Neither Peggy nor Clifford had been beyond the glen, and neither had heard of this tavern, so they looked at it now with much curiosity, for it seemed to be the objective point of their captors. As they entered the courtyard a boy came forward, and took charge of the two horses without speaking. It was as though he had been watching for their coming. On the piazza an elderly woman, evidently the hostess, bustled at once to Peggy's side with the obvious intention of taking her in charge. Clifford drew Peggy's arm within his own in a determined manner.

"My cousin stays with me," he said. "She goes not out of my sight."

"What nonsense!" ejaculated the leader angrily. "Did I not say that no harm was intended either of you? The girl will be all right."

"I think so too, my cousin," said Peggy after a glance at the landlady's face. She was not ill looking, and the maiden was no longer afraid.

"It may be," answered Clifford. "To be sure I shall keep you where I shall be certain of the fact."

"Very well," said the leader shrugging his shoulders. "'Tis not my affair. Step in here, captain."

Again the cousins wondered, but without a word they entered the room indicated. There was no one within, and for the moment they were alone. Peggy turned toward him quickly.

"What does thee think of it all, Clifford?" she cried.

"I have a strong suspicion as to who is responsible," he answered with darkening brow, "but we shall see."

Just at this moment the door opened precipitately to admit one at whom Peggy stared, then rubbed her eyes to look again; for it was Harriet Owen.

"At last, my brother," she cried advancing toward him and throwing her arms about his neck. "We have you at last. Oh, won't the rebels howl when they find their victim gone?"

"Harriet!" Clifford unclasped her arms, and held her so that he might look at her. "I feared this. What is the meaning of this?"

"It means life, liberty, freedom, my brother," she cried exultingly. "I planned it all, though I did of a truth have assistance. I had spies who found that you were permitted to ride about the country. I kept a watch for several days that I might have you brought here."

"For what purpose?" he asked coldly. "You could have seen me by coming to Chatham."

"Chatham?" she answered impatiently. "Clifford, don't you understand? I could not come to Chatham, because I failed. Sir Guy will not give up that Captain Lippencott to the rebel general. Sir Guy! Poof! I weary of him!" She gave her foot an impatient stamp. "Why should he shield a refugee when an English officer's life is at stake? And I have helped to further his plans too, my brother. I carried goods into Lancaster for him, contraband they were. 'Tis the plan now to subdue the Americans by their love of indulgences, and by so pampering them draw out the money from the country. When all is gone they must surrender. War cannot be carried on without money. I helped him in his plan, I say, and now he will not do this for me."

"And that wagon with the false bottom was where those goods were?" he said. "Harriet, how could you do it? With Cousin David who hath been so kind to you in charge of that work of detection."

"I did not know that he was there, Clifford. As for the false bottom in the wagon, I knew naught of that, as I said. I was not told of that. It was a——"

"A cask in a barrel of vinegar," put in Peggy quietly. "John found it, Harriet, but he did not speak of it to father, or Robert, or thy brother here."

"John Drayton found it?" she cried, amazed. "Why, how did he come to look in the vinegar?"

"I think 'twas something that thee said which caused him to be suspicious, Harriet. So thee sees that that part of thy general's plan hath failed."

"I am glad of it," cried Harriet. "Glad! Glad! He would not help me. He will only investigate further. And General Washington will wait no longer when he has heard from him. Clifford, you need too much explanation. The time hath come to act."

"Do I understand that you are responsible for having us brought to this place?" he asked.

"Yes, oh, yes," she answered hastily. "Only Peggy was not to come in here. She was to be kept in another room, and after all was over she was to be returned to camp."

"After what was over, my sister?" His voice was cold, but Harriet did not seem to notice it.

"Your escape, Clifford. Come, we have no time to lose. Fresh horses await us in the stables, saddled and bridled ready for instant use. Here are clothes for a disguise. Don them, and we leave at once. We are to make a wide detour to the north of Chatham, reaching the Passaic River again at Newark. A boat will be there in the bay to take us to New York. It cannot fail if we start now."

"And Peggy?" he questioned so calmly that she should have taken alarm from the quietness of his voice.

"Peggy is to go back to Chatham, and tell the rebels they may seek another victim," she replied gleefully.

"Peggy to go back to face Colonel Dayton with information that I have escaped?" he cried, amazement written on every feature.

"She was not to know it, Cliff, but you would have her to come in here. Beside, they wouldn't harm her. She is a Whig herself, remember. Oh, she may come with us," she added as his brow grew dark. "Only, Clifford, we must make haste. The longer start we have the better chance we stand of success."

"Who are those men that brought us here?"

"Hirelings," she cried. "Of course I paid them well. Don't ask so many questions, Cliff. They are natives from near here. They will do anything I ask."

"Come, Peggy," he said rising. "We are going back. Not all the hirelings in the world shall make me break my parole."

"Clifford, 'tis not the time for quixotic foolishness. Do you not understand that Sir Guy hath sent word to General Washington that he will investigate further? General Washington does not want that. He wants Lippencott, or, failing him, a victim. He will wait only so long as it takes Sir Guy's letter to reach him. It means death, Clifford. An ignominious death."

"And do you know that you are asking me to break my parole, my sister? That you are asking me to break my word of honor? That you wish me to betray the trust reposed in me by a chivalrous foe?"

"A chivalrous foe!" she scoffed. "Is it chivalrous to slay the innocent for the guilty? I tell you, Clifford, that truly as you live I have taken the only way to save you. You are justifiable in breaking any word given under such circumstances. Is life of so little worth that you do not care for it? What hath rendered you so indifferent?"

"Life without honor hath no charm for me, my sister," he returned solemnly. "A parole is more binding upon a soldier than ropes of steel, or chains of iron would be. Men have broken paroles, but when they do they no longer are esteemed by honorably minded men. Such are poltroons, cowards. I will not be of their number. A truce to this talk! If I am to die, I will die as a soldier, blameless and of spotless reputation."

"Clifford," she entreated him earnestly, "'tis the only hope. You have already broken your parole in passing the prescribed limits of the rides. I had regard for your scruples by having you brought here. And now, since you are here through no fault of your own, you can take advantage of the fact to escape."

