him, if, for a time, he should”—she paused searching for a word that would express her meaning without using the dreadful one, desert—“he should, well—retire without leave until he could recover his strength? Would thee blame him?”

“Do you mean that Drayton hath deserted?” he asked sternly.

“He did; but he repents,” she told him quickly. “Oh, judge him not until I tell anent it. He wants to go back. His courage failed only because of sickness. Now he is ready and willing, nay, even eager to go back even though he meets death by so doing. As he says himself ’twas naught but the cold, and hunger, and scanty clothing that drove him to it.” Peggy’s eyes grew eloquent with feeling as she thought of the forlorn condition of the lad when she first saw him.

“And if he goes back, will he not have hunger, and cold, and scanty clothing to endure again?” he asked harshly.

“Yes; but now he hath rested and grown strong,” she answered. “He will have the strength to endure for perchance another three years should the war last so long. He wants to go back. He wants a chance to redeem himself.”

“And had he not the courage to come to me himself without asking you to intercede for him?” he demanded. “He was in my command, and he knows me as only the soldiers do know me. Since when hath Benedict Arnold ceased to give ear to the distress of one of his soldiers? I like it not that he did not appeal to me of himself.”

“He wished to,” interposed the girl eagerly. “Indeed, ’twas mother’s and my thought for me to come to you. We thought, we thought”—Peggy faltered, but went on bravely—“we thought that thee should be approached diplomatically. We wished the lad to have every chance to redeem himself, and we feared that if thee saw him without preparation thee might be inclined to give him to the recruiting officer. He is so sincere, he wishes so truly to have another chance that mother and I could not bear that he should not have it. I have made a poor advocate, I fear,” she added with a wistful little smile, “though he did say that he would rather die than face thee.”

“Unravel the matter from the beginning,” he commanded, with a slight smile at her confession of diplomacy.

And Peggy did so, beginning with the time that the lad mended the saddle on the road, the loss of her pony, and everything leading to Drayton’s stay with them, even to the making of the uniform of blue and buff and the reading of “The Crisis.”

“Upon my life,” he cried laughing heartily at this. “I shall advise General Washington to appoint you to take charge of our fainthearted ones. So he did not relish being called a summer soldier, eh? Miss Peggy, I believe that I should like to see the lad, and have a talk with him.”

“Thee will not be harsh with him, will thee?” she pleaded. “He hath indeed been in a woeful plight, and he could not bear it from thee. And he doth consider the country ungrateful toward him.”

“He is right,” commented Arnold, a frown contracting his brow. “Ungrateful indeed! Not only he but others have suffered from her injustice. Have no fear, Miss Peggy, but take me to him at once.”

Nevertheless Peggy felt some uneasiness as the coach turned in the direction of her home.

CHAPTER XII—ANOTHER CHANCE

Drayton was lying on the settle when Peggy announced General Arnold. He sprang to his feet with an exclamation as the latter entered, and then shrank back and hung his head.

“You, you,” he murmured brokenly. “Oh, how can you bear to see me?”

“And is it thus we meet again, Drayton?” said the general, all the reserve and hauteur of his manner vanishing before the distress of his former soldier.

“’Twas cold,” muttered Drayton too ashamed to raise his head. “I—I feared it sir. You cannot understand,” he broke out. “How can a man of your courage know how such things eat the very heart out of a fellow?”

“I do know, boy,” exclaimed Arnold seating himself on the settle. “What would you say if I were to tell you that once I deserted?”

“You?” cried the youth flinging up his head to stare at him. “I’d never believe it, sir. You desert! Impossible!”

“Nevertheless, I did, my lad. Listen, and I will tell you of it. I was fifteen at the time, and my imagination had been fired by tales of the atrocities committed on the frontier by the French and Indians. I resolved to enlist and relieve the dire state of my countrymen as far as lay in my power. So I ran away from home to Lake George, where the main part of the army was at the time. The wilderness of that northern country was dense, and I passed through hardships similar to those we sustained in our march to Quebec. You know, Drayton, what an army may have to endure in such circumstances?”

Drayton nodded, his eyes fixed on his beloved leader with fascinated interest.

“Well,” continued the general, “the privations proved too much for a lad of my age, so I deserted, and made my way home. I shall never forget the fright my good mother would be in if she but caught a glimpse of the recruiting officer. I was under the required age for the army, to be sure, but none the less I skulked and hid until the French and Indian war had ceased, and there was no longer need for hiding.”

“You,” breathed the youth in so low a tone as scarce to be heard, “you did that, and then made that charge at Saratoga? You, sir?”

“Even I,” the general told him briefly. “’Tis a portion of my life that I don’t often speak of, Drayton, but I thought that it might help you to know that I could understand—that others before you have been faint hearted, and then retrieved themselves.”

“You?” spoke the lad again in a maze. “You! and then after that, the march through that awful wilderness! Why, sir, ’twas you that held us together. ’Twas you, that when the three hundred turned back and left us to our fate, ’twas you who cried: ‘Never mind, boys! There’ll be more glory for the rest of us.’ ’Twas you that cheered us when our courage flagged. ’Twas you that carried us through. And then Valcour! Why, sir, look at the British ships you fought. And Ticonderoga! And Crown Point! And Ridgefield, where six horses were shot from under you!”

“And do you remember all those?” asked Arnold, touched. “Would that Congress had a like appreciation of my services; but it took a Saratoga to gain even my proper rank.”

“I know,” cried the boy hotly. “Haven’t we men talked it over by the camp-fires? Were it left to the soldiers you should be next to the commander-in-chief himself.”

“I know that, my lad,” spoke the general, markedly pleased by this devotion. “But now a truce to that, and let us consider your case. Miss Peggy here tells me that you wish to return to the army?”

“I do,” said the youth earnestly. “Indeed, General Arnold, no one could help it about her. She gave me no peace until I so declared myself.”

“I understand that she read ‘The Crisis’ to you,” said Arnold, a smile playing about his lips. “But you, Drayton. Aside from that, is it your wish to return to the army? It hath ofttimes been in my thoughts of late to obtain a grant of land and retire thereto with such of my men as were sick and weary of the war. I have in truth had some correspondence anent the subject with the state of New York. Would you like to be one of my household there?”

“Beyond anything,” spoke Drayton eagerly. “But not until I have redeemed myself, general. Were I to go before you would always be wondering if I would not fail you at some crucial moment. You have won your laurels, sir, and deserve retirement. But I have mine to gain. Give me another chance. That is all I ask.”

“You shall have it, Drayton. Come with me, and I will send you with a note to General Washington. He hath so much of friendship for me that because I ask it he will give you the chance you wish.”

“But the uniform,” interposed Peggy who had been a pleased listener to the foregoing conversation. “I made him a uniform, Friend Arnold. Should he not wear it?”

“’Twould be most ungallant not to, Miss Peggy,” returned the commander laughing.

“I knew not that you had made it,” exclaimed Drayton as Peggy disappeared, and returned with the uniform in question. “Why, ’tis but a short time since I said that I would go back. How could you get it done so soon?”

Peggy laughed.

“It hath been making a long time,” she confessed. “Mother helped me with dyeing the cloth, but all the rest I did myself. I knew that thee would go back from the first.”

“’Twas more than I did then,” declared Drayton as the girl left the room once more in search of her mother. “Sir, could a man do aught else than return to his allegiance when urged to it by such a girl?”

