"Yes," she agreed thoughtfully.

"And the girls?" uttered Fairfax. "What of them?"

"Until we have horses we can do naught, nevvy."

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

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

But Fairfax would not hear of this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, father! that's where Charley is. 'Tis the very thing."

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

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

Above was the blue and white woof of the spring sky. The plaint of the meadow-lark and the note of the robin sounded sweetly against the stillness of the air. A trio of crows sailed athwart the blue, their great wings beating the air to slow, solemn measure. The pine woodland added shelter and picturesqueness to the road, and to the light breeze its sweet resinous odor. And Fairfax was here, there, everywhere, looking after things with all the zeal of a young officer.

"You are merry," he said after a time, accommodating the speed of his horse to that of the wagon in which the girls rode. His manner had brightened perceptibly since the beginning of the journey, and he spoke lightly. "Yet I feared that you might be annoyed by the smell of fish. They are oyster wagons, you know."

"Is it fish that we smell?" cried Sally, laughing for very joyousness, and forgetting to wonder at the unusualness of his addressing them. "Methought it was the pines."

"Nay; 'tis fish," he declared. "At what are you looking, Mistress Peggy?"

"I am admiring thy horse," she replied. "'Tis a beauty. Almost as pretty as my own little mare."

"Nay," he protested. "Few animals are that. Star hath not many equals."

Peggy flushed with pleasure. Praise of her little mare always delighted her.

"Thee can afford to be unstinted in thy praise when thine own mount hath so much of beauty," she remarked.

"And what has thee named her?" questioned Sally. "It should be something charming."

"A name hath just occurred to me that is both charming and uncommon," he responded, meeting her glance without blushing. It was the first time that she had seen him so much at ease in ordinary intercourse, Peggy reflected marveling. "I think," continued the youth, "that no other horse ever bore it."

"Then it must be unusual," declared Sally. "Thee makes me very curious, Friend Fairfax. What is it?"

"Marsal," he answered. A twinkle came into his eyes as he added: "After Margaret and Sally: Marsal!" Saluting, he passed on to the head of the column.

There was a gasp of surprise from the maidens, then a peal of laughter followed, so mirthful that Nurse Johnson and her sister joined it.

"He hath the best of us, Peggy," cried Sally. "But who would have dreamed that he had it in him?"

"Of a truth he hath improved markedly," agreed Peggy. "I fear me that we shall have to change our tactics, Sally."

"'Tis not that he hath lost his diffidence, girls, but the reaction from fear of danger to us hath rendered him light-hearted," declared the lad's mother. "He is so relieved that 'tis easy to jest."

And this was the case with them all. So merrily the journey proceeded. The incubus of fear was lifted from them for the time, and a certain joyousness of expression was the natural result. It was twenty-five miles from Monmouth Court House to Tom's River, and so slowly did they travel that it was not until the next evening that they emerged from the forest into a long stretch of cleared road at the end of which lay the thriving little town.

About a hundred yards to the east of the road, on a slight eminence in the center of cleared ground, stood the blockhouse. It was a rude structure, unfinished, about six or seven feet high, built of logs with loopholes between them, and a number of brass swivels on the top, which was entirely open. Indeed there was no way of entering save by climbing. A short distance beyond the fort a bridge spanned the river, for the village was situated on both banks of the stream. Four miles away the tides of Barnegat Bay swelled and ebbed through Cranberry Inlet into the ocean. It was the nearness of this inlet that gave the little place its importance. It was at this time perhaps the best inlet on the coast except Little Egg Harbor, and was a favorite base of operations for American privateers on the outlook for British vessels carrying supplies to New York.

In the near vicinity of the village a gristmill, a sawmill, and salt works gave evidence of the occupations of the inhabitants; while on the river, which at this point broadened into a bay, floated the barges and boats of the fishermen, and the rafts and scows from the sawmills. The town proper consisted of about a dozen houses beside an inn, around which the dark forest seemed to crowd and press. The place had been subjected to attack several times by the British, owing chiefly to the desirability of the inlet, and the possession of the salt works. An unusual characteristic of the town was the fact that not a Tory, nor Tory sympathizer was allowed to dwell in it; which was an exceedingly uncommon feature of any place in Monmouth County.

As the company drew near the blockhouse there came a sharp command from within, and over its walls scrambled a few men who drew up at attention, while drum and fife sounded a welcome to the new captain. A dazzling light of pleased surprise came into the young man's eyes, and he squared his shoulders with an involuntary movement. From the village came the people to give welcome also; for the intrepidity with which the young man fulfilled his duties, his recent exploit in capturing the noted Edwards had given him a reputation, and the town rejoiced that he had been sent to take command of the post.

With blushing modesty the lad made a stammering response to the welcome, while Thomas Ashley beamed with gratification, and his mother could scarce conceal her pride. The ceremony was ended presently, and the company took formal possession of the blockhouse. The family passed on into the village.

"'Tis so interesting to be with the military," sighed Sally ecstatically as she and Peggy were preparing for bed. They had found quarters with the family of Justice Green, old friends of Mrs. Ashley. "Just think, Peggy Owen! Thee had a whole winter of it at Middlebrook. And with the main army at that. I should think thee could never find contentment in our quiet city again."

"Were we there, Sally, I'd never wish to leave it," spoke Peggy so earnestly that her friend looked up in surprise.

"What is it?" she asked quickly. "Has thee the migraine, Peggy?"

"No, Sally." Peggy was thoughtful for a moment before she explained: "These people are so grateful because the company hath come. Were there not great cause for fear they would not have so much appreciation. It looks as though they lived in dread of attack."

"And I have been feeling so secure because the blockhouse was here," exclaimed Sally. "Hasn't thee?"

"I did for a time, but I am not so sure that I do now," was Peggy's response.

"Is not Fairfax a fine fellow?" queried Sally after a moment's silence.

"I wonder if thee knows how often thee says that, Sally?" Peggy turned, and gazed searchingly into Sally's face.

"I don't say it any oftener than he deserves it, miss," retorted Sally, brushing her hair composedly. "He is all that valor and modesty can make him. I heard Friend Pendleton say once that humility was the sweetest flower that grew in the human breast. Fairfax thinks so little of himself; yet he is so brave, and modest, and kind; and his uncle declares that he fights like a tiger."

"Yes?" gasped Peggy, regarding her friend with amazement. "He is all that. And what then, Sally?"

Sally laughed.

"I was just thinking, Peggy mine, that some time—oh, years and years from now, after the war is over, thee knows—we girls might want to make some additions to the Social Select Circle in the form of—— Well, partners for life," she ended, blushing adorably.

"And was thee thinking of annexing Fairfax?" cried Peggy in a paroxysm of merriment. "Oh, Sally, Sally! that I should live to hear thee say such things!"

"I? Oh, no! I was thinking of Betty. Thee knows that he would require some management, he is so bashful, and Betty——"

"I am not so sure, Sally." Peggy was laughing so that she could scarcely talk, but she continued mirthfully: "Has thee not noticed that he is always equal to an emergency, and that he is cool and collected in danger? Sally, Sally! thee'd best give o'er such match-making plans."

"Well, I do think 'twould be monstrously nice," said Sally. "So there!"

"For Sally?" teased Peggy.

"Nonsense!" ejaculated Sally, reddening.

Many things contributed to dispel whatever of misgiving Peggy might have had. The people resumed their daily vocations, and while on every hand could be heard encomiums upon the ardor with which the young captain discharged his duties, the presence of the company seemed no longer to be regarded as a strict essential to safety. So the maiden's fears were lulled to rest, and she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the seaside life.

The bay daily beheld the arrival and departure of privateers, which sometimes brought prizes with them. There were boats from the different mills, and teams always loading at the wharves with lumber, salt, oysters and fish for the interior. Whenever there were prizes with the privateers, the town became a busy and lively place from the influx of visitors who were mostly business men from various parts of the state come to purchase captured vessels, or their cargoes.

Sometimes Fairfax joined them in their walks along the bay, for this was the favorite with the girls, and they could not but comment upon his increased manliness of bearing. He had found his position no sinecure. There were many farmers along the river who, while undeniably patriotic, saw no reason why they should not take the hard money of the British in New York in exchange for supplies, and this contraband trade had to be kept in check. An unceasing watch was in consequence kept on the river and coasts to prevent such persons from running the blockade; the salt works had to be guarded, and a strict patrol maintained to report any advance of English or refugees.

"Thee is getting thin, Friend Fairfax," commented Peggy one evening as the two maidens and the youth stood watching the boats on the bay. "Thee takes thy duties too seriously. Does he not, Sally?"

"Indeed he does," agreed Sally, her blue eyes scanning the young man's countenance with solicitude. "What hath gone amiss, friend? Something is troubling thee."

"There is activity on Sandy Hook that denotes action of some sort by the enemy," he answered gravely. "It hath been impossible so far to find just what the movement portends, but I fear that an attack of some kind is intended. Would that ye were at home, though I know not how to get you there."

"And does thee fear that this is the place to be attacked?" queried Sally. "Is it the salt works?"

"Yes," he replied. "That is one of the things that would invite assault. The works have always been a bone of contention between the two armies, and the British need of the article is pressing just at this time. Were it not that the highway from Freehold to Trenton is infested by those miscreants of the pines, I should say go with one of the shore wagons to Trenton. As it is there is naught for you to do but to stay here."

"Where there is a garrison for protection," spoke Peggy with more lightness than she felt.

"It is small," he said with hesitation. "Small, and the fort unfinished. I fear me that 'twill not withstand attack, even though it should be defended with stubbornness. But I must not make you uneasy. There may be no ground for apprehension after all."

So he spoke, and knew not that at that very moment some British and loyalists from Sandy Hook were landing at Coates' Point, a few miles to the north of Tom's River. Here their number was augmented by the addition of a band of refugees under the Tory, Davenport. A vidette dashed into the village with the news at midnight. Almost instantly came the order:

"Every man to the blockhouse! The British and refugees are approaching!"



CHAPTER XV

THE ATTACK ON THE BLOCKHOUSE

"Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle, proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms,—the day, Battle's magnificently-stern array!"