"Sophistry," he uttered shortly. "That is no salve to the conscience, Harriet."

"But the death, my brother?" She was very white for Clifford was moving toward the door. "'Tis no way for a gentleman to die."

"The mode is not at all to my liking, my sister," he answered gravely. "Hanging is not, in very truth, a death for a gentleman; still a man may be a gentleman though he be hanged."

He put his hand on the door-knob and turned again toward Peggy. But Harriet uttered a cry of anguish.

"I'll never see you again, Clifford," she cried. "And father will be broken-hearted. He helped me in this."

"Harriet!" he cried. "Do not ask me to believe that Colonel Owen prefers his son's life to his son's honor? I'll not believe it."

"Believe what you will, my brother, only come with me," and she clung to him pleadingly. "I'll call those men, Clifford."

"You shall not, Harriet," he answered putting her aside. "Instead get your own horse and come back with us."

"I cannot, Clifford. I must see our father. Aren't you going to kiss me?"

But Clifford turned from her, saying coldly:

"You have wounded me too deeply, my sister."

"Clifford, thee must not leave thy sister so," interposed Peggy. "Mistaken she may be in her efforts for thy liberty, but 'tis done through love for thee. 'Twould be monstrous to leave her unkindly!"

"I mean not to be unkind, my cousin," he returned. "But consider my feelings when my own sister hath tried to put me in a position that would reflect upon mine honor."

"Thee must not be too hard on her, Clifford. Women do not regard such things as men do. When their affections are bestowed all else is subordinated to them. Doth a mother, a sister, a wife cease to love when man hath lost his honor? I tell thee such things seem different to us. Thy sister hath intended thee no wrong. 'Tis because of her love for thee that she hath done this."

"True, Peggy," came from Harriet brokenly. "True."

"Peggy," cried Clifford in astonishment. "Such words from you who are the soul of honor? You would not ask me to do this."

"No; but 'tis because of my upbringing, Clifford. I have been taught that a word once passed must be kept. That a promise must not be broken. Therefore, I understand why thee would prefer death to the breaking of thy parole. I am proud that thee feels as thee does about it. I am prouder still that even thy sister cannot tempt thee to break thy word great as is thy love for her. Yet underneath it all I have a heart of a woman, and that heart aches for thy sister."

"'Fore George!" murmured the youth gazing from one to the other in perplexity. "I never dreamed of this. I thought of course that such things were regarded alike by both sexes. I——" He passed his hand over his brow thoughtfully. Then his expression softened. "I have much to learn. Harriet!" And he opened his arms.

"My brother," she cried. "My wonderful brother! And you will go with me?"

"No," he answered while he kissed her. "No, Harriet. However such things may appear to you, for me there is but one course: I must return. But come with us."

"I cannot, Clifford. I must go back to father."

"Then I must leave you, because we have been long, too long away from camp. And now good-bye!"

"Something may yet come up to save him, Harriet," whispered Peggy as Harriet followed them weeping to the piazza.

"No," she said disconsolately. "This was the only hope, Peggy. Everything hath been done that can be done. I shall never see him again."

There was no one about. Long afterward Peggy found that this state of things had been prearranged in order that the inmates of the inn might not be held responsible when Clifford's flight should be discovered. Clifford himself brought their horses from the stables. Silently they mounted, then turned for a last word with Harriet. But she had sunk upon the steps of the porch, and with her face buried in her hands, was sobbing in heart-breaking accents:

"Clifford! Clifford! Clifford!"



CHAPTER XXVIII

"HOW COULD SHE KNOW?"

"To-morrow! O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him!"

—"Measure for Measure."

Colonel Dayton met them as they reentered the camp. His brow was wrinkled with anxiety, but it cleared as if by magic at sight of them.

"Odds life, captain!" he cried. "I feared lest something had befallen you. It is long past your usual hour for returning."

"Something did befall, sir," answered Clifford, who had expected questioning. "I crave pardon for the delay. We were like not to have come back at all, but through no fault of ours. In fact, sir, we were set upon by a party of miscreants in the glen beyond the five knob tree, and captured. At the place to which we were conducted was a person through whom——" He hesitated unwilling that Harriet should be connected with the affair. "In short, Colonel Dayton," he said frankly, "I would prefer that you do not question me concerning the manner of our release. As soon as possible we came back."

"Say no more, sir," exclaimed Colonel Dayton. "That you did come back proves you an honorable gentleman. I might have had to mourn a prisoner, but once more hath martial faith received justification. It will give me great pleasure to report your conduct to the commander-in-chief."

Much relieved that the matter was to be probed no further the cousins dismounted, and were preparing to retire to their respective domiciles when the voice of Colonel Dayton arrested them.

"I wonder," he was saying, "if this doth not explain the letter that I received to-day from General Washington?"

"What letter, sir?" asked Clifford quickly. "May I inquire if it contained any further orders regarding me?"

"Certainly; and I am obliged to answer that it does contain orders. Listen, and you shall hear them, though it gives me great pain to read them. They mean a curtailment of your privileges, captain."

Whereupon he produced the missive, and read as follows: "Sir, I am informed that Captain Williams is at the camp without a guard, and under no restraint whatever. This, if true, is certainly wrong; I wish to have the young gentleman treated with all possible tenderness consistent with his present situation, but considered a close prisoner and kept with the greatest security. It is well to be careful. There are many rumors afloat anent a rescue, which may be but idle talk. Still, when dealing with a foe every precaution should be used that there is no weakness in our defenses of which he may take advantage."

"So end our rides, Peggy," remarked Clifford, smiling slightly. "'Tis a preliminary to the final order."

"I trust not, captain," exclaimed the officer. "This merely limits you to the confines of the cantonment. I should not like the general to consider that I was negligent. It would have been the same, sir, had not your misadventure of to-day occurred."

"I understand, colonel," answered the youth deferentially. "I appreciate the courtesy you have ever shown me. I think, on the whole, 'tis best. And it might be worse."

"Yes," spoke Peggy. "It might be worse, Clifford."

So there were no more rides; but as the weather began to be very hot, and exceedingly dry, they consoled themselves with the reflection that riding would be extremely unpleasant under such conditions. Another week glided by, in which there was no sign of Harriet, nor was there any further order from the commander-in-chief. It seemed as though they had been set down in the midst of the cantonment and forgotten. The strain began to tell upon Clifford.