“No,” agreed his general with a smile. “Drayton, your friend hath clothed you with a uniform of her own manufacture. You have shown an appreciation of Benedict Arnold such as I knew not that any held of my services to the country. Take therefore this sword,” unbuckling it from his waist as he spoke. “’Tis the one I used in that dash at Saratoga that you followed. Take it, Ensign Drayton, and wear it in memory of him who was once your commanding officer.”

“Your sword?” breathed Drayton with a gasp of amazement. “Your sword, General Arnold? I am not worthy! I am not worthy!”

“Tut, tut, boy! I make no doubt but that you will wield it with more honor than it hath derived from the present owner,” said the other pressing it upon the lad.

“Then, sir, I take it,” said Drayton clasping it with a reverent gesture. “And may God requite me with my just deserts if ever I bring disgrace upon it. Sir, I swear to you that never shall it be used, save as you have used it, in the defense of my country. Should ever I grow faint hearted again, I will have but to look at this sword, and think of the courage and patriotism of him who gave it to renew my courage. Pray heaven that I may ever prove as loyal to my country as Benedict Arnold hath shown himself.”

“You, you overwhelm me, boy,” gasped Arnold who had grown strangely pale as the lad was speaking. “I make no doubt but that you will grace the weapon as well as the original owner. Ah!” with evident relief, “here are Mrs. Owen and the fair Peggy. Doth not our soldier lad make a brave showing, Miss Peggy?”

“He doth indeed,” cried Peggy in delight. “And thee has given him thy sword, Friend Arnold! How monstrously good of thee!”

“Is it not?” asked Drayton in an awed tone. “And I am only a subaltern. Oh, Mistress Peggy, you will never have the opportunity to call me a summer soldier again. I have that which will keep me from ever being faint hearted again.” He touched the weapon proudly as he ended. “This will inspire me with courage.”

“Of course it will,” cried Peggy with answering enthusiasm. “Mother said all along that naught ailed thee but an empty stomach.”

“’Tis what ails the most of our soldiers,” said the boy as the laugh died away which this speech provoked. “’Tis marvelous how a little food doth raise the patriotism.”

“And thee will be sure to write?” questioned Peggy when they descended to the lower floor. “I shall be anxious to hear of thy well-being, and thee must remember, John, that ’tis my intention to keep thee in socks, and mittens, and to renew that uniform when ’tis needed. Thee shall be cold no more if I can help it. And how shall it be done unless thee will let me know thy whereabouts?”

“Have no fear. I shall be glad to write,” answered Drayton who, now that the time had come for departure, seemed loath to leave them. “Madam Owen, and Miss Peggy, you have made a new man of me. How shall I ever thank you for your care?”

“Speak not of it, dear lad,” said the lady gently. “If we have done thee good it hath not been without benefit to us also. And if thou dost need anything fail not to let us know. ’Tis sweet to minister to those who take the field in our defense. It makes thee very near and dear to us to know personally all that thee and thy fellows are undergoing for our sakes.”

“Dear lady, the man who will not fight for such as you deserves the fate of a deserter indeed,” exclaimed the youth, much moved. “I thank you again. You shall hear from me, but not as a summer soldier.”

He bent in a deep obeisance before both mother and daughter, and then with one last long look about him John Drayton followed General Arnold to the coach.

CHAPTER XIII—GOOD NEWS

Life flowed along in its customary channels with little of incident for Peggy and her mother after the departure of Drayton. But if it was not eventful there was no lack of occupation.

The house and grounds were brought into order; the stores of unspun wool and unhatcheled flax were at length all spun into yarn and thread which in turn were woven into cloth from which the two replenished their depleted wardrobes. But, though all patriotic women strove to supply their every need by domestic industry, the prices of the commonest necessities of life advanced to such an extent that only the strictest frugality enabled them to live.

“There is one thing, mother,” said Peggy one morning in November as she found Mrs. Owen studying accounts with a grave face. “There is one thing sure: if the war lasts much longer we shall all be ruined as to our estates, whatever may be the state of our liberties.”

“True, Peggy,” answered her mother with a sigh. “Philadelphia hath become a place of ‘crucifying expenses,’ as Mr. James Lovell says. And how to be more frugal I know not.”

“And yet there was never so much dressing and entertaining going on,” remarked Peggy.

“Times are strangely altered indeed,” observed the lady with another sigh. “The city is no longer the town that William Penn desired, but hath gone wild with luxury and dissipation.”

“Many are leaving the city, mother. ’Tis not we alone who find it expensive.”

“I know, Peggy. ’Tis affecting every one. Would that a better example were set the citizens at headquarters. Mr. Arnold is a good soldier. He hath shown himself to be a man of rare courage, but I fear ’twas a mistake to put him in charge of our city. Would that he had less money, or else more prudence. I fear the effect on the country. But there! I have uttered more than was wise, but I trust to thy discretion.”

“The city is rife with rumors of his extravagance, mother,” Peggy made answer. “Thee is not alone in commenting upon it. Here was Robert yesterday looking exceedingly grave anent the reports. He says that there is much talk concerning the number and magnificence of the entertainments given at headquarters, and that many deem it but mere ostentation.”

“I feared there would be comment,” was Mrs. Owen’s reply. “’Tis pity that it should happen so when he hath such a fine record as a soldier. Such things cause discontent. There is so much use for the money among the suffering soldiers that I wonder he does not choose to spend it so. I like not to see waste. ’Tis sinful. Ah! here is Betty, who looks full of importance. Belike she hath news.”

“I am come to say good-bye, Peggy,” announced Betty Williams bustling in upon them. “Mother and family are going to Lancaster. Father hath advised us to leave the city owing to the high price of commodities, and while they go there, I, with a party of friends, am going to Dr. Simpson’s to take the smallpox. It hath been so prevalent that mother feared for me to delay longer in taking it.”

“Does thee not dread it, Betty?” questioned Peggy, regarding Betty’s fair skin with some anxiety.

“I like not the pittings,” confessed Betty candidly. “But Dr. Simpson advertises that he hath acquired special skill in the Orient in distributing the marks so as to minister to feminine looks instead of detracting from them, and he promises to limit them to but few. Can thee not come with me, Peggy? Thee has not had it, and we shall be a merry party.”

“I fear that it would not be altogether to my liking, Betty. I know that I should be inoculated, but I shrink from the process. I will say so frankly.”

“Thee is just like Sally,” cried Betty. “She hath courage to become a nurse, yet cannot pluck up heart to join a smallpox party. And thee, Peggy Owen! I am disappointed in thee. I have not half thy pluck, nor Sally’s; yet I mind not the ordeal. It may save me from a greater calamity. Just think how relieved the mind would be not to dread the disease all the rest of one’s life. And then to emerge fairer than before, for so the doctor promises. Oh, charmante!” ended Betty.

“Thee is brave to feel so about it, Betty,” said Peggy. “I hope that all will result as thee wishes. I shall miss thee.”

“I wish thee would come too,” said Betty wistfully. “The other girls are nice, but there are none like thee and Sally. It used to be that we three were together in everything, but since the war began all that hath changed. What sort of times have come upon us when the only fun left to a damsel is to take the smallpox? And what does thee think, Peggy? I wove some linen, and sent it to the ladies to make into sheets for the prisoners. They said that it was the toughest linen they had ever worked with. It made their fingers bleed.”

“Oh, Betty, Betty! was it thou who wove that linen?” laughed Peggy holding up her hands for inspection. “I’ve had to bind my fingers up in mutton tallow every night since I sewed on it. Never mind! thee meant well, anyhow. Come now! Shall we have a cup of tea, and a chat anent things other than smallpox, or tough linen?”

The two girls left the room, and Mrs. Owen turned once more to her accounts. But as the days passed by and the complexion of the times became no better her perplexity deepened.