—Byron.

The cry echoed and reechoed through the streets of Tom's River:

"Every man to the blockhouse! The British and refugees are approaching!"

It seemed but an instant until the village was aroused. Candles flashed in the windows, and lanthorns gleamed in the streets as the people prepared for the foe. Every man and boy capable of bearing a musket hurried to the fort, while white-faced women snatched their little ones from their cots, and huddled together for mutual comfort and consolation.

Peggy and Sally had awakened at the first alarm. Often the former had been thankful for the Quaker teaching which enabled her to retain her self-control. She felt doubly grateful for it now in the midst of a confusion that was terrifying. Men shouted hoarsely as they ran through the town: sometimes repeating the orders of their captain, sometimes calling reassuringly to the women. The wailing and crying of the children, added to the screaming of the mothers, made a commotion that was frightful. The girls were pale, but they managed to retain composure.

"Is thee afraid, Peggy?" whispered Sally.

"Yes," admitted Peggy squeezing her friend's hand. "I am, Sally, but 'twill not help matters to give way to it."

"Ye are brave girls," commented Mrs. Ashley joining them. "Let us go down-stairs. 'Tis planned to have all of the women and children come here, as this is the largest house, and 'twill give comfort to be together. If some of us remain calm it will help to quiet the others. You can aid greatly in this."

So the Quakeresses went down among the assembled women, and, by assisting to quiet the children, helped Mrs. Ashley, Nurse Johnson, and others to bring a sort of order out of the tumult. An hour went by; then another, yet there was no sign of the enemy, and the tension relaxed among the waiting, frightened women. A few whispered that it was a false alarm, and smiled hopefully. Some slept; others sat quietly by their slumbering children, or stood about the rooms in listening attitudes. All wore the tense expression of those who face a fearful danger. Slowly the time passed, until another hour had gone by. All at once the sound of hurrying feet was heard without, and Peggy and Sally ran out on the verandah to find the meaning of it. It proved to be a scouting party sent down the river road by Captain Johnson to intercept the foe should it approach from that direction.

"I feel better out here in the air; doesn't thee, Sally?" asked Peggy after the men had passed.

"Yes; let's stay for a while. There is naught more that can be done inside."

For answer Peggy slipped her arm about Sally's waist, and the two sat down on the steps of the porch. The house was near the bay, and the restless lapping of the waves smote their ears with rhythmic dismalness. A brisk southwest wind was singing through the pines, but after the tumult engendered by the alarm, the stillness seemed abnormal. The streets were deserted now, and the only sign of life came from the dim lanthorns of the blockhouse. Nothing was stirring save the waves, the wind, and the leaves of the forest. Slowly the gray dawn crept into the sky, and still the maidens sat on the steps, silently waiting and watching.

Then, so suddenly that it drew an involuntary scream from both of them, a rifle went bang among the trees in the direction of the fort. Another report rang out, followed almost instantly by twenty or more in a volley. In the imperfect light of the dawn a number of dark forms could be seen running toward the blockhouse.

"'Tis from the Court House Road," exclaimed Sally rising quickly. "And oh, Peggy! Fairfax thought they would come the river way."

"Yes," said Peggy with despair in her voice. There seemed to be a great many of the attacking party, and she recalled Fairfax's misgivings concerning the fewness of the garrison. "And he hath sent part of his force to meet them there. I fear! I fear!"

Had Peggy been aware of the full force of the attacking party she would have known that there were grounds for grave apprehension. This is what had happened: Forty loyalists, under command of Captain Evan Thomas, had embarked from New York on whaleboats manned by Lieutenant Blanchard, of the British navy, and eighty armed seamen. Landing at Coates' Point, a place near the mouth of Tom's River, they were there joined by a detachment of Monmouth County refugees under Richard Davenport. Securing a guide, the party had made a wide detour through the woods, coming upon the blockhouse from the Court House Road instead of the river road, which was the logical one to use. The small force of the garrison was outnumbered several times over by their assailants, but of this fact both sides were ignorant for the time being. All these particulars Peggy, of course, did not know. She only knew that the fort was being stormed; that the numbers of the enemy seemed multitudinous, and that the noise was deafening.

By this time the women were up; either out on the verandah, or at the windows of the upper floors of the dwelling straining their eyes eagerly toward the blockhouse. Firelocks and muskets were banging, and the surrounding woods swam in smoke. Volley after volley swept the pines, then came the thundering report of the cannon. The smoke came driving toward the town into their faces, blinding and choking them. Again and again the cannon flashed and thundered. Again and again came the dense black pall of smoke. But so long as the fort stood the village was safe, and breathlessly the anxious women waited the issue, striving, when the smoke lifted, to catch glimpses of what was occurring.



For a considerable time the report of musketry and the cannonading was incessant. The assault on the part of the enemy was furious, and was met by the defenders with great firmness and gallantry. Suddenly the sound of the cannon ceased. The women gazed at each other in alarm. What did it mean? Had the garrison repulsed the foe, or was the ammunition exhausted? For a little longer the volleys from the muskets continued unabated, then these became fewer, until presently only a few scattering reports sounded. Soon the firing stopped altogether. The countenances of the women blanched. What was taking place behind those clouds of smoke?

As if in answer to the question, the smoke cleared. Through the whirling rifts they caught glimpses of the sky, the tree tops, and finally of the blockhouse itself. An awful cry arose from the women. The walls were partly down, and a terrific hand-to-hand struggle was taking place between friend and foe. There followed a few moments in which attackers and attacked were indistinguishable. Then, high above the clash of pike and bayonet, sounded the terrible command:

"No quarter! No quarter! No quarter!"

A dreadful moment succeeded when the air resounded with the screams of wounded and dying men, the agony of the conquered. The blockhouse had fallen.

A cry of anguish went up from the women. A cry so terrible, so heart-breaking in its bereavement that Peggy and Sally covered their ears to shut out the awfulness of its desolation. This was war in its most fearful aspect. War, civil war, that knows neither mercy nor compassion. War, the Juggernaut that rides to victory on a highway of women's hearts, watered by women's tears. O Liberty! thou art as the breath of life to man. Without thee he were a base, ignoble thing! We cannot set thy metes and bounds, for thou art thine own eternal law. Thou art the light by which man claims kinship with his Maker. And yet, at what price art thou bought? At what price! At what price!

The tragedy darkened.

A tiny tongue of flame darted up from one corner of the doomed fort. At a little distance another showed luridly. Presently the whole structure was a mass of flames. Trussed like fowls, the prisoners were taken to the oyster boats on the river, and thrown in unceremoniously. The barges and scows not wanted by the conquerors were scuttled and sunk, or fired and burned to the water. Then, with shouts of triumph, the yelling horde of British and refugees came toward the ill-fated village.

As though paralyzed with fear the terrified women waited their approach. Of what use to flee? All that made life dear was about them. That gone, what was left? And so they looked on in the numbness of despair while their houses were stripped and the torch applied. House after house burst into flame, and pitchy clouds of vapor obscured everything. Suddenly the women were galvanized into action as the enemy approached the house near which they stood. It was the only one remaining. As though animated by one impulse they turned and fled into the forest.

Peggy found herself running with the others. In all her short life she had never been so possessed by blind, unreasoning terror as she was at that moment. When at length tree and sky, and objects resumed their normal relation, she found that she and Sally were clinging to each other, and sobbing convulsively. And Sally was saying something. Peggy could not comprehend at first, but presently the words came to her clearly:

"We must go back, Peggy. We must go back."

"Why?" whispered Peggy, her voice filled with the horror of the scenes she had witnessed.

"Because, because," sobbed Sally, "there must be wounded. Oh, the poor, poor fellows!"

Peggy made a violent effort to collect herself.

"Yes," she said. "Thee is right, Sally. We must go back."

Soon they regained a degree of composure, and then they turned back. When again they came into the village, or rather the place where the village had been, the enemy had gone, but the destruction was complete. Not a dwelling stood, the salt works, the grist-mills, the lumber mills, even the little boats of the fishermen had been destroyed. Of that busy, lively, little town not a vestige remained. Shudderingly but with the resolution to be of service, if service should be necessary, the two girls made their way to the spot where the blockhouse had stood. As they drew near they saw the form of a woman moving among the bodies of the dead. She limped slightly, and they knew it was Nurse Johnson.

"Friend Nurse! Oh, Friend Nurse!" cried the girls running to her.

"He is not here," said Nurse Johnson apathetically. "They carried away some prisoners; he must be among them."

"Then he can be exchanged," cried Peggy, a gleam of joy irradiating her countenance. "Oh, I'm glad, glad!"

Nurse Johnson smiled wanly.

"I shall know no peace until I find where he is," she said. "I am glad that you are safe. Why came ye back from the woods? The British have just gone."

"The wounded," cried the maidens together. "We must care for them."

"Only the dead lie here," she told them with terrible composure. "Did ye not hear the order to spare none? There was no quarter given after the surrender. 'Tis that which makes me fearful for my son."

With that she sat down upon the bank of the river, and bowed her head upon her hands. One by one the women stole back from the forest. Each went first to those still forms lying so quietly, searching for father, husband, son or brother among them; then silently sat down among the ashes, and bowed her head. The little children stifled the sobs that rose in their throats, awed by this voiceless grief, and crept softly to the sides of their mothers, hiding their faces against them. More than a hundred women and children were stripped of everything, and rendered homeless, widowed and orphaned by the attack.

As though unable to bear the sight of such sorrow, the sun hid his face behind a cloud, and the forest lay in shadow. The waters of the bay sobbed in their ebb and flow upon the sands, and the wind that sighed through the pines echoed the wail of the grief-stricken women:

"Desolate! Desolate! Desolate!"



CHAPTER XVI

"OF WHAT WAS HE GUILTY?"

"Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman?

"Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly?"

—George H. Boker.