"Would that it were over," burst from him one morning as he sat with Peggy under the shade of a tree near the quarters of the Dayton family. In the distance a company was drilling, and the orders of its officer came to them faintly.

Peggy let fall the ox-eyed daisy whose petals she had been counting, and turned toward him in dismay.

"Clifford, thee don't mean that," she cried.

"But I do, Peggy," he answered passionately. "The fluctuations from hope to despair, and from despondency to hope again are far more trying than a certain knowledge of death would be. It keeps me on tenter-hooks. So long as the thing is inevitable, I wish it would come."

Peggy looked at him anxiously. His face was pale, and there were deep circles under his eyes that spoke of wakeful nights. His experience with his sister had been far more distressing than she had realized. It came to the girl with a shock just how care-worn he was.

"Would that father were here that he might comfort thee," she cried tearfully. "Thee needs him, my cousin."

"An he were, he would say—'My lad, thy promise was that Peggy should not be saddened by talk of thy woes; yet here thee is dwelling upon thy sorrow both to thy detriment and hers.'"

The transition to David Owen's manner was so abrupt that Peggy smiled through her tears.

"I did not know that thee was possessed of the art of mimicry, my cousin," she remarked. "Harriet hath it to perfection, but thee has never shown sign of it before."

"'Tis only one whom I know well that I can mimic," he told her. "Sometimes, I believe that I know Cousin David better than father."

"And thou shouldst have been my father's son," she cried. "Why, thee looks enough like him to be his son. Then thee would have been my brother, as thou shouldst have been."

Clifford smiled at her warmth.

"In that case," he said quizzically, "I should have been an American. I wonder if I should have been a Quaker, and a rebel with the rest of you? Or should I have been a Tory?"

"Oh, a rebel! A rebel!" she replied promptly, pleased that his melancholy was vanishing.

"I doubt it. I cannot imagine myself as other than loyal to my king any more than I can think of myself as a Quaker."

"Neither can I think of thee as a Quaker," she said. "Some way thee doesn't fit in with the Society."

At this Clifford laughed outright.

"That is because you know me as I am," he observed. "Now I cannot think of you as being anything but a little Quakeress. You see, we get our ideas of persons when we first know them, and then we cannot change."

"'And cannot change,'" she repeated with some amusement. "Clifford Owen, thee didn't like me at all at first."

"No, I did not," he responded, and laughed again. "'Twas because I did not know you aright. Peggy, see how light-hearted you have made me. Our merriment hath caused Colonel Dayton to give us unusual attention."

Peggy glanced at the officer. He had been watching the drill, but several times had turned to look at them. As the drill ended he came slowly toward them.

"You seem quite happy this morning," he observed. Something in his manner struck the girl with foreboding.

"Yes, colonel," answered Clifford. "I had an attack of the blues, but my cousin hath charmed them away. We were trying to imagine me an American."

"We should welcome you, sir," spoke the colonel courteously. "May I speak to you a moment, captain?"

Clifford rose instantly.

"It hath come then?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," answered the colonel huskily. "It was hard to break in upon your mirth, but I thought you would prefer to have me tell you than to hear it from another."

"You are most kind, sir." The youth's voice trembled ever so little. "We were too merry, my cousin. 'Against ill chances men are ever merry. But heaviness foreruns the good event.'" His tones were steady as he finished the quotation, and he added: "I am ready at any time."

But at this Peggy uttered a cry.

"Now? Oh, that would be inhuman! Surely not now?"

"Nay," said Colonel Dayton, alarmed by her paleness. "'Tis not as you think, child. He goes to the guard-house now. The sentence will not be carried out until to-morrow morning."

"'Tis so sudden," she protested piteously.

"Nay, Peggy, it hath been too long deferred," demurred Clifford. "'Tis well to have the anxiety and suspense over. You must not give way."

"But what can I do, Clifford? Thee has no one but me to do for thee. How can I comfort thee?"

"Dear little cousin," he said softly, "you have done much already. Think what these last weeks would have been for me had you not stayed here. Be brave a little longer. The colonel will let me see you again."

"Yes," said Colonel Dayton briefly.

And Peggy was left alone. Alone! With wide, unseeing eyes she stared at a patch of green grass in front of her where ox-eyed daisies grew like golden stars. Alone! Harriet had not come, as Peggy had been hoping she would. And her father! Could he not get leave? Alone! Alone! What comfort could she, a mere girl, be to her cousin in this trying hour?

Far afield the milkweed nodded a soft welcome to the butterflies winging, like flying flowers, over the fields. A bumblebee droned drowsily near, humming his song to unheeding ears. Where the tall pine trees of the forest met the sky argosies of clouds spread their portly sails along the blue. In the heat of the July morning Peggy sat shaking like a leaf.

"I must be brave," she told herself again and again. "He hath no one here but me. I must be Harriet and Cousin William both to him. I must be of comfort to him."

Long she sat there under the tree trying to pull herself together, but after a while she rose and made her way into the house. It was well on toward the end of the afternoon when Colonel Dayton came to her.

"Your cousin wishes to see you, child," he said pityingly. "He bears up well, but I need not say to you that he will need all his fortitude to go through with this ordeal."

"I shall not fail him, friend," said Peggy with quivering lips. "I am all of kith or kin that is near him. I shall not fail."

But the maiden had need of all her resolution when she entered the guard-house where Clifford was, for he was most despondent.

"I am glad it is ended, Peggy," he said gloomily. "The restlessness of waiting is over at last. All the feverish anxiety, the hope, the longing, are past, and the end hath come. Do you remember last year, when John Drayton, that Yankee captain, was condemned to this same sort of death, what father said? He said, 'The vicissitudes of war are many, my son. By sad fortune you might find yourself in the same condition as this young fellow.' And here I am, in very truth, condemned to die on the gallows. I have been thinking of it all day."

"Clifford," she cried in alarm, for there sounded a note of agitation in his words that made her fearful lest he lose his self-control, "thee must not talk like that. Think on something else."