The ferment of the city grew. Personal and political disputes of all kinds were rife at this time. Men began to refer to the capital city as an attractive scene of debauch and amusement. In compliment to the alliance French fashions and customs crept in, and the extravagance of the country at large in the midst of its distresses became amazing. It was a period of transition. The war itself was dull. The two armies lay watching each other—Clinton in New York City, with Washington’s forces extending from White Plains to Elizabeth, New Jersey. The Congress was no longer the dignified body of seventy-six, and often sat with fewer than a dozen members. Even the best men wearied of the war, and their dissatisfaction communicated itself to the masses. The conditions favored excesses, and Philadelphia, as the chief city, was caught in a vortex of extravagances.

So it was much to Mrs. Owen’s relief when she received a letter from her husband bidding her to come to him with Peggy.

“There will be no luxuries, and few conveniences,” he wrote from Middlebrook, which was the headquarters for the winter of seventy-eight. “None the less there is time for enjoyment as well as duty. Many of the officers have their wives and families with them so that there is no reason why we should not be together also.

“Tell Peggy that she will live in the midst of military equipment, but will not find it unpleasant. General Greene told me that he dined at a table in Philadelphia last week where one hundred and sixty dishes were served. Would that our soldiers had some of it! What a change hath come over the hearts of the people! I shall be glad to have thee and my little Peggy out of it.

“Come as soon as thou canst make arrangements, and we will be a reunited family once more, for the winter at least. God alone knows what the spring will bring forth. ’Tis now thought that Sir Henry Clinton intends for the South at that time. ’Twould change the complexion of affairs very materially.”

Here followed some instructions as to financial and other matters. Mrs. Owen called Peggy hastily.

“Oh, mother, mother! isn’t thee glad?” cried the girl dancing about excitedly. “And we will not only be with father, but with the army too. Just think! The very same soldiers that we have been making socks and shirts for so long.”

“The very same, Peggy,” answered her mother, her face reflecting Peggy’s delight. “I am in truth pleased to go. I was much worried as to the outcome of the winter here.”

CHAPTER XIV—THE CAMP AT MIDDLEBROOK

“Well, if this be a foot-warmer I wonder what a foot-freezer would be called,” exclaimed Peggy in tones of disgust, slipping from her seat in the coach to feel the covered iron at her mother’s feet. “I don’t believe that the innkeeper at the last tavern where we baited our horses filled it with live coals, as I told him to. He was none too civil.”

“Belike ’twas because we paid our reckoning in Continental money,” remarked Mrs. Owen. “Never mind the iron, Peggy. I shall do very well without it; and if thou art not careful thou wilt drop that box which thee has been so choice of through the journey.”

Peggy laughed as she resumed her seat by her mother’s side.

“Is thee curious anent that box, mother?” she questioned drawing a small oblong box of ebony wood closer to her.

“I should be,” observed the lady with a smile, “had I not heard Friend Deering tell thee that ’twas a secret betwixt thee and him.”

“I should think that being a secret would make thee wonder all the more concerning it,” remarked the girl. “It would me, mother.”

“Is thee trying to awake my inquisitiveness, daughter?”

“I am to tell thee about it should thee ask,” said Peggy suggestively. “But in all these four days thou hast not once evinced the slightest desire to know aught anent the matter. How can thee be so indifferent, mother? I am eager to tell thee.”

“So I judged,” replied Mrs. Owen laughing outright. “Know then, Peggy, that I am as desirous of hearing as thou art of telling. ’Tis something for General Washington; is ’t not?”

“Why, mother, thee knows already,” cried Peggy.

“No, no, child; I am only guessing. ’Twould be like Friend Deering to send something to the general. That is all I know of the matter.”

“Well, then, ’tis five hundred English guineas,” explained the girl, enjoying the look of amazement on her mother’s face.

“Peggy, no!” exclaimed the lady. “I thought belike ’twas money, but I knew not that it was so much. How pleased the general will be. Hard money is getting scarcer and scarcer, and the people murmur against the currency of Congress.”

“And shall I tell thee all that I am to say to Friend Washington?” asked Peggy with an important air. “Mother, thee did not guess that while thee was gathering supplies I too had business of like nature?”

“No, I did not know,” replied Mrs. Owen. “Unravel the matter, I beg, Peggy. ’Twill serve well to pass the time, and I am curious also concerning the affair.”

It was three weeks after the receipt of David Owen’s letter, and December was upon them ere mother and daughter had completed their arrangements for the journey. Knowing the great need of supplies at the encampment, Mrs. Owen determined not to go empty handed, and so made a personal canvas among the citizens, who responded to her appeal for the soldiers with their usual liberality. In consequence, when at length everything was in readiness, it was quite a little caravan that left the city headed for Middlebrook, New Jersey. First came the coach with Peggy and her mother inside; then followed two farm wagons loaded with stores of various kinds; behind these came Tom with Star, for Peggy was hoping for rides with her father; the whole traveling under the escort of four of the Pennsylvania Light Horse who had been in Philadelphia on furloughs.

The roads were bad, the traveling rough and slow, the weather cold and damp, but to Peggy, who had never before been away from Philadelphia and its vicinity, the journey was full of interest and excitement. It was now the afternoon of the fourth day since they had started, and both the maiden and the lady were conscious of a growing feeling of excitement as they neared the journey’s end, so the matter of the box, about which the matron had in truth been wondering, was a welcome diversion.

“At first,” said Peggy pulling the fur robe closer about her and nestling confidentially up to her mother, “he said ’twas so small an amount that he wished me to say naught concerning the donor. But I persuaded him to let me tell who gave it, saying to him that ’twas not the amount that counted so much as the spirit in which ’twas given.”

Mrs. Owen nodded approval, and the girl continued:

“And so I am to say that since Jacob Deering is esteemed too old to take up arms for his country ’tis the only thing he can do to show his sympathy with the cause.”

“Would that there were more like him,” ejaculated the lady. “The cause would soon languish were it not for just such support. Is thee tired, Peggy?”

“Not very, mother. Still, I shall be glad when we reach the camp.”

At length, just as the sun was sinking behind the Watchung Mountains, the cumbersome coach swung round a bend in the road, and the encampment came into view. They had left Philadelphia by the old York road, crossing the Delaware at Coryell’s Ferry, and swinging across Hunterdon County into Somerset, where the army was stationed, so that their first sight of the Continental cantonment glimpsed nearly all of the seven brigades stationed there.

All along the Raritan River, and on the heights of Middlebrook the fields were dotted with tents and parks of artillery. Suddenly, as they drew nearer, the highways between the different posts seemed alive with soldiers going and coming. There was the crunch on the frozen ground of many feet. The country quiet was broken by the rattle of arms, the snort of horses, and the stir and bustle of camp. There was something inspiriting in the spectacle. Fatigue was forgotten, and Peggy straightened up with a little cry of delight.

“Look at the tents, mother,” she cried. “Didst ever see so many before?”

“We must be at Middlebrook,” exclaimed Mrs. Owen, almost as excited as Peggy. “Just see how the prospect of rest hath reanimated the driver and his horses.”

The maiden laughed as the driver sat up, cracked his whip and urged his horses to greater dispatch. The tired animals responded nobly, but their spurt of speed was checked suddenly by a peremptory command from the patrol. The examination over, they were allowed to proceed, but were again halted when they had gone but a short distance.

“What can it be now?” wondered Peggy peering out of the coach. Catching sight of the tall figure that came alongside, she called gaily:

“The countersign, father! The countersign!”