There is no time when man so realizes his helplessness as in the presence of great affliction. So now Peggy and Sally, wishing to give comfort but at a loss how to do so, withdrew a short distance from the stricken ones, then they too sat down. The girls were in sore need of consolation themselves, for they were faint and weary after the trying ordeal through which they had passed. It was therefore no wonder that through utter exhaustion they fell into slumber; for youth and weariness will assert themselves against the tyranny of nerve-racking stress. A slumber that was of short duration.

A drop of rain splashed suddenly upon Peggy's hand causing her to start up in alarm. She looked about her quickly. The sky was covered by dark, lowering clouds which hung above them like a pall. The wind had veered to the east and a fiercer note had crept into its moaning. Instead of the soft lapping of the tide there was an angry menace in the waves breaking turbulently upon the shore. A storm was coming, and they were without shelter. The girl ran to Nurse Johnson and touched her gently.

"'Tis going to rain," she cried, her clear young voice ringing out with startling suddenness. "Does thee not think that we should try to get somewhere, Friend Nurse?"

Nurse Johnson glanced at her dully, then at sight of the overcast sky she rose hurriedly.

"You are right, Peggy," she said. "'Tis time for action now. We must give way to grief no longer. Help me to rouse these women."

A patter of rain which fell as she finished speaking, brought a realizing sense of the situation to the women, and bravely they rose to meet it. For one short hour they had indulged their sorrow. In the greatness of the calamity that had overwhelmed them there had seemed to come an end of everything. That Freedom might live they had been bereft of all, but life with its responsibilities still remained, so resolutely they put aside their woe to take up again the burden of living. Though loth to leave the bodies of the brave dead there was no alternative, so presently a sad procession wended its way into the Court House Road. As the forest was neared there issued from its confines a small body of armed men followed by several wagons. A cry of gladness burst from Sally at sight of the leader.

"'Tis Friend Ashley," she cried. "Does thee not see, Peggy? 'Tis Friend Ashley!"

It was indeed Thomas Ashley. Full of amazed incredulity, for they had believed him to be among the prisoners taken by the enemy, his wife, Nurse Johnson and the girls ran to greet him.

"And Charley, father?" cried Mrs. Ashley. "Where is Charley?"

"With Hannah's boy, in the hands of the British," he answered. "Now, now, mother! don't give way. Prisoners can be exchanged, so he is not lost to us. Others did not fare so well."

But underneath his assumed cheerfulness Peggy detected anxiety. He did not linger talking, but bustled about helping the women into the wagons. The rain was falling heavily now, and there was need for haste. A small party of men was detached from the main body to go on into the village to bury the dead of both sides. The British had left their fallen ones to be cared for by the Americans, and generously the duty was performed. At length all was in readiness, and the journey toward shelter was resumed.

"And thou, friend? How did thee escape?" questioned Peggy as Thomas Ashley rode up beside the wagon in which the family sat.

"I was one of the scouting party that nevvy sent down the river road to intercept the enemy," he answered. "We were to take their fire while falling back on the blockhouse, but we did not see any signs of them. Alarmed at this, we scoured the woods to find where they were, when suddenly we were set upon by a party of refugees. A lively skirmish ensued, but the enemy was in superior force, and soon had the victory. In the disorder and confusion following the surrender a few of us made our escape. Meantime we heard the cannonading and knew that the blockhouse was attacked, but by the time we could make our way back to the village, the fort had fallen, and the British were burning the town.

"There was no sign of the women and children, but as the foe put off down the river with the prisoners, a friend crawled out of the bushes to tell me that the women had fled to the forest. It seemed best under the circumstances to go for aid for them, so we scattered to get it. Of course I am glad to be with you," he ended huskily, "but 'tis pity that it could not be either Charley or nevvy."

"They are young, friend, and perhaps can stand imprisonment better than thee could," consoled Peggy. "And, as thee hath said, they can be exchanged, so after a short time all of us will be together again."

"Yes, father," spoke his wife. "Peggy is right. It hath all happened for the best, I dare say. They might have been killed, and you also. So we won't grieve, but try to bear the lads' captivity as best we may. I do wish though that we could go home."

"We are going to, Mary; just as soon as I can find some one to take us there. There will be many to care for who have no place to go, and 'tis the right thing to make the charge as light as possible."

"And we shall be as safe there as anywhere," she said eagerly. "I shall be glad to get home."

Peggy's glance met Sally's, and her own wistfulness was reflected in Sally's eyes. They too would like to be home out of this turbulence of warfare, but knowing that these friends would take them were it possible they gave no voice to their longings.

As the journey proceeded parties of men swung into the road from all directions bound for the devastated town, bearing food, clothing, and medical necessities for the stricken inhabitants. The news of the attack had flown over the county like wild-fire, and the people rallied to the aid of the victims of this latest outrage, vying with each other in a generous contest as to the care of the villagers. It was found best to apportion a certain number to each party, and Farmer Ashley's family being in better condition than many of the others were among the last to find an abode. Tarrying only long enough to rest and refresh themselves, for they were anxious to return to the farmhouse, they were soon on their way thither.

"How glad we were to leave here," exclaimed Sally when at length they drove into the familiar yard. "And now how good it seems to get back!"

"Yes," sighed Nurse Johnson. "Would that we had never left the place. Then the boys would not be in the hands of the British."

"You never can tell, Hannah," remarked the farmer. "Had we stayed here there would have been another attempt to capture nevvy, and we might not have got off so well as we did before. It's about as broad as 'tis long. Then too, nevvy had to obey orders from the Council of Safety, so he would have had to go to Tom's River. Edwards, I hear, is sentenced to be hanged; naturally the Tories would have been after the boy hot-foot."

After the total annihilation of the village of Tom's River, the damage to the farmhouse seemed inconsiderable, and it was with a sense of rest that the girls entered the pleasant and homey kitchen. And now for a time there was peace from molestation of any sort, and the short period of repose brought healing to their bruised spirits.

In some manner Thomas Ashley contrived to learn that Fairfax had been carried to New York, and subsequently to Sandy Hook, where he was confined in the hold of a guard-ship. Simultaneously with this information came the news that Edwards, the refugee leader whom the young captain had captured, had been shot while attempting to escape, and the county exulted that at last it was rid of such a desperado.

So the soft days of April passed until ten had elapsed since the return from Tom's River. It seemed to Peggy that never before had there been so beautiful a spring, and she spent much time among the sweet scented things of the garden. There came a morning when all the earth was kissed with scent, and all the air caressed by song. The two maidens were out under the blossoming trees, and their talk turned, as it frequently did, upon the absent Fairfax.

"'Tis such a lovely day, but poor Fairfax cannot enjoy it," uttered Sally pensively. "How long doth it take for an exchange, Peggy?"

"I believe 'tis done in order of capture, Sally. Those who are taken first are first to be liberated. And rank also hath much to do with it. A captain would not be exchanged until a captain of equal rank could be given for him. As to militia officers I know not how 'tis managed. But whatever can be done, Friend Ashley will do. He hath influence with the principal men of the county, and will no doubt use it for Fairfax's release. He is proud of his nephew. Methinks he grieves over the lad's imprisonment as much as his mother does."

"I think he does, Peggy. Then too, he hath the welfare of Monmouth County so much at heart, and Fairfax was especially vigilant in suppressing the incendiary acts of the Tories and refugees, that he is missed. I hope he is well treated. 'Tis dreadful to be confined in such weather!"

"I like not to think of it," remarked Peggy with a sigh. "I wish we had not teased him so; yet what sport it was to see him mantle."

"There were times when I thought he liked it as well as we did, Peggy. And he was beginning to hold his own with us. There was wit in the conceit of naming his horse after both of us."

"I wonder what became of that horse," exclaimed Peggy. "Would that Friend Ashley had it! He hath need of it for his trips into Freehold."

"The enemy must have taken it. They destroyed everything that they did not take, and horses are valuable plunder. I saw naught of any animal after the town was burned."

Both maidens became silent at the mention of that dreadful time. Neither willingly spoke of it, and any reference to the affair was casual. Peggy stooped and picked a sprig of tender grass, and began to bite it meditatively.

"Friend Ashley comes back early," she remarked glancing over the fence into the road. "Methought he was not to return until nightfall."

"Why, that was the intention," answered Sally. "I heard him tell his wife that 'twould be late ere he came back. I wonder why he did not stay?" She went to the fence and leaned upon it, gazing with some curiosity at Thomas Ashley's approaching form. "Peggy," she called quickly, "something is wrong. Does thee not see?"

"He is ill," cried Peggy as the farmer stopped suddenly in his onward way and leaned against a tree. "Let us go to him, Sally."

There was no gate near where they were standing so the girls climbed to the top of the fence, then jumping lightly down on the other side, they ran hastily to Farmer Ashley.

"Is thee ill, friend?" queried Peggy. "Thee seems sick."

"Sick? Ay! sick at heart, child." Thomas Ashley turned to them such a woebegone countenance that the maidens uttered cries of dismay. His face was lined and drawn, and into his kindly eyes had come an expression of care. He seemed no longer a robust, middle-aged man, but somehow old and feeble.

"Lean on me," cried Peggy slipping her strong young arm about him. "Sally and I will help thee into the house."

"Not yet," he said. "Not yet. Let me collect myself before I face Hannah."

"There is bad news of Fairfax," cried Sally. "What is it, friend?"

"The worst," he answered brokenly. "The lad is no more."

"What does thee mean, friend?" gasped Peggy. "Is he—— No; thee can't mean that he is—dead?" Her voice sank to a whisper as she uttered the word.

Thomas Ashley let his face fall into his hands with a groan.

"Peggy! Sally! Where are you?" Clearly, Nurse Johnson's voice came to them. A moment later she herself came down the road. "Are you in hiding that you do not answer?" she asked. As there was no response from any of them she glanced from one to the other anxiously. "Something hath happened," she said. "What is it, Tom?"

But the farmer cowered before her.

"How shall I tell you, Hannah?" he cried piteously. "How shall I tell you?"

"It is about my son," she said quickly. "Tell me instantly." As Thomas Ashley continued unable to speak she added with passion: "Don't keep me waiting. Am I not his mother? Who hath a better right to know if aught hath befallen him?"