"But to die like this," he cried. "An Owen on the gibbet! 'Tis bitter, bitter! I had planned a different death. 'Twas on the battle-field. Gloriously to fall, fighting for the king and England. I do not fear death, my cousin. It is not that. 'Tis the awfulness of the mode. I cannot help but think of that other death which I would so gladly die. I have ever loved martial music, and 'twas my thought that at my death the muffled drum would beat for a soldier's honorable funeral."

"Clifford! Clifford!" she cried. He was so young, so noble, and yet to die a cruel death on the scaffold! It was hard. What comfort could she give him? He was in sore need of it.

"Bear with me for just a little, Peggy," he said. "It hath eaten into my heart—the manner of this death. I have talked bravely all these long, weary days of waiting, but oh! if they would just shoot me! The shamefulness of a gallows!"

"Don't!" she cried suddenly. "I—I cannot bear it."

The boy pulled himself together sharply.

"Forgive me," he said speaking more calmly. "I'll be good now, my cousin, but 'tis enough to make a man rave to contrast the death he would die with the one he must. I'll think of it no more."

"Thee must not," she said faintly. "What—what can I do for thee, Clifford?"

"I have writ some letters," he said picking them up from the table. "Will you see that they are sent? I need not ask. I know you will. One is for Harriet; I was too hard on her, Peggy. I see it now. One is for father, and one for your father and mother. Had I been their own son they could not have treated me with more tenderness. And, Peggy——"

"Yes, my cousin?"

"There is one for Miss Sally," he said with slight hesitation. His face flushed and he busied himself among the papers on the table. "'Fore George," he cried with an abrupt change of manner, "I can't forget that look of scorn in her blue eyes! It haunts me. I writ before, you remember? She did not reply, but sent word that she had no hard feelings. 'Twas all I had a right to expect, but somehow—— I have writ again, Peggy, to tell her—— Well, you know I don't want her to think me altogether contemptible."

It was such a youthful outburst, and so natural that Peggy had hard work to retain her self-control. Then, like a flash, she knew the comfort she could give him. Leaning toward him with brightening eyes she said softly:

"Sally doesn't think thee so, Clifford. She hath a high opinion of thee. She told me to tell thee something at the very last—— And that would be now, would it not?"

"Now, or never, Peggy. What did she say?" He listened eagerly.

"She said that she considered thee the finest gentleman that she ever knew."

"She said that?" The youth caught his breath quickly.

"Just that, Clifford. The finest gentleman that she ever knew," repeated the maiden impressively. "Was not that much to say?"

"It was, my cousin. It overwhelms me." His eyes were misty, and in them there was wonder too. "It is the highest praise that she could have spoken. 'Tis strange that she should so speak; because, Peggy, I have always wanted to be a gentleman. Oh, I am by birth, I know. I don't mean that. I mean just and honorable, chivalrous and gallant, performing heroic deeds, and—and all the rest of it," he finished boyishly.

"And thee is all that, Clifford," said Peggy gently.

"No," he said with unwonted humility. "I would like to be, but I am, in truth, a pretty stiff, stubborn, unreasonable sort of fellow. You have had cause to know that, Peggy. And so hath Sally. If life were, by any chance, given me I should try to be all that she thinks me; but I am to die. To die——" He stopped suddenly, and his eyes began to glow. "'Fore George!" he cried, "if I cannot live I can die as she would have the 'finest gentleman' to die! What if it is on the scaffold, and not the battle-field? Though it be not a glorious death, it can be glorified! How could she know that that was just what I would need to put me on my mettle? How could she know?"

"Then it hath helped thee, Clifford?" spoke Peggy, marveling at the transformation in him.

"Helped me? It hath put new life into me. It hath given me courage. Why, do you know the shame of the thing had almost prostrated me? An Owen on the gallows, Peggy. I would not have minded so much if the execution had taken place right after we left Lancaster, but to have it hanging over me day after day for so long. Peggy, it hath eaten into my heart."

"Oh, Clifford!" she cried pityingly. "I did not dream thee felt it so!"

"I did not want you to know, little cousin. I would not tell you now, but that you have brought me the cheer that I need. How good you have always been to me, Peggy. I wonder if the world holds anything sweeter than a Quaker maid! That one should so highly esteem me——" He smiled at her with sudden radiance. "I shall have pleasant thoughts to go with me now, Peggy. You will tell her?"

"Yes," she answered, and added chokingly: "I wish father were here."

"And so do I. I hoped that he would be with me at the end; I believe that he would be here if he could."

"Thee shall not be alone, Clifford. I am going to be with thee." Peggy spoke bravely enough, but her eyes grew dark at the very thought, and she began to tremble.

"Not for the world, Peggy!" he cried, horrified. "I would like to have Cousin David with me, but not you. Oh, not you! I can suffer firmly what 'twould kill you to see."

"But to be alone, Clifford?"

"It can't be helped, Peggy. I won't have you there. Promise me that you won't go."

"I will do as thee wishes, my cousin," she answered tremulously. "But—but I will be here at the door as thee comes out. I could not bear to have thee without a glimpse of a friend, or——" She could not finish.

"Be at the door if you wish, little cousin. I should like that, but go no further." He arose and held out his hands. "It's good-bye now, Peggy."

A sense of suffocation overwhelmed Peggy, and she could not speak. He was so young, so noble, so manly in meeting his untoward fate, and yet he must suffer this ignominious death without the comfort of a friend's face near him. As she found her way blindly out of the room a passionate prayer rose insistently through all her being:

"Oh, that father would come! That father would come!"



CHAPTER XXIX

IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH

"... A darker departure is near, The death-drum is muffled, and sable the bier."

—Campbell.

The beautiful sunset retreat was sounding its inspiring notes as Peggy left the guard-house, and slowly made her way across the parade-ground. There was a note of pathos in the strain which seemed peculiarly impressive, and all at once Clifford's words came back to her:

"I have ever loved martial music." Then, because there seemed naught else than waiting before her, she sank down under the tree where Clifford and she had sat that very morning, now so long ago, to listen to the music that he loved. Suddenly, as she listened, there came to the girl a dim sort of understanding. There was a permeating tonal effect in the music, striking at times, merely suggestive at others, which seemed to breathe the spirit of bivouac and battle, of suffering and patriotism, and the yearning of great devotion. A lump came into her throat. An indefinable emotion swept her with an appreciation of the spirit of a soldier which renders him happy at the thought of dying in his country's battles. The flood-gates of Peggy's tears were open, and she wept unrestrainedly. Presently Colonel Dayton saw her sitting there, and came to her side.