“’Tis welcome! Thrice welcome!” answered David Owen flinging wide the door of the vehicle and taking her into a tender embrace. “Art tired, Peggy?”

“No, father; but I fear that mother is. She hath been cold too.”

“But I am so no longer,” spoke Mrs. Owen cheerily. “Thee is well, David?”

“Never better, my wife. I have forgot that I was ever ill. But come! let us proceed to our quarters.”

“And who are in our mess?” asked Peggy as, after a word to the driver, her father stepped into the coach.

“Thou hast become militaryish already, I see,” he said smiling. “I have found accommodations for us at a farmhouse very near Bound Brook. ’Tis just beyond General Greene’s brigade, and close enough to the Pennsylvania line not to interfere with active duty. There will be but five in our mess, as thee calls it, Peggy—Friend Decker and wife, thy mother, thyself and I. ’Tis Friend Decker’s house. Dutch they are, but patriots staunch and true. See, my wife! We are coming to General Washington’s headquarters. ’Tis a much better dwelling than he occupied last year at Valley Forge. To thy right, Peggy. ’Tis the farmhouse in the midst of the orchard.”

“Friend Deering hath sent some gold to the general by Peggy,” observed Mrs. Owen bending forward that she might the better see the building. “And there are supplies behind in the wagons for the soldiers. Two loads there are.”

“Now that is good news indeed,” exclaimed Mr. Owen. “The chief should know of it immediately. We will stop there now. ’Twill ensure the general a better night’s rest to receive such tidings. He hath been greatly worried lately over the apathy of the people toward the war.”

“Then if ’twill be of any comfort to him to learn of this small aid let us go to him at once, David,” said his wife.

The last bit of sunlight disappeared behind the hills as they turned from the road into the meadow in the centre of which stood the large two-story wooden dwelling where General Washington had established his quarters for the winter. But lately finished, it was considered a model of elegance for that section of the country, and was in truth most roomy and comfortable.

As the light faded, from the meadows and the hills sounded the drums, fifes and bugles in the retreat, or sunset drum beat. Scarcely had the music died away than all along the top of the mountain range the watch-fires of the sentinels blazed out suddenly.

“Oh!” gasped Peggy, her eyes glowing, “if I live long ’mid such surroundings methinks I shall feel equal to fighting the whole British army.”

“’Tis so with all new recruits, Peggy,” laughed her father. “Thee will not be so affected when the novelty wears off. And here is the dwelling. ’Twill not take us long to present our news to the general, and then for quarters.”

A few rods to the east of the mansion were about fifty tents erected for the use of the life-guard. Fires flamed before every tent, around which men were gathered, laughing, talking or singing. Peggy looked about with much curiosity, but her father hastened at once to the door of the dwelling, where stood an orderly.

“Will thee tell His Excellency that David Owen is without, and wishes to see him?” he asked. “’Tis important.”

The orderly was absent but a moment. “His Excellency will see you, Mr. Owen,” he said. “You are to go right in.”

“MY WIFE AND DAUGHTER, YOUR EXCELLENCY”

Peggy’s heart began to flutter painfully as she found herself once more in the presence of General Washington, and her mind went back involuntarily to the last time when she had taken that long ride to Valley Forge to beg for her father’s exchange. So perturbed was she that she did not notice that the room was large, low ceiled, and cozily warmed by a huge fire of logs which glowed in the great fireplace. Instead of being interested in the furnishings of the apartment, as she would have been at another time, she clung close to her father overcome by the remembrance of how very near they had been to losing him, and could not raise her eyes when he said:

“I beg to present my wife and daughter, Your Excellency. They tell me that they have brought some money and supplies, and it seemed best to let thee know of it at once.”

“You have acted with discretion, Mr. Owen,” said General Washington rising from the table before which he had been sitting. “Madam Owen, I have long known of you through your good works, but have hitherto not had the pleasure of meeting with you personally. You would be welcome at any time, but doubly so since you bring us aid.”

“Thy thanks are not due me, but to the citizens of Philadelphia, sir,” said Mrs. Owen with her finest curtsey. “There are two wagon loads of stores of various kinds, among which are several casks of cider vinegar. We heard that thee was in need of that article.”

“We are indeed,” replied General Washington. “The country hereabouts hath been scoured for it until the farmers tell us that there is no more. ’Tis sorely needed for our fever-stricken men. ’Tis very timely, Mistress Owen.”

“And for thyself, sir,” continued the lady, “a few of us learned of thy fondness for eggs, and there are several dozens of those. But, sir, on pain of displeasure from those who sent them, thou art not to divide them with any. They are for thine own table.”

“I will incur no displeasure on that account, I assure you,” said the general laughing. “I fear that you have been in communication with the housekeeper, who hath been much concerned because of the scarcity of eggs. I thank you, Mrs. Owen, for having so favored me, and also for the other stores. They are much needed. Mr. Owen, will you see to ‘t that the quartermaster heeds your wife’s injunction about those eggs?”

David Owen bowed, and his wife went on:

“And Peggy hath also something for thee in that box, Your Excellency. She hath made so much of a mystery of it that I knew not the nature of its contents until this afternoon.”

General Washington had not been unaware of Peggy’s agitation. Perhaps he too was thinking of the time when she had been so severely tried, for his voice was very gentle as he took the girl’s hand and said:

“Miss Peggy and I are old friends. She promised me once to tell me what became of that wonderful dog of hers. I shall claim the fulfilment of that promise, my child, since we shall see much of each other this winter.”

The ready smile came to Peggy’s lips, chasing away the tears that had threatened to flow.

“Does thee remember Pilot?” she cried. “Oh, Friend Washington, I did not think a man so concerned with affairs of state would remember a dog.”

“He wished me well, and I always remember my friends and well wishers,” he said, pleased that she had recovered her composure.

“And ’tis one of them who hath sent thee this box of five hundred English guineas,” she said quickly, pointing to the box. “’Tis from Mr. Jacob Deering, sir. He said to tell thee that since he was esteemed too old to take up arms ’twas the only way left him to serve the cause. He regretted the smallness of the amount, but he said that English money was hard to come by.”

“It is indeed hard to come by,” replied the general, receiving the box with gratification. “This is most welcome, Miss Peggy, because just at this time our own money is depreciating rapidly owing to the fact that the British are counterfeiting it by the wagon load, and distributing it among the people. I trust that I may soon have an opportunity to thank Mr. Deering in person. I shall be in Philadelphia next week, and shall do myself the honor of calling upon him. In the meantime, Miss Peggy, receive my thanks for this timely relief. Will you not——”

At this moment the door opened to admit an orderly. General Washington turned to him. “What is it, sir?” he said. “Did you not know that I was occupied?”

“Pardon me, sir,” replied the orderly, saluting. “One of the videttes hath brought in a young girl who declares she hath a permit to pass the lines. He knows not what to do with her. She is English, sir, and comes from New York.”

“Bring her in,” commanded the chief. “Nay,” as the Owens made a movement to depart, “stay a little, I beg of you. This matter will take but a moment.”

As he finished speaking the door opened once more to admit the form of a young girl. She could not have been more than Peggy’s age, but she carried herself with so much dignity that she appeared older. Her eyes were of darkest gray, shaded by intense black lashes, and starry in their radiance. At present they held a look of scorn, and her well set head was tilted in disdain. A wealth of chestnut hair but slightly powdered clustered about her face in ringlets, and her complexion was of such exquisite fairness as to be dazzling. She was clad in a velvet riding frock of green, her beaver hat, from which depended a long plume, matching the gown in color. Her whole manner and appearance were stamped by a general air of distinction.