"No one," he answered her. "No one, Hannah. I would rather die than tell you, yet I must. Hannah! Hannah!" Sobs burst from him that racked his body. "They hanged him this morning."

A cry of horror broke from Sally and Peggy, but Nurse Johnson stood as though turned to stone.

"Hanged?" she said. "My boy! What are you saying, Tom Ashley?"

"The truth," he cried with bitter grief. "The truth, God help us, Hannah. The loyalists took him from prison, and brought him to Gravelly Point, where they hanged him this morning. 'Twas because of Edwards, they said. An express brought the news into Freehold. That boy, that noble, gallant boy hath been hanged like a criminal!"

"But of what was he guilty? What crime did he commit?" Her calm was terrible to see, and Peggy involuntarily took a step toward her, but Sally stayed her quickly.

"Of what was he guilty, Hannah? Why, of repelling the invader. Of trying to stay the ravages of the enemy. He committed the crime of which Washington, and Jefferson, and Franklin, and John Adams are guilty: the crime of patriotism."

"But he was a prisoner? A prisoner taken in open warfare. How could such an one be hanged?"

"By all the code of civilized warfare he could not," broke from the farmer passionately. "They have done it in defiance of the code. But there shall be retaliation, Hannah. Eye for eye," he cried lifting his clenched hands and shaking them fiercely above his head. "Tooth for tooth, life for life. There shall be retaliation."

A sudden, wild cry burst from her:

"Will that give me back my son? Oh, my boy! My boy!" And she broke into a passion of weeping.

The farmer motioned the girls away when they would have gone to her.

"Let her weep," he said, controlling his own emotion with difficulty. "'Tis Nature's way toward helping her to bear it. Come! leave her for a time."

So the maidens crept to their own little room to give vent to the sorrow that filled them. The shy fellow had endeared himself to them, and his untimely end affected them deeply. The days that followed were sorrowful ones. Nurse Johnson was completely prostrated, and Mrs. Ashley added to her woe a great anxiety for her own son. It fell to the lot of Peggy and Sally to look after the household affairs, and they were thankful for the occupation.

The last sad rites were performed at Freehold. Wrapped in his country's flag, Fairfax Johnson was buried with all the honors of war. But with the firing of the last volley the indignation of Monmouth County blazed forth. A single deed of violence and cruelty affects the nerves more than when these are exercised upon a more extended scale, and this act was peculiarly atrocious. The cry of Thomas Ashley sounded upon every lip: Retaliation! The cry grew as all the details of the inhuman murder became known.

The young man had been charged with being privy to the killing of Edwards, even though he pointed out to his captors that the refugee's death had occurred after his capture. The opportunity to rid themselves of so active an adversary, however, was not one to be neglected; so, without listening to a defense, or even going through the form of a trial, he was hurried to Gravelly Point by a band of sixteen loyalists under Captain Lippencott, a former Jerseyman and an officer in a refugee regiment, The King's Rangers, and there hanged. It was said that he met death with great firmness and composure. Upon his breast was affixed the label:

"Up goes Johnson for Frank Edwards."

The country, a little later England and the entire civilized world, stood aghast at the atrocity of the incident. A prisoner taken in open warfare hanged! Such a thing was unheard of. Such execution should be dealt a spy, an informer, a deserter. But a prisoner of war—— Even barbarians deal not so with an honorable foe. It was therefore no wonder that the cry of Monmouth County reached into every part of New Jersey, growing deeper and fiercer. Retaliation! It passed on, and spread into every state. Everywhere the cry was taken up by the press and the people: Retaliation! What had happened to a prisoner from New Jersey might very well happen to a prisoner from any state. The matter must be stopped before it proceeded any further. The grievance of one was the grievance of all. The issue was no longer local, but national. The cry rose and swelled into a volume. As with one voice the entire people of the new nation demanded retaliation.

And the cry was heard in the halls of Congress. And it was heard on the banks of the Hudson by Washington. Heard and answered. A stern demand went to Sir Henry Clinton for Lippencott, the leader under whose command the dastardly deed had been committed. For Lippencott, else the act should be retaliated upon by the death of one of the British prisoners of war.



CHAPTER XVII

A GLIMPSE OF HOME

"And as the shell upon the mountain height Sings of the sea, So do I ever, leagues and leagues away, So do I ever, wandering where I may, Sing, O my home! sing, O my home, of thee."

—Eugene Field.

"Peggy, does thee know that Fifth Month is upon us, and that we have been here nearly two months?" Sally turned from the open window by which she was standing, and looked at Peggy with eyes full of longing. "Shall we ever go home, I wonder!"

"I hope so, Sally." Peggy was making the bed in their little room, and she smoothed the wrinkles out of the coverlid as she continued: "Friend Ashley hath no horses, and he hath been busy, as thee knows. I make no doubt but that a way will soon be opened for us. I think both he and Friend Nurse would be glad to find one for us."

"So long as we could be of use I did not mind it so much," went on Sally. "But matters are beginning to move in their accustomed groove, and I cannot but wherrit anent what thy mother and mine are thinking."

"Yes, I know. I hardly dare think of it, but I am hoping as I said, Sally, that a way will soon be opened. Thee must not dwell too much upon it, but be as brave as thee can be."

"Friend Nurse hath another visitor," announced Sally, turning again to the window. "This seems to be some one of great importance, for he hath a fine coach. I wonder who it is?"

Peggy came to Sally's side, and leaned out of the window.

"That is Governor Livingston," she cried. "Does thee not remember I told thee how the enemy tried to capture him when I was at Middlebrook? I knew him quite well there. He and father are friends."

"Friend Nurse would wish thee to see him if she knew that, Peggy. Does thee not think thee should go down?"

"I'll wait a little," said Peggy. "No doubt he wishes to see her about something concerning Fairfax, and therefore he would rather speak alone with her. Thee knows that Sir Henry Clinton refused to give up the leader, Lippencott, but ordered a court-martial. 'Tis reported that His Excellency just waits the finding of the investigation before he acts."

It was two weeks after the burial of Fairfax, and the farmhouse had become a veritable Mecca to travelers. From all over the state they came to learn the full particulars of the affair, and to offer sympathy to the bereaved mother. The storm of protest which the lad's death raised had so startled the British general that the Honorable Board of Associated Loyalists had been dissolved, and there were no more incursions into New Jersey from that source. Even the pine robbers, as though appalled by the deed, ceased their depredations for the time being, and the highways were comparatively safe. As visitors reported this improved condition of things, Peggy and Sally grew anxious to take advantage of it to return home, but no good opportunity had as yet presented itself.

"Peggy," called Nurse Johnson a half hour later, "come down-stairs a moment. There is some one here who knows you. Bring Sally too."

Peggy sprang up quickly.

"Come, Sally," she cried. "I have a feeling that——"

"So have I," exclaimed Sally breathlessly. "Let's run, Peggy."

"Bless my soul, Miss Peggy," ejaculated the doughty governor, as the girls entered the kitchen. "Who would have thought to find you here? And this is your friend, Miss Sally, eh?"

"I am glad to see thee, sir," said Peggy warmly. "And how are thy wife and daughters?"

"Well, I thank you. They are with me at Trenton. By the way, Mistress Johnson here hath been telling me what a time you've had trying to get home. Knowing what a care girls can be, I have three of my own, you remember, I have consented to take you off her hands."

"Nay," protested Nurse Johnson, "they have been no care, sir. I really do not know what we should have done without them during the past few weeks. 'Tis only that we do not know when strife will break out again, and I shall be uneasy while they are here. I do not wish their mothers to mourn as I am doing."

"Well, have it your own way, madam," he answered. "If the young ladies do not mind an old man for a cavalier I shall be pleased to take them with me to Trenton. The journey to Philadelphia can be easily arranged from that place."

"We are glad to accept, Friend Livingston," spoke Peggy gratefully while Sally was so delighted that she could only look her thanks. "And when does thee wish to start?"

"I must get to Trenton to-day, Miss Peggy. It will mean a long, hard ride, and I hope you can be ready, say in an hour, though the time might be stretched a little, if it were absolutely necessary."

"An hour will be more than sufficient, sir," she replied. "We will surprise thee by being ready before that."

"I know that you are able to do many things, Miss Peggy," he said smiling, "but if you and your friend are able to get ready for a journey in that length of time you will give me a new estimate of girlhood."

"We will show thee," she cried eagerly as they left the room.

But their very anxiety threatened to defeat their purpose. Had not both Nurse Johnson and Mrs. Ashley helped them the governor must have had the best of it. As it was they were ready a quarter of an hour before the time set. Then came the farewells. In spite of their desire to go the maidens found it very hard to say good-bye. There is a bond between those who have endured much together, and the girls had become almost a part of the family. Both Nurse Johnson and Mrs. Ashley could not control their tears, and Farmer Ashley wrung their hands again and again. The maidens' own eyes were soft with weeping, and they silently took their places in the coach.

Nurse Johnson had told Governor Livingston the trials which the girls had undergone, so now as the coach rolled away, he spoke cheerily:

"When my girls start on a journey I give them three mile-stones to get over weeping. Susannah usually sniffs for two more before she begins to laugh. I am wondering how many will do for you girls?"

"We are going to cheer up right now, aren't we, Peggy?" spoke Sally wiping her eyes.

"We are indeed," answered Peggy resolutely.

"Now that's sensible," he commended warmly. "See that orchard over there. How beautiful it is! So full of bloom. There is nothing to my mind prettier than blossoming trees. Indeed, I am fond of trees of all kinds."

And so he talked, kindly directing their attention to anything of interest by the wayside, until soon both girls were chatting with more animation than they had known for weeks. They reached Trenton that evening, and stayed with the governor's family that night. A stage-coach and wagon ran between Princeton and Philadelphia by way of Trenton and Bristol three times a week. It happened that the next morning was one for the tri-weekly trip, and the girls insisted upon taking the coach. It would mean another day of hard riding, but they were anxious to get home.