"My child," he said sitting down by her, "I have just been in to see your cousin. Your visit hath cheered him greatly. He bears up wonderfully. Manly he is, and noble. Never hath a duty been so repugnant to my feelings as this one is. Were it not just I could not perform it."

"I cannot speak of justice, sir, when my cousin is to die," sobbed she. "It may be just. I know not. My countrymen are not unkind; they are not stirred by vengeful thoughts. It must be right, else General Washington would not sanction it; I am but a girl. I do not know. But oh, sir! to those of us who love my cousin it doth seem that mercy should temper justice."

"Affection blinds us, Miss Peggy," he said, and sighed. "Under its influence we are apt to forget that other boy to whom not even justice was given. If men were always just there would be no necessity for mercy. Had justice been rendered Captain Johnson your cousin would not stand in need of clemency."

"True," she said. "True. It must be right, since such good men say so. I cannot see it now. All sense of equity is lost to me, lost because the victim is my cousin. Some time——" She paused unable to proceed.

Presently she looked up at him. "Colonel Dayton," she said, "it hath occurred to me that the matter may not end here. That perchance the enemy in reprisal for this—the loss of one of their officers—may wreak vengeance upon one of ours of like rank. That would necessitate another retaliation; to be followed by still another on the part of the enemy. Sir, where will it stop?"

"That very thought hath come to me, child," he said gravely. "And the thing is possible. This matter hath distressed General Washington greatly. He hath never been so troubled since the treason of General Arnold, and the execution of Major Andre. The affair hath been considered impartially by the principal men of the army, by Congress, and by General Washington. Miss Peggy, as there is a God in heaven, we believe that we are doing right. There is not one of us whose inclination does not prompt to mercy, but we dare not show it. The peculiarly atrocious murder of Captain Johnson cannot be ignored."

"I know, I know," she murmured, passing her hand over her brow, and looking at him with eyes full of pain. "'Tis strange that Fairfax, who was my friend, and Clifford, who is my cousin, should both be concerned in this."

"It is strange and hard, my child. But vex not yourself with questioning. 'Tis better to accept the inevitable with resignation, as your cousin hath done. He doth not question the justice of the decree."

"He is a soldier, sir," she said, "and versed in the law of war."

"He is a gallant gentleman, Peggy. He will meet his doom bravely. But you! Would that some of your people were with you."

"If father were but here," she wept. "If father were here to be with him. 'Tis hard to go to death alone. Oh, sir, thee won't mind if I——"

"Not to the execution?" he exclaimed hastily.

"Clifford will not permit that, sir. 'Tis only that I may stand at the door of the guard-house to give him a last good-bye. He is alone. His sister would wish it."

"Is it wise, Peggy?" he asked regarding her with deep concern.

"Yes, oh, yes! 'Twill cheer him to have a friendly face near him."

"If it will be of comfort to either of you, it may be done," he said rising. "Come in, child. Mrs. Dayton must take you in charge."

Obediently Peggy followed him to the house. The colonel's wife was very kind, but presently left her, thinking that she slept. It was strange that no word had come from Harriet, she mused. Was it possible that she had indeed lost all hope after her failure to rescue her brother? It was unlike Harriet to give up like that. Peggy could not believe it. Why then had she not heard? And her father! Perhaps he was even then speeding toward them. Surely, surely, something must occur to prevent this dreadful thing from happening!

The daylight faded. Twilight melted into darkness. From the camp the voices of the soldiers in song or story floated in to her. Peggy went to the casement window and stood staring out into the night. Tattoo sounded. The noises of the camp died away, for the soldiers' day was ended. Would there never be another day for Clifford? How was he bearing it out there alone in the guard-house? Would his high courage remain with him to the end? That he would die bravely she did not doubt; but to die!

For what was she watching and waiting? She did not know. She was hoping against hope that something would happen to prevent her cousin's death. It was the night which had brought rescue to John Drayton at Yorktown the year before. Would it not be as kind to Clifford? So Peggy kept her vigil, and the hours passed. Once, the room grew close, and, faint from watching and grief, she slipped out under the trees. There was no moon, but the stars kept watch in the sky, twinkling down at her with quiet friendliness.

In the valley the placid river murmured softly. The hills in the distance seemed but a darker, lower sky lost in the obscurity of the night. From out of the gloom the tents gleamed ghostly white. It was so still that she could hear the footsteps of the sentries as they made their rounds. With the faint streaking of the dawn came a sound that caused her to flee, horror-stricken, to her room. For the sound was that of hammering. The gallows was being erected.

And at that awful sound hope fled from the girl's heart. All night she had waited, hoping, believing, that something would come to prevent the execution. Now she felt that all was over. Clifford must die.

Calmness settled upon her. For with absolute despair came a peace—a numbness that left her insensible to anything save the fact that she must be brave for Clifford's sake—that he was alone, and she of all his kindred was there to give him comfort. So Peggy prepared for the ordeal before her.

The execution was to take place at nine o'clock. Long before that hour the people from the countryside gathered. A great concourse of farmers, and citizens from the near-by farms and villages, all conversant with the details of the affair, came to see the unfortunate victim.

Peggy saw none of them as she went with leaden feet to the guard-house. No one said her nay as she took her position by the door. The guards glanced at her compassionately, awed by the whiteness of her face, and the awful calmness of her manner. The cousins had come to be well known in the camp, and there was not a soldier who did not commiserate the youth's fate.

How fast the moments go when one is expecting a dread event! It seemed that it could not be time when the drums beat assembly, and the soldiers filed into place. A squadron of dragoons and a battalion of soldiers formed in a hollow square. Within their ranks was a cart in which the prisoner was to be taken to the place of execution. The bitterness of death fell upon her as she watched for Clifford's coming. She must be brave. Of all his kindred she alone was there to bid him a last farewell. That was all of which Peggy was conscious. She did not know that the military band had taken its position in the procession, and that the entire Jersey line was forming as for parade.