She advanced at once into the room, apparently unconscious of the effect that her beauty was producing.

“By what right, sir,” she cried in a clear musical voice, “do your men stop me in my journey? I have a pass.”

“Let me see it, madam,” said General Washington quietly. He glanced at the paper she gave him, and remarked, “This is from General Maxwell at Elizabethtown. He refers the matter to me for consideration. May I ask why so young a female wishes to pass through our lines?”

“I wish to join relatives in Philadelphia,” she answered. “I travel alone because I was told that Americans did not make war on women and girls. It seems that I was mistaken.”

“You are an English girl,” said the general, ignoring her last remark. “Why do you not stay with your people in New York?”

“Because, sir, I was left in England with my brother while my father came over with General Gage to fight the rebels. My brother ran away, so I came to join father. He had gone to the Southern colonies, and when he learned that I was here, he wrote me to go to my relatives. I left New York under a flag of truce, and came to Elizabethtown. There I went at once to the general in charge. Sir, I have complied with every requirement necessary to pass the lines, and I ask that I be permitted to resume my journey.”

“And what is the name of these relatives?” asked Washington imperturbably.

“Owen, sir. David Owen is my father’s cousin.”

“Why!” exclaimed Peggy, who had been an amazed listener to the conversation. “Thee must be my Cousin Harriet!”

CHAPTER XV—HARRIET

As if she had just become aware of the presence of others the girl turned a startled look upon Peggy.

“If you are David Owen’s daughter, then I am indeed your cousin,” she said slowly intense surprise in her accents. “And if you are his daughter, where is your father, and what do you here? I thought you were in Philadelphia.”

“Father is here,” answered Peggy, starting forward eagerly. “And thy father is——” But David Owen laid a restraining hand upon her arm.

“A moment, lass,” he said, a quick glance flashing between him and General Washington. “Let me speak to the maiden. My child,” turning to the girl who was regarding him intently, “thou wilt pardon me, I know, if I ask thee a few questions. It behooves us to be careful in times like these, and we but take precautions that thine own people would use under like circumstances. Therefore, tell me thy father’s name, and his regiment.”

“By what right do you question me?” she demanded haughtily.

“I am David Owen,” he answered briefly. “If thou art in truth my kinsman’s daughter there is no reason why thee should not answer my questions.”

“Ask what you will, if you are Mr. David Owen, and I will answer,” she said, her manner changing to one of extreme courtesy. “My father is William Owen, a colonel of the Welsh Fusileers. My brother’s name is Clifford, and I am Harriet. Do you believe me now, my cousin? Or is there aught else to be asked?”

“Nay,” replied he mildly. “I believe that thou art truly William’s daughter.”

“Then may I place myself under your protection, cousin?” she queried so appealingly that Peggy’s tender heart could not bear it, and she went to her quickly. “My father wished it, and I am a stranger in a strange land.”

“Surely thee may,” exclaimed Mr. Owen, touched, as his daughter had been, by the pathetic quiver that had come into her voice. “That is”—he hastened to add, “if His Excellency hath no objection?”

“I have none, Mr. Owen,” declared General Washington. “As the young lady hath proved herself a relative I give her into your keeping. There could be no better sponsor for her, sir.”

“I thank thee,” said David Owen gravely. “I will see that thy trust is not misplaced. And now, sir, we have troubled thee o’er long, I fear, and will therefore say good-night.”

“But not until Mistress Owen tells me when she and Miss Peggy, together with this newly found kinswoman, will honor me by their presence to dinner. Will you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey by Monday, Madam Owen?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. It will afford us great pleasure to dine with thee at that time,” replied the matron bowing.

The courtesies of leave-taking over, David Owen led the way to the coach.

“Take thy seat with us in the vehicle, my child,” he said to Harriet Owen. “I will have thy horse sent after us.”

“And has thee a horse too?” asked Peggy as the girl took her place beside her. “Then we shall have some famous rides, Cousin Harriet. And what is thy horse’s name?”

“Fleetwood. I brought him from England. He hath been mine from a colt. I have never had any other, and he will suffer none to ride him but me.”

“Thee thinks of him as I do of Star,” cried Peggy in delight.

“Didst say, my child,” interposed David Owen after the two maidens had chatted a while, “that thy brother left thee alone in England?”

“Yes, Cousin David. Clifford hath always been wild for the army, but father would not hear of his joining it. ’Twas lonesome after father left us, so I did not blame Clifford for leaving. A lad of mettle should not stop at home when His Majesty hath need of him to help put down this rebellion. Your pardon, cousin. Being English I am all for the king, you know.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Owen, pleased at her frankness. “I like thy manner of speaking of it, Harriet.”

“But still, that need be no reason why we should not be friends,” she said quickly. “There be those at home who think with the colonies, and blame them not for rebelling. It may be that I too shall be of like opinion after my sojourn with you.”

“It may be, Harriet. Have no uneasiness, my child. If thou art led to our way of thinking it must be of thine own conviction, and not from any effort that we shall bring to bear upon thee. Thou art welcome despite thy opinions. And didst thou cross the ocean alone?”

“Yes; that is,” she added hastily, “there was an officer’s wife who was coming to join her husband. I was with her. When father learned that I had come, he desired that I should go to you. He was sure that you would welcome me despite the difference in politics. And why are you not in Philadelphia?”

“I, of course, am with the army,” he replied. “The custom of campaigning only in the summer hath the advantage of permitting our wives and daughters to join us in camp during the winter; so my wife and Peggy have come for that time. Thou wilt like it, Harriet; for there are amusements such as delight the hearts of maidens. I doubt not but both thee and my little Peggy will sorrow when ’tis time to leave it.”

“Harriet must be tired, David,” suggested Mrs. Owen kindly. “Should not further explanation be deferred until the morrow?”

“I mind not the talk, madam, my cousin,” spoke Harriet, and Mrs. Owen noted instantly that she used Colonel Owen’s term of addressing her. “It warms my heart for my cousin to talk to me.” Again the little tremor came into her voice as she added: “It makes me feel more at home.”

“Then talk on, my child,” said the lady gently.

So the girl chatted of her father and brother, her home in England, her voyage across the ocean, and other subjects with so much charm that when at length the coach drew up before a farmhouse whose sloping roof and low eaves were but dimly distinguishable in the darkness Peggy found herself very much taken with this new cousin.

“I could listen to thee all night, Cousin Harriet,” she exclaimed as her father assisted them from the coach.

“And so could we all,” said David Owen laughing, plainly as much pleased with the maiden as was Peggy. “But we are at quarters, and the rules are that every one must be in bed at tattoo. That will give us just time for supper.”

And so in spite of the protests of both girls they were sent to bed in short order.

The rides began the very next day, and as Harriet seemed to be as much interested in the encampment as Peggy, Mr. Owen took them through part of it.

“’Tis a strong cantonment,” he said. “There are seven brigades here in the vicinity of Middlebrook. The main army lies in the hills back of Bound Brook, near enough to be called into service instantly if necessary. The artillery under General Knox lies a few miles away at Pluckemin. The entire force of the army is scattered from here to Danbury, Connecticut.”

“But why is it so scattered, my cousin?” inquired Harriet. “Methinks that ’twould be the part of wisdom to keep the army together?”

David Owen laughed.

“Would that thou wert Sir Henry Clinton,” he said. “Then all thy soldiers would stay in New York instead of being transferred to the Southern colonies. ’Tis done for two reasons: the easy subsistence of the army and the safety of the country.”

“But doth it not hem Sir Henry in?” she demanded. “How can he get through these lines without fighting?”