"And we will have all the rest of our lives to rest up in," declared Sally. "For I don't believe that anything will ever tempt me to leave Philadelphia again. Peggy, did thee feel like this when coming back from thy other flittings?"

"Yes, Sally. It hath always proved hard to get back because of the enemy. I think it always will until we have peace. I don't want to leave home again either."

"If ever we get there," said Sally looking fearfully out of the coach window. "Peggy, when the governor's family insisted that it would make too hard a journey to take the stage to-day, I just felt that if we didn't come something would happen to the coach so that we couldn't."

"I am glad we didn't wait, though it does seem as though the stage goes very slowly. It fairly crawls."

Sally laughed.

"I dare say any vehicle would seem to crawl to us, Peggy. But we are going home, home. Oh, I could just shout, I am so glad."

It was late that evening when the stage drew up before the Indian Queen in Fourth Street. Leaving their portmanteaus to be called for, the girls fairly ran down the street, turning presently into Chestnut Street.

"Is thee afraid, Sally?" asked Peggy pausing before her home. "If thee is, mother and I will see thee home."

"Afraid in Philadelphia?" cried Sally. "Why, there are neither raiders nor pine robbers here. No; go right in, Peggy. I'm going on to mother. I will see thee to-morrow."

She was off as she spoke, and Peggy mounted the steps, and sounded the knocker. Her mother gave a faint cry as she opened the door.

"My daughter!" she cried. "Oh, Peggy, Peggy! I have feared for thee."

And Peggy crept into her arms, feeling that no harm could come to her in such loving shelter. It was long before she was calm enough to tell all that had happened, but at length sitting by her mother's side with her head on her lap, she related what had occurred.

"The poor boy!" sighed Mrs. Owen. "It is too dreadful to think about it. And his mother! I read of it, Peggy, in the paper. Thee can imagine my feelings knowing that thou wert in the midst of such occurrences. And Sally's mother hath been well-nigh crazed. Ah, my daughter! I am thankful to hold thee in my arms again, but my heart bleeds for that other mother who will nevermore clasp her son."

"And he was such a dear fellow," said Peggy brokenly. "And so brave! Thee should have seen how he fought the pine robbers. In just the short time that he was in Monmouth County he had made a reputation. And he was as modest as he was brave, mother."

Mrs. Owen stooped suddenly so that she could look into her daughter's eyes.

"Was thee very fond of him, Peggy?" she asked softly.

"So fond, mother." Peggy met her mother's look frankly. "Sally and I both were. Thee would have been too had thee been with him long."

The anxious gleam which had shone for a second in Mrs. Owen's eyes faded at Peggy's answer, and she said quietly:

"I liked him very much as it was, my daughter. The matter hath created quite a stir in the city. Nothing but retaliation is talked of. Report hath it that General Washington expects a speedy adjustment of the matter when the new British commander comes. They expect him in a few days. It is a sad affair. But oh, Peggy! I am glad thee is home!"

"And I never want to leave Philadelphia again," cried Peggy. "It seems so hard to get back when I do go away. No; I never want to leave it again."

"That is unfortunate, Peggy." Her mother stroked her hair gently. "David hath writ that he is to be stationed at Lancaster all summer, and that, as 'twas possible to get a comfortable house there, he would like for us to come to him. We might then all be together once more. But thy experiences have been most trying, my daughter. Father would understand if thee feels that thee would rather stay here."

"Why, mother, if I am with thee and father I won't mind," spoke Peggy quickly. "Of course I love Philadelphia, for it is my own city. No other place seems quite like it to me; but, after all, home is where our loved ones are. If I can be with thee and father, I will not mind where I am."

Mrs. Owen kissed her fondly.

"I am glad that thou hast so decided, Peggy. It would have been a great disappointment to David had it been thought best not to come. His visits home have been infrequent, and we have not been together much since the winter at Middlebrook."

"And when do we go, mother?"

"In about a week. Robert Dale hath some business with General Washington, and is at Newburgh now. He will act as our escort on his way back to Lancaster."

"Is Robert to be there all summer?"

"I believe so. He thinks we shall like Lancaster. The Congress met there while the British held this city, thee remembers?"

"Yes, mother. Oh, 'tis so good to be with thee!" Peggy laid her head down in her mother's lap with a sigh of content. "I don't believe that any other girl ever had so dear a mother as thou art."

Mrs. Owen laughed softly.

"I wonder what Sally is thinking," she said.



CHAPTER XVIII

HEROD OUT HERODED

"But what is life? 'Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air, From time to time, or gaze upon the sun; 'Tis to be Free. When Liberty is gone, Life grows insipid and has lost its relish."

—Addison's "Cato."

"Is thee nearly ready, Peggy? Robert should be here soon with the wagons."

"Yes, mother." Peggy ran to the head of the broad staircase to answer Mrs. Owen's call. "There are but few more things to pack. Sally is helping me."

"That is well, my daughter. Only——"

"Only let our fingers work while our tongues fly?" completed the girl merrily. "We will, mother dear. Does thee hear, Sally?"

"I hear," laughed Sally as Peggy reentered the chamber. "I think thee is the one to heed, miss. I am as busy as can be." She worked industriously on the portmanteau for a few moments, and then looked up to say, "I am glad that thee is going to ride Star, Peggy."

"So am I," answered Peggy as she donned her riding habit. "Father wrote that there are some excellent roads about Lancaster, and that, as he had a good mount, we might have some fine rides together. It will be quite like old times. I wish thee was going, Sally."

"Well," hesitated Sally, "I would like to be with thee, Peggy, but I should not like to leave mother again. I am glad to be home, and quite content to stay here for a time. But I shall miss thee, Peggy. Particularly as Betty is to leave so soon."

"Betty to leave? Why, where is she going? I had not heard. She was here yesterday, and she said not a word anent going away." Peggy paused in her dressing, and regarded Sally inquiringly.

"She told me to tell thee, because she could not bear to," replied Sally, her tears beginning to fall. "Oh, Peggy, our Social Select Circle will soon be no more. Betty is going to marry her Frenchman, and go to France. She said that she would write thee all the particulars."

"Oh, Sally, Sally! How we shall miss her! Why, how can we get along without her?"

"We can't." Sally closed the portmanteau with a vicious snap. "I never did care much for the French alliance, and I think less of it than ever now."

"Sally, thee won't do anything of the kind, will thee?" asked Peggy tearfully. "I could not bear for thee to go away."

"I? Oh, I shall never leave Philadelphia, Peggy. I shall always stay right here, and be a nurse."

"Dear me! there's mother calling again," cried Peggy in dismay. "We have been talking in very truth instead of working. There is so much that I should like to hear about Betty. I think she might have told me. What a belle she hath become, and how pretty she is! So all thy plans for her and Fairfax would have gone awry, had the poor fellow lived!"

"Peggy, does thee think that he really cared for her?"

Peggy's brows contracted into a thoughtful look.

"I don't know," she responded. "He was of a truth much interested when he saw her. She was very sweet that day. It was when Clifford was here, thee remembers?"

"I remember, Peggy. If thee sees thy cousin will thee tell him all about how I came to show Sheriff Will the closet?"

"Yes, Sally. I will."

"And if thee gets into trouble, and can't get home, if thee will let me know I'll come for thee," said Sally impressively.

Peggy laughed.

"There won't be any trouble about it this time, Sally. Father and mother are with me, and they will arrange everything."

"Thy mother is calling again, Peggy. We will have to go down. Be sure to write, and I will keep a journal for thee of Betty's doings. She is to have so many things from France. Would thee were to be here!"

"I should like to be," answered Peggy opening the door. "We are coming at last, mother."

Quite a caravan awaited Peggy's coming. There were a number of wagons, some containing Continental stores for the military at Lancaster; others filled with private property belonging to citizens, and still others which contained household articles which Mrs. Owen was taking for her use. All were under a strong guard. A roomy and comfortable calash had been provided for the lady, in which Peggy was to ride also when she should become tired of the saddle. Robert Dale, with the reins of his own horse thrown over his arm, stood waiting by Star's side to help Peggy mount.

"We were thinking that we should have to become brigands and carry you off, Peggy," he remarked as the girls joined them.

"Thee will not wonder that I was delayed when I tell thee the news, Robert," answered Peggy as, with the youth's assistance, she vaulted lightly into the saddle. "Oh, Sally, I do wish thee was going!"

"And so do I, Sally," spoke Robert.

"I should like to be with both of you, but I am glad to be in Philadelphia for a time," replied Sally. "Tell him about Betty, Peggy."

They were off at length, going by way of High Street across the Middle Ferry into the Great Lancaster Road. The distance was something more than sixty-five miles, and it was the intention to make it by brief stages. The road had formerly been known as the King's Highway, and was famed for the number of its taverns, which were jestingly said to be as many as its mile-stones. There was, therefore, no difficulty in making each day's journey as long or short as might be desired.

Peggy felt her spirits rise under the influence of the sunshine, the refreshing fragrance of the morning air, and the ride among scenes of romance and beauty. It was a country of rolling hills and gently sloping vales through which they passed, with occasional rocky dells and low cascades. A country of orchards, meadows, and woodlands; a country of flowing water, salubrious, fertile and wealthy; dotted with a few villages and many fine farms. The road ran incessantly up and down hill through dense woods of oak, hickory, and chestnut. The face of the country seemed like a great rolling sea, and it was no wonder that the girl's heart grew light as the ride unfolded the pleasing and picturesque landscape to view.

On the afternoon of the third day Peggy and Robert cantered ahead of the party for a short dash, but the road becoming hilly and steep they were obliged to slow their horses down to a walk. The road ascended the North Mountain here rising by three ridges, each steeper than the former. Below them lay the valley, enclosed on the left by the Valley Mountain with all its garland of woods; and by the Welsh mountains on the right. Hills and rocks, waving with the forests of oak and chestnut, bordered the road and, as their leaves rustled to the wind and twinkled in the sun, gave to the depth of solitude a sort of life and vivacity. Peggy had been telling Robert Dale about the attack on Tom's River, and all the sad details of Fairfax's death. Following the narrative a silence had fallen between them which was broken abruptly by Peggy.