A stir at the door betokened the coming of the prisoner. The door opened, and two guards appeared. Behind them, with a guard on either side, came the unfortunate young man who was to pay the penalty of another's crime. He was very white, but composed. As the morning sunlight fell upon him he looked so young, so handsome in his scarlet uniform, that a murmur of pity rose, and spread among the people. A mist dimmed the youth's eyes as he caught sight of the little figure standing by the door. He spoke to one of the guards, then stepped quickly to her side, stooped, and kissed her.

"Thank you, little cousin," he said. "All is well with me."

With firm step he passed on to go to his ignoble death. As he took his place in the cart the drums began to beat the dead march, and the procession moved slowly away. Peggy heard nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the scarlet coat of her cousin. He did not turn. He did not look to right, nor to left. Like a brave, gallant gentleman he was going to his doom. As long as she could see him her eyes followed him. Her breath came gaspingly as the procession disappeared around a bend in the road. Her senses reeled. The ground was slipping, slipping——

An exclamation, sharp, penetrating, brought her to herself. The guard near her had paused in his round, and was gazing at a cloud of dust which had suddenly appeared on the Morristown road. If it concealed horsemen they were coming at a furious pace. Curious knots of people began to cluster in groups to watch its approach. Through Peggy's dulled apprehension a thrill of interest ran. As the quick beat of galloping horses sounded on the morning air she started. Hope electrified her being. Could it be that some one was coming with help for Clifford? She ran to the road and strained her eyes toward that approaching cloud of dust. And then, from out of its enveloping particles three horses emerged. The foremost rider was standing in his stirrups, and high above his head he waved a flag frantically. A murmur of excitement stirred the watchers as the sunlight caught the pure folds of the banner. It was a white flag. A white flag: the flag of life, of salvation. Peggy shrieked at sight of it. A shriek that mingled joy with an agony of apprehension lest he be too late. Lest he be too late! She tore the kerchief from her neck and waved it wildly. She called to him entreatingly to hurry, hurry, and knew not that her cries could not be heard. She wrung her hands at her helplessness. On came the horseman. Nearer and nearer he drew. The horse's flanks were steaming. His eyes were strained and blood-shot. Blood flecked the foam flew from his nostrils, but still his rider lashed him to greater speed. He called to her as he passed: "Which way, Peggy? Which way?" She raised her hand and pointed toward the bend in the road, and he thundered on. She had known it was Drayton before he called. She knew too that her father and Harriet rode behind. Her father come at last! Peggy was sobbing pitifully now, every vestige of self-control gone. David Owen brought his horse to a sudden stop as he came opposite her, stooped, and swung her like a child up in front of him. She clung to him crying:

"They have taken him, father! They have taken him!"

"Steady, lass! Please God, we'll be in time."

They were beside Harriet now. Harriet who, with pale, set features, never turned. Her eyes were fixed on John Drayton's flying figure as though all her hope lay with him. Faster and faster he rode. The white flag streamed above him. His horse was running like the wind.

The bend in the road was turned at last. Peggy hid her face against her father's shoulder afraid to look. But—— Clifford? She must know. She sat up, but at first the crowd was all that she could see. A black mass of swaying people whose heads were turned in their direction to see what the commotion portended. The mass parted as Drayton dashed toward it, leaving a clear path to the cart. And oh, thank heaven! Clifford sat there safe, safe. The provost-marshal stood with his hand on the rope, arrested in the very act of performing his awful duty by John Drayton's hoarse shout:

"Forbear! Forbear in the name of Congress! A reprieve!"



CHAPTER XXX

AND THEN THE END

"Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forest race."

—Bryant.

A mighty shout went up from the people as they heard the words. It was followed by another, and still another until the Jersey hills echoed with the sound. Men flung their hats in the air and were not ashamed that tears, all unchecked, lay on their cheeks. The extreme youth, the beauty of the unfortunate young man had gone straight to their hearts. He was one of the enemy, but his manly bearing in the face of an ignominious death commanded respect and admiration, and had produced the stern joy that is felt by warriors toward a foeman worthy of their steel.

In compliment to the occasion, the band struck up a lively English air, and in the general enthusiasm which followed there was a rush for the cart. Clifford was lifted bodily to their shoulders and borne, amid boisterous acclamations, to his relatives.

A true Briton has an abhorrence of any display of emotion; so now, although more moved than he had been of the menace of death, the youth struggled to retain his composure. His features worked convulsively, and his lips quivered. He could not trust himself to speak, but stood, white and trembling, endeavoring to maintain an appearance of calm. Colonel Dayton saw his agitation, and made his way at once to his side.

"Friends," he said lifting his hand for silence, "we all rejoice at this most fortunate outcome of a most unfortunate matter. But it hath been very trying to those deeply concerned, so I would suggest that we give three cheers for Captain Williams, who hath shown us how gallantly a brave man may face death, and then leave him with his friends."

At that the tumultuous concourse stretched their throats and cheered with all their might. Then followed three cheers for Congress, and three for the commander-in-chief, General Washington. By this time Clifford had mastered himself sufficiently to speak, and he said something in a low tone to Colonel Dayton. Again the officer raised his hand.

"Captain Williams proposes three cheers for Captain Drayton, who brought the reprieve," he said.

Then pandemonium broke loose. Cheer after cheer rent the very air. Hoarse shouts of "Drayton!" "Drayton!" sounded, but no Drayton appeared. Under the confusion incident to the delivering of the reprieve he had slipped away to give his well-nigh spent horse the attention of which the noble animal stood in need. Then, being in want of rest himself, he had thrown himself prone on the grass under a tree, and was at that very moment fast asleep. So, finding their calls for him vain, the crowd finally dispersed in high good humor.

Yet these were Jersey people. People who but a few short months before had cried to Congress for retaliation for the cruel murder of Fairfax Johnson. Had Lippencott, the murderer, stood before them to pay the penalty of his dastardly deed, the situation would have been different. They were a kindly people as well as a just one; so now compassion, respect and admiration led them to rejoice that this fair young life was not to be offered as a sacrifice in a blood reprisal.