“That is just it,” said Mr. Owen laughing again. “Thee will soon be quite a soldier, Harriet. Here we are at Van Vegthen’s bridge, which is one of three that crosses the Raritan. General Greene, who is acting as quartermaster at present, is encamped here. He hath his quarters in yon dwelling which lies to our left. ’Tis Derrick Van Vegthen’s house, and ye will both meet with him and the general. Mrs. Greene is here, and Mrs. Knox. Ye will like them. Let us ride closer. As ye are unaccustomed to camp life ’twill be a novelty to ye to see the men engaged in their various duties. How busy they are!”

From side to side the maidens turned, eager to see all that Mr. Owen pointed out. Quite a village of blacksmith shops, storehouses and other buildings connected with the quartermaster’s department had grown up around the house where General Greene made his headquarters. On the near-by elevation, even then called Mt. Pleasant, his brigade was encamped.

As Mr. Owen had said, the scene was a busy one. A company of soldiers was drilling on the open parade ground, while of those who were not on duty some chopped wood which had been brought from the near-by hills, or tended fires over which hung large chunks of meat spitted upon bayonets, while still others could be seen through the open flaps of the tents cleaning their accoutrements.

“I should think those tents would be cold,” remarked Peggy with a slight shiver, for although the winter’s day was sunlit, the air was chill.

“They are not o’er comfortable, Peggy,” returned her father. “But does thee not see the huts that are in process of construction? General Washington taught the men how to build them, and they will be comfortably housed ere long. Note that they are built without nails, and almost the only tools used are the axe and saw. ’Tis most marvelous that such comfortable and convenient quarters can be made with such little expense to the people.”

“The marvel to me,” remarked Harriet Owen thoughtfully, “is that such ill-clad, ill-fed looking troops can stand against our soldiers. Why hath not the British swept them down like chaff before the wind? ’Tis past understanding.”

“Because their cause is a righteous one,” said David Owen solemnly. “And because, also, what thou art in the way of forgetting, my little cousin: they are of thine own blood, and therefore fight with the spirit of Englishmen.”

“English?” she exclaimed. “English! I had not thought of that, my cousin.”

“Consider our case,” he said. “Thou art of the same blood as ourselves. Doth it make a difference in the stock because thou dost happen to live in England, while Peggy there lives in America?”

“I had not thought of it in that way,” she said again. “I think the English have not considered it either. I would talk more of the matter, Cousin David, but not now. I have much to think of now. But do you not fear that I shall tell the British about this camp?” added Harriet smiling.

“No, my child. Thou wilt not have opportunity,” observed Mr. Owen. “Does thee not know that once being with us there can be no returning to New York? There can be no passing and repassing to the city.”

“Oh,” she cried in dismay. “I did not know. Can I not return if I should wish to?”

“Not unless thou hadst been away from the army for a long time,” he answered.

“But suppose, suppose father should come?”

“Even then thee would have to stay with us until such time that it was deemed advisable for thee to return. So thee sees, Harriet, that the rebels, as thee calls them, will have the pleasure of thy company for some time to come.”

“I see,” she said. Presently she threw her head back and gave way to a peal of musical laughter. “There is but one thing to do, Cousin David,” she cried. “And that is to become a patriot myself.”

CHAPTER XVI—THE TWO WARNINGS

“And here is some one to see thee, Peggy,” said Mrs. Owen a week later, coming into the little chamber under the eaves which the two maidens occupied in common. “Bring thy cousin and come down.”

“Is it John, mother?” asked Peggy, letting her tambour frame fall to the floor. “I wondered why we did not see him.”

“Yes, ’tis John, Peggy, though he is called Ensign Drayton here. Perhaps ’twould be as well for us to term him so, too.”

“Come, Harriet,” called Peggy rising. “Let us run down. ’Tis our first caller.”

“And being a soldier let us prepare for him,” said the English girl, reaching for a box. “What would we females be without powder? ’Tis as necessary to us as to a soldier, for ’tis as priming to our looks as ’tis to a gun. There! will I do, Peggy?”

“Thee is beautiful, my cousin,” replied Peggy with warm admiration. “Thee does not need powder nor anything else to set off thy looks.”

“Oh, well,” laughed the maiden, plainly gratified by her cousin’s remark, “’tis as well to be in the mode when one can. And I wish to do you honor, my cousin.”

“Oh, John,” cried Peggy as she entered the parlor, where young Drayton stood twirling his cocked beaver airily. “That I should live to see thee wearing the white cockade of the Parley-voos on thy hat. What hath happened?”

“The most wonderful thing in the world, Mistress Peggy,” answered Drayton reddening slightly at her raillery. “General Washington hath said that if my behavior warranted it he would put me with the Marquis de La Fayette’s brigade upon his return from France. As ’tis to be a picked corps of men ’tis most gratifying to one’s vanity to be so chosen. And in compliment to my prospective commander I am wearing the white cockade with our own black.”

“I am so glad,” exclaimed Peggy. “Thee is making us proud of thee. Father said that there was no soldier more faithful to duty than thou. This is my cousin from England, John. Mistress Harriet Owen, Ensign Drayton.”

“Your servant, madam,” said Ensign Drayton with a sweeping bow, which Harriet returned with a deep curtsey.

“Ah, Drayton,” said David Owen, entering at this juncture. “The lassies are wild to see the camp. Canst thou ride, ensign?”

“That is how I made Miss Peggy’s acquaintance, sir,” said young Drayton frankly.

“Ah, yes; I had forgot, my boy. I was thinking that perhaps thou couldst join us in our rides, and when it would not be possible for me to be with the girls thou couldst escort them.”

“I should be pleased, sir,” answered Ensign Drayton. “The country hereabouts is well adapted to riding as ’tis much diversified. The roads, though narrow, are through woods and dales, and are most beautiful. I have been over the most of them, and know them well.”

“Then thou art the very one to go with us,” said Mr. Owen. “Now, my lad, answer any questions those camp wild maidens may ask and I will improve my well-earned repose by perusing the ‘Pennsylvania Packet.’ A new one hath just reached me.”

“Wilt pardon me if I say something, Mistress Peggy?” inquired young Drayton an hour later as Harriet left the room for a moment.

“Why yes, John,” answered Peggy. “What is it?”

“It is to be careful of your cousin,” said the boy earnestly. “I like not the fact that she is English and here in camp. She means harm, I fear.”

“Why, John Drayton,” exclaimed the girl indignantly. “Just because she is English doth not make her intend any hurt toward us. I am ashamed of thee, John, that thee should imagine any such thing of one so sweet and good as my cousin, Harriet. And is she not beautiful?”

“She is indeed very beautiful,” he answered. “Pardon me, mistress, if I have wounded you, but still do I say, be careful. If she intends no hurt to any, either the camp or you, there still can be no harm in being careful.”

“John, almost could I be vexed with thee,” cried Peggy.

“Don’t be that, Miss Peggy. I may be wrong. Of course I am all wrong if you say otherwise,” he said pleadingly. “I spoke only out of kindness for you.”

“There, there, John! we will say no more about it; but thee must not hint such things,” said Peggy. And Drayton took his departure.

“Mother,” cried Peggy several days after this incident when she had returned from the ride which had become a daily institution, “mother, John is becoming rude. I don’t believe that I like him any more.”

“Why, what hath occurred, Peggy?” asked Mrs. Owen, glancing at her daughter’s flushed face anxiously. “Thy father and I are both much pleased with the lad. What hath he done?”