"Look yonder, Robert! Something hath befallen a wagon, and there seems to be no one near it. To thy right. Does thee not see?"

Major Dale uttered an exclamation as his glance followed Peggy's index finger.

"You are right, Peggy," he cried. "Something is amiss there. The wheel hath been broken, and the wagon abandoned, yet 'tis full of merchandise. This must be looked into."

He gave spur to his horse, and dashed forward followed closely by Peggy. A wagon, one of the Conestoga sort, was drawn to one side of the road, and left under a tree. One of the wheels was broken, but there was no sign of horse or driver to be seen, though in truth the vehicle was filled with goods.

"Well, this is a strange proceeding," mused the young man. "Here we must needs have an armed guard for the safe arrival of our goods, yet this wagon stands on the broad highway unmolested. I'll take a look at these goods. It may be——"

"Good-morrow, friends," spoke a soft voice, and from behind some bushes a feminine form arose, whether maid or matron could not be determined at once, so voluminous were her wrappings. Her whole exterior, as well as her speech, showed that she belonged to the Society of Friends.

A long cloak of dark-gray superfine cloth enveloped her form completely. A small bonnet of gray taffeta silk was tied primly with a demure bow under her chin. It left not a wisp of hair visible. A riding mask covered her face so that only a finely turned chin was to be seen. So suddenly did she appear that both Robert and Peggy were guilty of staring. The youth was the first to recover himself.

"I cry you pardon, mistress," he said springing from the saddle, and approaching the newcomer. "If this be your wagon, you are in trouble. Are you all alone?"

"And if I am, friend, what is it to thee?" The words as well as the manner of the questioner caused the young man to flush, but he answered promptly:

"A great deal. You are in trouble, and alone upon the highway. I repeat, 'tis a great deal to me, as it would be to any man to find a woman so situated."

"Thee must give me thy pardon, friend. Methought the query was prompted by idle curiosity. By a great oversight my driver forgot to put his box of tools in the wagon, so that when the accident occurred he was obliged to ride on to the next tavern for help. I doubt not but that he will return soon."

"But the distance to the next tavern is six miles. It was unwise to leave you here alone upon the road. Do you not know that these highways are not safe?"

"I have seen no one; nor hath any spoke with me before this. I fear naught."

"But it should not be," he said with decision. "Peggy, do you think that your mother——"

"Mother would be pleased to offer the friend a seat in the calash, Robert." Peggy unfastened her riding mask as she spoke, and turned toward the Quakeress warmly. "I am Margaret Owen," she said. "And this is Major Dale, of the army. My mother is just beyond yon bend of the road in her coach. She will be charmed to have thy company to the next inn, and farther if thee wishes."

"And I am Truelove Davis," returned the other, acknowledging the introductions with the briefest of bows. She did not remove her mask, Peggy noted with surprise, but she was conscious that the girl was regarding her intently. "Perchance," continued the newcomer, "perchance it would not be agreeable to thy mother to do this charity."

"Nay, it is thou, friend, that dost lack charity, to suppose any one unwilling to do so simple a kindness." Peggy's voice reflected her pained amazement. Friends usually accepted such favors with the same simplicity of spirit in which they were offered.

"Nay, I meant no offense, Margaret, I think thee called thyself so. I make no doubt but that thy mother is most gracious."

"Indeed she is," said Robert Dale warmly. "I will ride back and explain the matter to her. The wagons should be hurried up a bit, also. I will see to the mending of this wheel, mistress, and send the wagon along with ours. It is most unwise to leave it here with its contents unprotected. Will you come, Peggy?"

"Nay, let the damsel abide with me until thy return," spoke Truelove Davis quickly.

Robert glanced at Peggy questioningly.

"I will stay, Robert, if the friend wishes it," said Peggy.

He saluted and remounting his horse sped back down the road. The Quakeress turned toward Peggy mildly.

"Did not the son of Belial call thee Peggy?" she asked.

Peggy felt the slight irritation that had assailed her but a moment since return at this remark, so she answered with dignity:

"Major Dale so called me. All my friends speak of me as Peggy."

"'Tis pity to spoil so fine a name as Margaret by substituting Peggy for it. I much mislike the practice."

"I do not," responded Peggy briefly.

"I fear thee is frivolous, Margaret," chided the other serenely.

All in a moment Peggy was amused. She reflected that this Friend must come from one of the country districts where observances as to demeanor and dress were much stricter than in the cities. She was, no doubt, conducting herself according to the light that was in her, and with this view of the situation Peggy's ruffled feelings were soothed.

"I fear so too, Truelove," she said laughingly. "Quite frivolous. Now thine own name: Did none ever term thee True, or Love? Either would be sweet."

"Thee must not utter such things," reproved the other in a shocked voice. "'Tis indelicate for maidens to even speak the word love. Where is thee going?"

"To Lancaster, to be with my father, who is stationed there."

"Stationed there? Is not thy father of the sect of Friends? Thou art using the speech."

"Yes; but he is in the patriot army, Truelove."

"Defying those who are set to rule over us? Hath he not been taught to bear meekly that which Providence hath called us to suffer? Where did he learn of Fox to retort violence for violence, or that shedding of blood was justifiable? And does thee hold with these misguided Whigs, Margaret?"

"I do," answered Peggy shortly. She had dismounted, and was letting her pony graze while she awaited Robert's return. A slight regret that she had offered to let this Quakeress be her mother's companion assailed her.



"And was thee not punished for it?" Truelove Davis was regarding her with a curious steadiness of gaze that Peggy found extremely irksome. If she would but remove that riding mask, she thought, she could talk to her better. "Did the friends bear in silence that thee and thine should depart from their peaceful practices?"

"They read us out of meeting," replied Peggy controlling herself with difficulty. "Father, nor any of us, did not embrace the Cause of Liberty without due thought. It did seem to us that life was not of worth unless it were accompanied by Freedom. To be free to worship God in our own fashion was the reason that the Great Founder built our city on the Delaware. England would have taken religious freedom from us also had not her oppression with regard to political rights been checked. It was not without the guidance of the inward light that we arrayed ourselves with Liberty, Truelove."

"Sometimes what one thinks is the leading of the inward light is but the old Adam that is within us tempting to strife," remarked Truelove provokingly. "I greatly fear 'tis so in thy case, Margaret. 'Tis easily seen that thou art of a froward and perverse nature. Come! sit by me, Margaret, while I read thy duty to thee. Thou art in need of a lesson."

"Not from thee." Peggy's eyes were sparkling now, and she spoke with some heat. "Who art thou that 'tis thy duty to read me a lesson? Thou art a stranger, met but a moment since. I listen to no lesson from thee, Truelove Davis."

"And there spoke the Owen temper," came from the other severely.

Peggy turned toward her quickly.

"What know thee of the Owen temper?" she asked in amazement.

"Everything, Margaret. How hot and unruly it is. I well know how it doth refuse advice, howsoever well meant. Thee should be sweet and amiable, like me."

"Like thee?" Puzzled, perplexed, and withal indignant, Peggy could not help retorting. "Will thee pardon me, Truelove, if I say that thy amiability lacks somewhat of sweetness?"

"Nay; I will not pardon thee. Lack somewhat of sweetness indeed, Mistress Margaret Owen! Does thee think thee has all the sweetness in the family? Obstinate, perverse Peggy!"

With a cry Peggy sprang toward her.

"Thy face!" she cried. "Let me see thy face. 'Tis Harriet's voice, but Harriet——"

"Is before you." The girl unclasped the mask and revealed the laughing, beautiful face of Harriet Owen. "Oh, Peggy! Peggy! for a Quakeress you did not show much meekness. So you would not take a lesson from a stranger, eh? You should have seen your face when I proposed it."

"But how did thee come here, Harriet? And why did thee assume this dress?"

"Come sit down, and I'll tell you all about it," said Harriet, giving her cousin a squeeze. "Don't be afraid, Peggy. I promise not to teach any lesson. I should not dare to. But oh!" she laughed gleefully. "I shall never forget how you looked. You'll be the death of me yet, little cousin."



CHAPTER XIX

THE TURN OF THE WHEEL

"From every valley and hill there come The clamoring voices of fife and drum; And out in the fresh, cool morning air The soldiers are swarming everywhere."

—"Reveille," Michael O'Connor.

"But first, Harriet, do take off that bonnet, and let me see thee as thou art really; with thy hair about thy face. So." Peggy reached over and untied the bow as she spoke, then removed the prim little bonnet from her cousin's head. "How beautiful thee is," she commented gazing at the maiden with admiring eyes. "I think thee grows more so every time I see thee. That bonnet doth not become thee."

Harriet shook back her chestnut ringlets, and laughed gaily. Her wonderful eyes, dancing with mirth, were starry in their radiance.

"One would think that I did not make a good Quakeress, Peggy, to hear you talk. Now confess," pinching Peggy's cheek playfully, "you did not dream that I was aught other than Truelove Davis; did you?"

"N-no; and yet thee puzzled me," said Peggy. "Oh, Harriet, thee should turn play actress."

"Well, there are times when I think of it, cousin mine. 'Tis rare sport to make others believe that I am that which I am not."

"But why did thee do it, Harriet? And to be here alone on the highway!"

"I wanted to see Clifford, Peggy. Neither father nor I had heard aught from him since the misfortune at Yorktown, save that he was at Lancaster. We knew not whether he was ill or in health, or whether he was meeting with kindness or not. As your Congress permits supplies to be sent to the captured British it occurred to me that I might come along with them and find out about my brother. Of course, as the Most Honorable Council of Pennsylvania had banished me from the state, I dared not come openly, so I slipped in by the back door, as it were.

"Father would not hear of my coming at first. Then I dressed up in this garb, and went in to where he sat talking with the new commander, Sir Guy Carleton, who hath come to take Sir Henry Clinton's place, and neither one of them knew me. Sir Guy declared that there would be no danger, as a Quakeress would meet with respectful treatment anywhere. He gave me a pass which would further insure my well being, and so, when a boat load of stores was shipped to Head of Elk the first of this week, I came with it. Everything hath gone off well until this breakdown, and I do not regret that, since it hath brought us together. So you see, Peggy, the matter is very simple after all."