At length Clifford was left alone with his relatives. For a time their hearts were too full to do more than utter ejaculations of thankfulness, or lavish terms of endearment upon him. When calm finally prevailed both he and Peggy were eager to know all that had occurred.

"As ye know, I expected to return in a short time when I left here," began David Owen. "When I reached Lancaster, however, I found that the enemy had been unusually active in the matter of contraband goods, so that my department was almost overwhelmed with goods to be examined, seized, or distributed. A soldier's duty comes before everything, and even though one who is dear should be in peril, he must perform it. I could have put Drayton in charge had he been there, but it seems that he felt that he must exert himself in Clifford's behalf, and so had obtained leave of absence a few days after our departure. Major Dale had assumed Drayton's duty in addition to his own, but despite that fact he gave me what assistance he could, so that at last I was able to leave. I found Harriet at Philadelphia——"

"Found Harriet where?" exclaimed Peggy amazed.

"She must tell how she came to be there," smiled her father. "We passed through Morristown yesterday, by the west road, on our way to Pompton, where we expected to see the Marquis de Chastellux; the reason for this will come in Harriet's narrative. We missed him by a day, so bode there for the night, expecting to come here to-day. Just as we were ready to start for this camp this morning Captain Drayton dashed into the yard, calling for a change of horses. You may imagine our feelings when he told us that the execution was set for this morning. Had it not been that he also told us that he held a reprieve I do not know what Harriet would have done. There was no time to be lost, if we would reach here in time, so, as soon as his horse was ready, we were off with what result ye know. Drayton hath worked tirelessly in the matter. He hath come from headquarters with but little rest either for himself, or his horses, and was in the saddle all night after riding all of yesterday."

"But why, why?" asked Clifford bewildered. "Why should Drayton so concern himself about me?"

"And now 'tis my turn to explain," broke in Harriet. She did not tell him that Drayton had been actuated by gratitude toward her because she had assisted him in escaping from a similar plight at Yorktown. She did not wish her brother to know the part she had taken in that affair, so now she ignored his question, and began her explanation. "I gave up hope that day you and Peggy left me at the inn, my brother. I knew of nothing more that could be done, so resolved to go back to father. Judge of my surprise when, a few miles beyond Morristown, Captain Drayton overtook me. He was on his way to headquarters then. I told him all that had occurred, and the exact state of affairs. He advised me to go back to Philadelphia to try to enlist Count de Rochambeau's aid. The Congress and General Washington held their French allies in high esteem, he said. If their sympathies could be enlisted it would have great weight. He had been in Philadelphia himself seeing gentlemen whose standing was such as might be expected to exert influence. He was urging that memorials and petitions should be sent Congress in such numbers that their appeal could not be overlooked. At the Highlands he intended seeing the principal men of the army, and last of all General Washington, to relate how I had——" She checked herself quickly, and bit her lip. After a moment she continued:

"Of course I went to Philadelphia. There was no one at the house but the servants, so I asked Sally Evans to stay with me. Peggy," turning toward her cousin suddenly, "I never can tell you what a help she was. That I had been a spy at Middlebrook was against me. That I had been banished the city just the year before militated against anything that I undertook. I realized keenly the difference in being there with my kindred, and then without them. I almost despaired of doing anything, but Sally would not let me give up. She was full of suggestions. The gentlemen of Congress would not see me, so Sally cornered Mr. Jacob Deering, and coaxed, and pleaded until, for very peace, the poor man told her that he would do what he could for us. Through him I got a letter before the Congress.

"Then Sally went to see Betty Williams. Betty's Frenchman, it seems, is an attache to the French Minister. This gave us access to both the Minister and Count de Rochambeau. Meantime, Captain Drayton's work began to take effect, and letters poured in upon the Congress urging clemency. The French gentlemen advised seeing the Marquis de Chastellux, who is a great favorite with your general; so, as Cousin David had come by this time we set out for Pompton, where we expected to find him. 'Twas there that we met Captain Drayton, of which Cousin David hath told you. Clifford," speaking with impressiveness, "'tis thought that you will be sent to Philadelphia to be under the eye of the Congress while the matter receives due deliberation. If you are, I want you to go to Sally Evans, and thank her for what she hath done."

"It will give me great pleasure, my sister," he answered. A smile, winsome in its radiance, parted his lips, and he gazed across the valley at the distant hills. At the hills? Or did he see instead a pair of blue eyes swimming in tears through which divinest pity shone? Did he see a saucy, piquant face framed in ringlets that escaped in bewitching wilfulness from under the dainty cap of a Quakeress? Did he see—— Harriet's voice, tremulous from a mist of tears in its laughter, broke in upon his musings.

"And oh, John Drayton's hat," she was saying. "You should have seen it, Peggy. When we started this morning 'twas nearly straight. Oh, not entirely! That would be impossible. Somehow I could not take my eyes from it. The harder he rode the further on the side it got. I remembered that Cousin David had said that all through the battle of Hobkirk's Hill he had fought with it on his ear, and had been made a captain for valor. Peggy, it came to me that with him it meant confidence, and a determination to succeed. I knew that he would reach here in time so long as that hat was at a perilous angle. If he had put it straight I should have died."

"Harriet," said Clifford in determined tones, "I want to know why Captain Drayton was so interested? Why should he exert himself to avert an untoward fate from me?"

"Because," answered Harriet. "Oh, because, Clifford. He did it for me. Now don't ask questions, there's a good fellow!"

Clifford's face became thoughtful.

"I see, my sister," he said gently. Harriet flashed a glance at Peggy, then laughed. Her brother's inference was plain.

"I wonder where John is?" cried Peggy.

"He hath been asleep under a tree, my dear," spoke the colonel's wife. "And 'tis time for dinner. Will you ask him to come in?"

"Let me go, Peggy," said Clifford hastily. "I would like to speak with him." And knowing that her cousin would prefer to see Drayton alone, Peggy assented.

Drayton lay on the grass, lazily stretching himself, as Clifford approached. He rose and began to brush off his dusty uniform.

"I'd be sent to the guard-house if this uniform were to make its appearance on parade, wouldn't I, captain?" he asked easily.

"Captain Drayton," said Clifford huskily, "you have given me no chance to thank you for the service you rendered me. I want to do so now——"

"Don't," said Drayton. "It gave me great pleasure to be of service. Why need we speak of it further?"