“’Tis about Harriet,” answered Peggy, sinking into a chair by her mothers side. “The first time he came he cautioned me to be careful because of her being here. I forgave him on condition that he should never mention anything of like nature again. And but now, while we were riding, Harriet stopped to speak for a moment to a soldier, and he said: ’I don’t like that, Mistress Peggy. Why should she speak to that man? This must be looked into.’ And, mother, he wished to question Harriet then and there, but I would not let him. He is monstrously provoking!”

“Well, does thee know why she spoke to the soldier?” asked her mother quietly.

“Mother!” Peggy sat bolt upright in the chair, and turned a reproachful glance upon the lady. “Thee too? Why, Harriet told me but yesterday that she was becoming more and more of the opinion that the colonists were right in rebelling against the king. And is she not beautiful, mother?”

“Thou art quite carried away with her, Peggy,” observed Mrs. Owen thoughtfully. “Thou and thy father likewise. As thee says, Harriet’s manner to us is quite different to that which her father used. But William, whatever his faults, was an open enemy for the most part, and I like open enemies best. I cannot believe that an English girl would so soon change her convictions regarding us.”

“Mother,” cried Peggy in open-eyed amaze, “I never knew thee to be suspicious of any one before. Thou hast been talking with John. What hath come to thee?”

“I have said no word concerning the matter to John; nor will I, Peggy. ’Tis not so much suspicion as caution. But now I heard her ask thy father if there were but the three bridges across the Raritan, and if ’twere not fordable. Why should she wish to know such things?”

“Did thee ask father about it, mother?”

“Yes.”

“And what said he?”

“He feared that because of William’s actions I might be prejudiced against her. He thought it quite natural for her to take an interest in military affairs, and said that she asked no more questions concerning them than thou didst. Beside, he said, she was such a child that no possible harm could come of it.”

“Belike it is because of Cousin William that thee does not feel easy, mother,” said Peggy much relieved.

“It may be,” admitted the lady. “Yet I would that she had not come. I would not have thee less sweet and kind to her, my daughter, but I agree with John that it can do no harm to be careful. Watch, my child, that thou art not led into something that may work harm to thee.”

“I will be careful,” promised Peggy, adding with playfulness: “As careful as though I did not have thee and father to watch over me, or the army with General Washington right here. Let me see! Seven brigades, are there not? To say nothing of the artillery and four regiments of cavalry variously stationed, and I know not how many brigades along the Hudson and the Sound. There! thou seest that I am as well versed in the disposition of the army as Harriet is.”

“Is thee trying to flout thy mother, Peggy?” asked Mrs. Owen laughing in spite of herself. “I may in truth be over-anxious and fearful, but ’tis strange that John feels so too. As thee says, it does seem as though naught could happen with the whole army lying so near. Still I have the feeling that harm threatens through the English girl.”

But the days passed, and the time brought no change to Harriet’s manner. She remained affectionately deferent to Mr. Owen, full of respectful courtesy toward Mrs. Owen, and had adopted a playful comradeship toward Peggy that was charming. The good lady’s reserve was quite melted at length, and she became as devoted to the girl as her husband and daughter.

With girlish enthusiasm the maidens regulated their own days by that of the camp. They rose with the beating of the reveille, reported to Mrs. Owen as officer of the day for assignments of duty, and, much to her amusement, saluted her respectfully when given tasks of knitting or sewing. When the retreat sounded at sunset they announced their whereabouts by a loud, “Here,” as the soldiers answered to roll call, and, unless there was some merrymaking at one of the various headquarters, went to bed at the beating of tattoo.

Lady Washington joined her husband in February, and there was an added dignity to the kettledrums and merrymakings in consequence. Better conditions prevailed throughout the camp than had obtained at Valley Forge the preceding winter. The army was at last comfortably hutted. The winter was mild, no snow falling after the tenth of January. Supplies were coming in with some degree of plenitude, and the outlook favored rejoicing and entertainment.

But life was not all given up to amusement. The women met together, and mended the soldiers’ clothes, made them shirts and socks whenever cloth and yarn were to be had, visited the cabins, carrying delicacies from their own tables for the sick, and did everything they could to ameliorate the lot of the soldier.

After a few such visits to the huts Harriet made a protest.

“I like not common soldiers,” she explained to Peggy. “I mind not the sewing, though I do not understand why Americans deem it necessary to always be so industrious. ’Tis as though they felt that they must earn their pleasures before taking them.”

“Are not ladies in England industrious too?” inquired Peggy.

“They look after their households, of course, my cousin. And they paint flowers, or landscapes, and the tambour frame is seldom out of the hand when one is not practicing on the spinet, but they do not concern themselves with the welfare of the common soldiers as your women do.”

“Oh, Harriet,” laughed Peggy. “Thee has said that before, but thee does not practice what thee preaches.”

“What mean you?” demanded Harriet with a startled look.

“I have seen thee several times give something to a common soldier, as thee calls him. Yesterday when we were leaving General Greene’s I saw thee slip something to one when he came forward to tighten Fleetwood’s girth. John saw it too.”

“I had forgot,” remarked the girl carelessly. “Yes; I did give him a bit of money. Methinks he hath rendered us several services of like nature, Peggy, when something hath gone amiss. Yet it may not have been the same soldier. I scarce can tell one from another, there are so many.”

“Thee has a good heart,” commended Peggy warmly. “Mother says that ’tis the only way to do a kindness. Perform the deed, and then forget it. But I always remember.”

“Does Cousin David ride with us to-day, or doth the ensign?” asked Harriet.

“’Tis John, my cousin. Father is on duty.”

“I am sorry,” said Harriet. “I do not like Ensign Drayton. He reminds me of a song they sing at home:

“‘With little hat and hair dressed high,
And whip to ride a pony;
If you but take a right survey
Denotes a macaroni,’”

she trilled musically. “Now don’t say anything, Peggy. I know he is considered a lad of parts. I heard two officers say that he would no doubt distinguish himself ere the war was over. ’Twas at Mrs. Knox’s kettledrum.”

“Now I must tell mother that,” cried Peggy, her momentary vexation at Harriet’s song vanishing. “He is our especial soldier.”

“Is he? And why?” asked Harriet. “Nay,” she added as Peggy hesitated. “’Tis no matter. I knew not that it was a secret. I care not. I like him not, anyway. Peggy, do you like me very much?”

“I do indeed, Harriet,” answered Peggy earnestly. “Why?”

“I am just heart-sick to hear from my father,” said Harriet, the tears welling up into her beautiful eyes. “It hath been so long since I heard. Not at all since I came, so long ago.”

“’Tis hard to get letters through the lines,” said Peggy soberly.

“I know it is, for I have tried,” answered Harriet. “The officers won’t send them. If you were away from Cousin David wouldn’t you make every effort to hear from him?”

“Indeed I would,” responded Peggy. “Harriet, has thee asked father to help thee? He would take the matter to General Washington.”

“General Washington does not wish to do it because I am British,” answered Harriet after a moment. “I know that they must be careful, but oh! I am so anxious anent my father, Cousin Peggy.”

“That is just as mother and I were about father last winter,” observed Peggy. “At last Robert Dale wrote us that he was a prisoner in Philadelphia, and I rode into the city to see him.”

“Was that when father was exchanged for him?” questioned the girl eagerly.

“Y-yes,” hesitated Peggy. She did not like to tell Harriet what effort had to be made to get the exchange.

“Peggy, he helped you anent Cousin David then; will you help me about my father?”

“How could I, Harriet?” asked Peggy.

“If you will just hand this note to that soldier that you saw me give the money to yesterday he will get it through the lines. Nay,” as Peggy opened her lips to speak. “You shall read it first. I would do nothing unless you should see that ’twas all right. Read, my cousin.”