"Yes," said Peggy. "Harriet, thy brother was at our house in Third Month."

"He was?" exclaimed Harriet. "Tell me about it, Peggy."

And Peggy told her all that had happened on that memorable first of March, with its consequences.

"So the Council hauled you and Sally up before it, did it?" cried Harriet. "Oh, dear, Peggy! you are always getting into trouble over us, aren't you? And Sally, and Robert, and Fairfax, all helped you in the affair. That makes me feel sorry about Fairfax Johnson. Do you know, Peggy, that matter hath created quite a stir in New York? There were many who wanted Sir Henry to turn over Captain Lippencott to the rebel general, but the court-martial found that he was acting under verbal orders from the Honorable Board of Associated Loyalists, and so should not be punished for obedience. Sir Guy is not altogether satisfied with the finding."

"It was very sad, Harriet," said Peggy, the tears coming to her eyes. "Fairfax was only doing his duty in defending the state from invasion, and 'twas most inhuman to execute him in such a lawless manner. Our people are not satisfied to let the matter rest, because 'twas a crime committed in open defiance of the laws of war."

"Oh, well," spoke Harriet lightly. "Don't let's talk about it, Peggy. I dare say Sir Guy Carleton and your General Washington will arrive at some understanding regarding the affair. Is that your mother's coach coming?"

"Yes. She will be glad to see thee, Harriet. She is fond of thee. And Robert Dale is beside her. Thee will like him, Harriet. Indeed, I know not how one could help it."

"Indeed, my cousin?" Harriet's brows went up quizzically. "I thought you were all for Captain Drayton? I rather prefer this Major Dale myself. He hath more manners than John Drayton ever had."

Peggy's face flushed, but she observed quietly:

"They are both dear lads, Harriet. Thee will see John also at Lancaster. Father said that he had been sent there."

"Then it will be quite like old times, Peggy. At Middlebrook there were John Drayton and your father to take us about. If we have Robert Dale, in addition to Clifford, we should have a gay time."

"Perhaps," was Peggy's answer.

A look of intense amazement appeared upon Robert Dale's face as he rode up. He had left a demure Quakeress with Peggy, and returned to find this beautiful, radiant girl. Both girls laughed at his bewildered expression.

"'Tis my Cousin Harriet Owen, Robert," explained Peggy. "She hath assumed this dress that she might go through to Lancaster with safety to see her brother, Clifford."

"But—but Truelove Davis?" The youth was plainly nonplused.

"He wants Truelove, Peggy," cried Harriet her eyes dancing with mischief. "Where is that bonnet?" She caught it up as she spoke, tying it again under her chin. "Does that please thee better, friend youth?" she asked turning toward the young man roguishly.

"Would that I were a limner to paint you," burst from the young fellow impulsively.

Harriet smiled charmingly as she swept him an elaborate courtesy.

"In that thee does not agree with my cousin, friend. She doth not consider the bonnet becoming. In truth, I fear me that I did give her rather a bad quarter of an hour when I wore it."

"Harriet?" exclaimed Mrs. Owen looking out of the calash which by this time had come up to where they were. "Why, child, how came thee here? Robert thought——"

"Yes, I know," cried Harriet. "I know what Robert thought, but 'tis as you see, madam my cousin. If I may ride with you I will explain all." Into her voice there crept the supplicating quaver that Peggy remembered so well. Her mother responded instantly to the plea.

"Why, Harriet, thou art doubly welcome. Once for the stranger whom we thought thee, and again for thyself. Get right in with me, child, and tell me all that hath befallen thee. Why, 'tis long since I have seen thee."

"How beautiful she is," spoke Robert Dale as he and Peggy rode on after Harriet had climbed into the coach beside Mrs. Owen. "How beautiful she is!"

"Is she not?" asked Peggy eagerly. "Methinks she grows more so every time I see her. Does thee not think so too, Robert?"

"I do not know, Peggy. This is the first time I have ever seen her. When you were at Middlebrook I was with General Arnold in Philadelphia. When you were in Philadelphia I was with the army, and so you see, Peggy, this is my first glimpse of your cousin."

"Why, so it is, Robert. No wonder thee thinks her beautiful when 'tis the first time thee has seen her. Every one does. Are not her eyes dazzling?"

"They are, Peggy. Now tell me why she appeared in this garb here."

"It was to see how Clifford fared," answered Peggy. "She hath not heard from him since Yorktown, and she wished to see for herself how he was." And forthwith she related all that Harriet had told her of the matter.

"That is very brave, Peggy," he declared with admiration. "Brave and daring! What love she must bear him to risk so much to see him! I should like to know her better."

"Thee shall, Robert," she cried, warmly pleased with this whole-hearted commendation of her beautiful cousin. "Harriet rides well, and she shall ride with thee part of the way."

And so with Harriet alternating with Peggy in riding Star the rest of the journey was passed. They came into Lancaster the next day, the tall spire of the court-house with the two faces of its clock being the first thing to be spied. The town swarmed with soldiers. It seemed to Peggy that there was one on every corner. In truth Lancaster was in fair way toward being a military camp. The Americans found much difficulty in disposing of their prisoners. They had no military posts regularly fitted for the purpose, and could suggest no better means for securing them than to place them under guard in a thickly settled part of the country, where the inhabitants were most decidedly hostile to the English. So Reading, Carlisle, and Lancaster were chosen in Pennsylvania, together with other points in Virginia and Maryland remote from the coast. In addition to the prisoners from the surrender of Saratoga, who had been hurried into Lancaster at the first invasion of Virginia, many prisoners of Lord Cornwallis's army were confined there. This required a large number of American soldiers for guards, and it was no wonder that the town seemed overrun with troops.

The streets of Lancaster were regular, and paved with brick like those of Philadelphia. It was the most important of the interior cities, and was noted for the manufacture of guns, stage-coaches, stockings, and the peculiar vehicles known as Conestoga wagons.

Peggy, who was on Star when they entered the town, was gazing about with the interested pleasure that a new place always excites, when she gave an exclamation of joy. They were passing the Black Bear Tavern at the time, and at the entrance of the inn stood a well-known form.

"John!" she called. "John Drayton!"

Captain Drayton turned at the call, and an expression of delight swept over his face at sight of the girl. With the jaunty gesture she knew so well he took off his cocked beaver, and came to them quickly.

"Peggy," he cried, his gladness at seeing her plain to be seen. "You are come at last. Your father told me that you were coming, and I have watched every day for a week for you. Major Dale hath all the luck, to bring you. I should like to have gone, but I could not get leave."

"And how does thee do, John?"

"Well, Peggy. Well indeed. By the way! you know, I dare say, that your Cousin Clifford is here. I am barracks' master, and the prisoners are confined in the barracks. Is it not a strange turn of the Wheel of Fortune that he should be in my charge, when a little less than a year ago I was a prisoner under him? He doth not relish it much, either. Is your mother in the coach, Peggy?"

"Yes; with Harriet," answered Peggy.

"Harriet!" he ejaculated amazed. "Now what doth Harriet want? I thought we had those cousins where they would not trouble you again."

"Have you seen the lady of whom you speak, Drayton?" asked Robert Dale abruptly.

"Often, major." Drayton laughed merrily. "There is not much love lost betwixt us, either, although I owe much to her for rescuing me from an exceedingly embarrassing position. She would not let me thank her because, she informed me, that what she did was for Peggy. Now what doth she want, Peggy?"

"She wants to see how Clifford fares, John. Thee is kind to him, I know."

"I do all that I can, Peggy, because he is your cousin. I'd do much more if he would allow me. You know he never liked me, and he would actually deprive himself of necessities if he had to receive them at my hands."

"Will thee let us see him, John?"

"Certainly. We are not very rigid. We keep a strict guard to prevent escape, but otherwise we give the prisoners many privileges. I will speak to your mother now, and Harriet."

A cloud came to Robert Dale's brow as he heard Mrs. Owen say:

"John, dear lad, if thee can get away from duty why not get inside with us, and go on to the house? Then we shall all be together once more."

"Thank you, madam," answered Drayton with alacrity. "I was hoping that you would ask me. I shall be pleased."

"I did not know that Captain Drayton was so well known to your family, Peggy," remarked Robert with some stiffness.

"Why, we have known him for years, Robert," replied Peggy. "Doesn't thee like him?"

"He is one of the most daring, dashing, reckless officers in the service, Peggy. Whenever there is anything of an especially dangerous nature to be done, John Drayton is the first fellow to be named in connection with its performance. I have always had a high regard for him. At least until——" He paused in some confusion.

Peggy laughed out suddenly, and a sparkle of mischief came into her eye.

"At least until thee found that we knew him well. Is that it? What unworthy people we must be that the mere knowing us would render him unfit for thy regard."

"Now, Peggy," he began protestingly, then he too laughed. "I am the unworthy one," he acknowledged humbly. "I did feel a pang that you people should know him so well, and I not know it."

"Fie, Robert! As though we had not room in our hearts for many friends. Each hath his own peculiar nook, and thou hast thine."



CHAPTER XX

A SLIGHT EMPHASIS ON "THAT"

"Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, Beyond comparison, the worst are those Which to our folly or our guilt we owe."

—John Strange Winter.

"And you will take Peggy and me to see Clifford this morning, won't you, Cousin David?" Harriet smiled brightly over the breakfast table at David Owen as she spoke. Despite the long journey the girls had awakened betimes, and appeared looking so radiant and so thoroughly wholesome that Mr. Owen had declared that they surpassed the morning itself in brightness.

"Thou wilt have to wait until about noon, Harriet," he answered smiling at her kindly. "I have some work which must be attended to first. When that is done I shall be at thy service."

"And when thee does go, Harriet, try to persuade thy brother to give his parole, that he may visit us," exclaimed Mrs. Owen. "I quite long to see the lad, and John said that there was no reason why he should not be at large, if he would but give his word not to go beyond the limits of the town."

"I'll make Clifford see reason," said Harriet confidently. "He doesn't like John Drayton, and therefore does not wish to accept any favor from him."

"But why should he dislike him, lass? Drayton hath been kindness itself to him."

"You see, Cousin David," explained Harriet with a charming blush, "Clifford cannot rid himself of the idea that Captain Drayton may have been in favor with me. Once I made a shirt which I gave to the captain in sport. It seems that he twitted Clifford about it, and Clifford tore the garment up. I believe they came to blows over the matter, and there hath been bad feeling between them ever since."

"That would explain many things," spoke Mr. Owen musingly. "There is certainly strong dislike on Clifford's part. Thou art sure that thou hast given no cause for the feeling, lass?"

"Why, I dislike John Drayton extremely, Cousin David. He wears his beaver in what he supposes is a jaunty fashion over his right eye, and he swaggers when he walks. How could one show him favor?"

Mr. Owen laughed.

"The lad does swagger a bit, Harriet, but 'tis not an offensive swagger. As to his hat: 'tis a standing joke of the army as to how he keeps it on in battle. The hotter the fight the further on the side it gets. I saw a letter that General Greene writ to His Excellency in which he declared that Drayton fought with it on his right ear all through the battle of Hobkirk's Hill. John was made a captain for valor shown during that engagement. General Greene says that if it ever gets an inch further down he will be a general, sure. Thee is pleased over that, Peggy?"

"Oh, Peggy is hopeless where Captain Drayton is concerned," cried Harriet. "I have never known her to do aught but stand up for him, except when she thought him a deserter at Yorktown. Even then she would not talk against him."

"Well, he is very deserving, lass. All his mannerisms are those of youth. Underneath them I agree with Peggy that thee will find John Drayton of sterling worth."

"To my mind he does not compare with Major Dale," said Harriet. "He hath obtained the rank of major, and hath not found it necessary to bring his ear into service as a resting place for his hat, either."

Even Peggy joined in the laugh which this remark caused.

"Well, I must to work, to work," ejaculated Mr. Owen rising. "I would much prefer to stay with you, but I must get to work. Be ready at noon, girls."

"What is his work?" questioned Harriet as the door closed behind him.

"'Tis in regard to thy people, Harriet," Mrs. Owen told her. "I make no doubt but that thee knows already that there is a great deal of illicit trade carried on betwixt thy people in New York and some of our citizens. 'Tis David's duty to examine all goods that are brought into the town to see that none are contraband."

"Then would he have to examine the wagon load of stores which I came with before it could be given to our soldiers?" asked Harriet.

"Of course, child. If there is naught contraband in it thee need have no uneasiness. As soon as they are passed upon they are turned over to Major Gordon, a paroled British officer who hath charge of the prisoners here. He distributes them according to the need of the prisoners. The table stores are divided equally."

"Oh!" uttered Harriet thoughtfully. After a moment she turned to Peggy. "And how shall we amuse ourselves, Peggy, until 'tis time to go to Clifford?"

"Let's go through the house and grounds," suggested Peggy. "Thee would like to see them, would thee not?"

"Yes," answered the girl. "Shall we go now, Peggy?"

The house was roomy enough to house the family comfortably without too much care in its ordering, having a wide piazza in front, with a kitchen, bakehouse and oven in the rear. There were large grounds,—part orchard, part garden, and part meadow-land. But the maidens were most pleased with the great number of flowering shrubs about the grounds.

"There are going to be heaps and heaps of roses, Harriet," cried Peggy delightedly. "Just see the buds! The color is already beginning to show through the green."

"I see," replied her cousin, pausing beside a lilac bush to break off a fragrant cluster of blossoms. "I do wish I had brought my horse, Fleetwood. Your father spoke of rides, Peggy, but I see not how I can go with you."

"Father will, no doubt, get thee a mount, Harriet. Of course 'twill not be Fleetwood, but thee won't mind that, will thee?"

"No, Peggy."

It was just noon when David Owen came for them. The prisoners confined at Lancaster were for the most part kept in barracks, but many were permitted at large on parole so that the streets swarmed with them. The house was but a half mile from the barracks, and this distance was soon traversed.

A strong stockade with four blockhouses, one on each corner, enclosed the barracks. Captain Drayton met them just as they passed through the stockade gates.

"This way," he said, leading them across the parade-ground where a company was drilling. "I sent for Captain Williams to be in the anteroom. He should be there waiting for you. I did not tell him who wished to see him."

Major Dale was standing at the entrance of the barracks, and the party stopped for a moment's chat with him. Presently Peggy passed on into the anteroom. Clifford was sitting disconsolately by a table with his head resting on his hand. He was pale, and thinner than she had ever seen him, but his resemblance to her father was more marked than ever. He cried out at sight of her.

"Peggy," he cried springing to his feet, "is this what that Yankee captain meant by sending for me? Cousin David said that he expected you, but he did not tell me that you had come."

"I just came last night, my cousin," she answered scanning his face with deep concern. "And how is thee?"

"Oh, I'm all right," he answered carelessly. "That is," he added hastily, "as right as one well can be who is a prisoner."

"Mother is here too, Clifford. She wishes to see thee so much. We want thee to be with us, my cousin, while we are here, and Captain Drayton hath said that thee might come and go at thy pleasure if thee would give thy word not to try to escape."

"Drayton is very kind," he remarked, his lip curling. "I give no word to him of any sort. Why, Harriet!" he broke off abruptly. "How did you get here?"

"Hasn't Peggy told you all about it?" cried Harriet running to him. "Oh, Cliff, 'twas such a good joke that I played on her. I made a stricter Quakeress than she does. You see we had not heard from you for so long that 'twas quite time that some of us looked you up. Sit down, and I'll tell you about it."

"Father ought not to have permitted it," he observed, when she had finished the recital. "I don't see why he did. I like it not, my sister."

"Nonsense, Cliff! there was no danger. Peggy can tell you that there was no risk of my being thought other than I seemed."

"I like it not," he repeated. "And now, Harriet, what will you do? It doth not seem wise to me, or right for you to return to New York."

"I shall stay with Peggy for a time," she told him easily.

"We shall be pleased to have her with us, my cousin," spoke Peggy instantly, noting his troubled glance.

"But she may have to remain until peace, which may be long in coming, Peggy."

"I think not, Clifford," spoke Harriet, before Peggy could make any response. "If we enforce the new policy which Sir Guy Carleton hath inaugurated, America will be glad to have peace on any terms."

"I have heard of no new policy," he said somewhat curtly. "What is it?"

"You have scarcely been in the way of hearing new things, my brother. Know then that the colonies are to be so harassed from all sides that they will sue for peace. On the frontiers," she exulted, seemingly unmindful of Peggy's presence, "and on the coasts."

"There hath been too much of that already," he said grimly. "It hath brought us into disfavor with the entire world. Take the death of Fairfax Johnson, for instance, which was the direct result of such a policy. 'Twas a base and ignoble act to murder him; for it was murder."

"Englishmen did not do that, Clifford. 'Twas the loyalists."

"Englishmen sanction the act while they retain Lippencott, the murderer," he answered. "Have they given him up yet?"

"No, of course not," she responded. "The court-martial exonerated him. You would not feel about the matter as you do, Cliff, if you had not known Fairfax. Sir Guy hath also another plan of which I am not at liberty to speak. And, Cliff, I wish you would have Major Gordon come in here. I have something to say to him."

"Why, Harriet, you do not know him," exclaimed Clifford, turning a startled glance upon her. "What could you possibly have to say to him?"

"I want to tell him about the goods that I brought, my brother," she made answer.

"I did not understand that you brought them," he said. "I thought you merely took advantage of the fact that they were being sent to come with them."

"Why, so I did, Cliff."

"Then there is no need to send for the major," he said firmly. "The goods pass through Cousin David's hands, and are then turned over to Major Gordon for distribution among us. He will get them without you troubling about them."

"Very well," she said. "Then let us talk about ourselves. Madam our cousin wishes you to take dinner with her to-day. Cousin David was called away by some matter pertaining to his work just as we were coming in, but he said that he would join us presently to insist upon your going. You must not refuse, Clifford. 'Twould be churlish."

"Clifford, do come," pleaded Peggy. "There is so much to talk about that we cannot begin to say half of it here. And Sally. I have somewhat to tell thee of Sally."

"I do not care to hear anything concerning Mistress Sally," he said loftily. "Naught that you can say anent the lady interests me."

"Thee is unjust, my cousin," began Peggy, when Harriet interrupted her.

"That is simply pig-headedness, Cliff. If Sally Evans said that she did not betray you, then she didn't. That's all there is to it. When you come to know these Quakers as I do you will find that they always speak truth."

"Thank thee, Harriet," said Peggy gratefully, not a little delighted that her cousin should speak so warmly. "But I won't say anything more to thy brother anent Sally if he does not wish to hear it. Sally would not like it."

"'Tis close in these barracks," cried Harriet rising. "Let's call John Drayton, so that you can give him your parole, Clifford. We are to have dinner at two. It will be ready by the time we are there."

Clifford Owen's lips set in a straight line of determination, but before he could speak the door opened to admit David Owen, Robert Dale, and John Drayton. The countenances of all three were very serious, and Peggy felt her heart begin to throb with anticipation of approaching disaster. Something had gone amiss. What could it be? Harriet noticed nothing unusual in their appearance, and flashed a brilliant smile at them.

"You are just in time, Cousin David," she cried, "to help us persuade this obstinate brother of mine to give his parole to Captain Drayton."

"A moment first, lass." David Owen's voice was very grave. "Tell me what was in the wagon in which thee came?"

"There were supplies for our soldiers, sir," she answered. "Table stores and clothing. Why do you ask? Your Congress permits them to be sent."

"True, lass," he said. "True. Does thee know what my work here is?"

"I did not know until this morning," she told him gazing at him fearfully. "Then I learned that it was to check the contraband trade which is held betwixt your people and mine."

"That is it exactly," Mr. Owen made answer. "Harriet, it gives me much pain, but I must ask thee if thee——"