She thrust a note into Peggy’s hand as she spoke.

“Miss Harriet Owen presents compliments to Sir Henry Clinton, and would esteem it a favor if he would tell her how Colonel William Owen is. A word that he is well is all that is desired. I have the honor, sir, to be,

“Your humble and obliged servant,

“Harriet Owen.

“Middlebrook, New Jersey,

Headquarters American Army.”

“Why, there ought to be no objection to getting that through,” exclaimed Peggy. “Harriet, let me ask father——”

“I have asked him,” said Harriet mournfully. “He would if he could, Peggy. He wishes me not to speak of it again, and I promised I would try to content myself without hearing from father. You must not speak of it either; else Cousin David will be angry with me for not trying to be content.”

“Don’t cry, Harriet,” pleaded Peggy, as the girl commenced to sob, and her own tears began to flow. “Something can be done, I know. Thee ought to hear from Cousin William.”

“Cousin David said I must be content,” sobbed Harriet. “And he hath been so good to me that I must; though ’tis very hard not to hear. I see that you do not wish to do it, Peggy. I meant no wrong to any, but——”

“How does thee know that the soldier could get the note through the lines, Harriet?” asked Peggy thoughtfully.

“He said that he was to have leave to go to Elizabethtown for a few days, and while there he could do it,” said Harriet, looking up through her tears.

“Why does thee not give it to him, then?” inquired Peggy.

“It must be given to him to-day,” answered the other, “because he goes to-morrow. If Cousin David were to ride with us I would, but Ensign Drayton always watches me as though I were in communication with the enemy, and about to bring the whole British force right down upon us. You know he does, Peggy.”

Peggy flushed guiltily.

“Yes,” she admitted, “he doth, Harriet. I knew not that thee was aware of it, though.”

“Give me the note,” said Harriet, rising suddenly. “As my father helped you to your father I thought you would aid me, but I see——”

“Nay,” said Peggy, her gentle heart not proof against the insinuation of ingratitude. “Give me the note, Harriet. I will give it to the man. I see not how it can bring harm to any, and thee ought to hear from thy father.”

“How good you are, Peggy,” cried Harriet, kissing her. “Here is the note. If I can only hear this once I will be content until such time as Cousin David deems best. You are very sweet, my cousin.”

And under the influence of this effusiveness Peggy saw not that the note her cousin handed to her was not the one which she had read.

CHAPTER XVII—A LETTER AND A SURPRISE

“Governor Livingston will dine with us to-day, Peggy,” remarked Mrs. Owen as Peggy and Harriet came down the stairs equipped for their ride. “Be not too long away, for thy father will wish you both here.”

“Is he the rebel governor of the Jerseys?” asked Harriet abruptly. “The one for whom two thousand guineas are offered—for his capture?”

“He is the patriot governor of the state, Harriet,” answered Mrs. Owen mildly. “We do not call such rebels. As to the reward I know not. I had not heard of such amount being offered, although ’tis well known that he is held in particular abhorrence by both the Tories and thy people. Perhaps David can inform thee concerning the affair.”

“’Tis no matter,” spoke Harriet hastily. “I dare say that I have confused him with another. Peggy, hath my beaver the proper tilt to show the feather? It should sweep to the right shoulder.”

“’Tis most becoming,” answered Peggy, after a critical survey. “Thee looks as charming as ever, Harriet.”

“Vanity, vanity,” laughed her cousin. “Shall we go for the ride now?”

Ensign Drayton rode into the yard just as their horses were brought to the block for the girls to mount. To Peggy’s surprise the same private soldier to whom she was to give the note had them in charge. As Harriet vaulted lightly into her saddle he left Fleetwood’s head and went round to the horse’s side.

“That will do, sirrah,” spoke young Drayton sharply. “I will attend to the strap.”

Peggy glanced at him quickly. “John grows unmannerly,” she thought to herself. “Now what did the poor man do amiss? Friend,” she called as the soldier saluted and turned to leave, her voice showing her indignation, “friend, thee shall fix Star’s girth if it needs it.”

“Thank you, miss,” he said, saluting again. He tightened the strap deftly, and the girl put her hand in her purse for a small coin. As she did so her fingers touched the note that Harriet had given her, and she bent toward him suddenly.

“Thee was to take a letter, was thee not?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, a look of astonishment flashing across his face.

“It is here, friend,” said she, giving him the missive. “I hope thee can get it through, for my cousin is sore beset with grief for news of her father. And there is money for thee. Thou art a good man, and hast a kind heart.”

“Thank you,” he said saluting, and Peggy could not have told how he concealed the note, it was done so adroitly.

“Why did thee speak so sharply to him, John?” she queried when at length they had started.

“Those girths should be attended to before bringing the horses round,” he answered. “’Tis done to get money from you girls. He never sees us but that he comes forward under some pretense of doing a service. I like not his actions. How doth it come that he is attending the horses? He is not your father’s man.”

“I know not,” answered Peggy. “Doth it really matter? Fie, fie, John! thee is cross. I never saw thee so before.”

“Your pardon,” said the lad contritely. “I meant not to be so, but men require sharp treatment, and perchance I have brought my parade manner with me.”

The girls laughed, but a constraint seemed to be over all three. Harriet was unusually silent, and Peggy, though conscious of no wrong-doing, was ill at ease.

The feeling was intensified as, when they had gone some distance, young Drayton wheeled his horse suddenly.

“Let us go back,” he said abruptly.

“Why?” exclaimed both girls simultaneously, but even as they spoke they saw the reason. A few rods in front of them, suspended from the limb of a tree, hung the limp body of a man.

“Is it a spy?” whispered Peggy shudderingly.

“Yes, Mistress Peggy. I knew not that the execution would take place on this road, else I would have chosen another for the ride. ’Tis not a pleasing sight.”

“Is thee ill, Harriet?” cried Peggy, all at once happening to glance at her cousin who had no color in her face.

“Ill? No,” answered Harriet with an attempt at carelessness. “I am chilled; that is all. Then, too, as the ensign says, yon sight is not a pretty one. Methinks such service must be extremely hazardous.”

“It is, mistress,” said Drayton sternly. “So perilous is it that the man, woman, or girl even who enters upon it does so at the risk of life. No mercy is shown a spy. Nor should there be.”

“And yet,” she said growing paler still, “spies are used by your own general, sir. It is a parlous mission, but he who enters upon it serves his country as truly as though”—she laughed, flung up her head and looked him straight in the face—“as though he were an ensign,” she finished mockingly.

“She has thee, John,” cried Peggy gaily. “But a truce to such talk. ’Tis gruesome, is it not? Let us converse upon more pleasing subjects.”

“Methinks,” said Drayton briefly, “’twould be as well to return, Mistress Peggy. The ride hath been spoiled for the day.”

But a shadow seemed over them, and neither girl recovered her accustomed spirits until some hours later when they went into dinner.

“Now by my life, David,” cried William Livingston, the great war governor of New Jersey, as the maidens were presented. “Now by my life, these girls take not after you, else they would not be such beauties. They must meet with my daughters. I had three,” he said turning to Peggy. “The Livingston Graces, some called them, but one grew tired of being a nymph and so became a bird. Nay; be not alarmed,” he added as a puzzled look flashed across Peggy’s face, “she but married John Jay. ’Tis a joke of mine. And this is the cousin from across the sea who bids fair to become our more than sympathizer? Wilt pardon me if I say that were I British I’d never relinquished to the rebels so fair a compatriot?”