"But I owe you my life, sir," cried Clifford.

"Nay," smiled Drayton. "You owe it to your sister. I did it for Harriet."

Clifford winced perceptibly as John Drayton used his sister's name without the usual prefix. It had been unconsciously done, but this of course he could not know. He started to speak, but before he could do so, Drayton was speaking:

"You need not fear a repetition of to-day, Captain Williams. Anxiety and suspense are not pleasant companions, and I'd like to tell you just how things are. The temper of the people all over the nation hath changed regarding this affair. 'Tis beginning to be openly talked that mercy should supersede the necessity for retaliation. Then too a letter hath come to General Washington from your own general in which he deplores the action of Lippencott. He asks for further time for investigation, and promises that no more such atrocities shall be perpetrated upon American prisoners, which was our chief motive for reprisal. And your father, Colonel Owen, hath protested strongly against thus using a prisoner of the Capitulation of Yorktown, claiming that such an one cannot be used as hostage in any manner. Our chief, sir, is exceedingly jealous of his honor. He would do naught that would savor of a breach of faith with the enemy. For this reason, and others, he hath consented that more time shall be taken by all parties for deliberation. In fact, Captain Williams, everything points to a pleasant termination of the matter; although you may find the waiting necessary for deliberation long and irksome."

"Sir," spoke Clifford with emotion, "you have made me twice your debtor: First, in bringing the reprieve; and now, by relieving me of anxiety. A man may meet death with fortitude; no man can bear an indefinite suspense which may have the gallows for its termination. I cannot thank you as I would wish. Words cannot express my gratitude. But, sir, I believe that I can contribute toward promoting your happiness. You have said that you did this for my sister; Harriet acknowledges that it was for her. I have always been persuaded that a deeper feeling existed between you than either would confess. Our first altercation was, I believe, regarding this very fact. That I have been prejudiced, I'll admit frankly. But now, sir, I want to tell you that any objection that I may have had against your suit to my sister is withdrawn. More, I will use whatever of influence I may have with my father to advance your happiness."

"Eh! What?" stammered Drayton in confusion. His face had been a study with its varying expressions as Clifford talked. "Er—a—— Well, you see——"

"Do you mean that your feelings have changed, sir?" demanded Clifford his brow darkening.

"On the contrary," exclaimed Drayton settling his neck ruffles hastily, "my esteem for Miss Harriet hath increased. But, captain, in America 'tis customary to consult the lady before such matters are arranged. I shouldn't like anything done until her wishes are expressed."

"Your delicacy does you great credit, sir," spoke Clifford holding out his hand. "I have been wrong in my estimation of you."

"And I appreciate your offer of assistance, Captain Williams." Drayton shook his hand warmly, sincere admiration in his eyes. "'Twas handsomely done."

"And now," exclaimed Clifford almost gaily, "as our little affairs are settled, I must bring you in to dinner. The colonel's wife hath commissioned me to do so."

"I am not up to it yet, captain. I shall find a bed somewhere, and sleep a while longer. Odds life! how seedy lack of sleep doth make a man! Present my compliments to the ladies, will you?" Drayton sank back on the grass as he spoke.

"With pleasure, sir," answered the other.

Punctiliously they saluted, and Clifford strode back to the house. John Drayton laughed softly.

"Now that," he said, apostrophizing the tree, "that is what might be called an amende honorable. Whew! wouldn't I like to see Harriet's face when he tells her!"

Some hours later, having slept off fatigue, washed, and freshened himself from top to toe, Drayton approached the colonel's quarters. On the piazza sat David Owen, with Peggy on one side of him, and Clifford on the other. His arm was about his daughter; his other hand rested on the younger man's knee. It was a pretty picture; full of affection and quiet happiness. John Drayton stopped short at sight of it. His face whitened, and a look of consternation flashed into his eyes. Crushing his beaver over his eyes he wheeled, then strode away. The three had been so absorbed that they had not seen him, but Harriet came upon the piazza in time to catch his expression.

"Peggy," she called.

"Yes?" Peggy went to her quickly alarmed by the insistence of her tone.

"Go to that captain of yours at once. He is troubled."

"John troubled, Harriet? Why——"

"'Tis naught but what you can remedy, you little goose," cried Harriet shaking her. "Don't you dare come back into the house until you have corrected his misapprehension. I won't have John Drayton made unhappy to-day!"

"But——"

"Oh, go!" She caught Peggy suddenly and kissed her. "Go!"

And wondering much Peggy sped down the path after Drayton. He heard her light footsteps, and waited for her.

"Why, how tired thee looks, John," she exclaimed startled by his appearance. "I thought thee had a good sleep. Thee has worn thyself out by thy exertions. And all for us. Yet thee hath given us no chance to thank thee."

"I was glad to do it, Peggy. Clifford is—Yes; he's a fine fellow," he said as though he were obliged to acknowledge the fact. "He is well worth saving. I was glad to do it. Yet—yet I am thankful that I did not know——"

"Know what?" she asked as he came to a pause.

He did not answer, and the girl looked at him in perplexity. Presently she spoke:

"I think I never saw thee with thy hat on straight before, John. I like it not."

"I did not know." He touched it indifferently. "I always find it so when I am discouraged, or hopeless."

"But why should thee be discouraged or hopeless now?" she queried amazed.

"How shall I bear it when you are in England, Peggy?" he cried suddenly, and turned from her.

Peggy saw a great light. When she spoke it was with sweet authority:

"Put thy hat as thee always wears it, John. Then let me tell thee about Clifford and Sally."

"About whom?" Drayton swung about with precipitation.

"About Sally and my cousin, Clifford. I want to tell thee how a message from her cheered his dark hours; I want to tell thee how she helped Harriet; and I want to tell thee, most of all, John, what I am hoping will happen if Clifford is sent to Philadelphia. Dear Sally!"

"Dear Sally!" he echoed fervently, settling his hat in its accustomed place with the jaunty gesture that she loved. "Dear, dear Sally," he added with growing enthusiasm as he met her laughing eyes. "I shall like to hear about Sally. Tell me, Peggy."

* * * * *

It was three months later. Congress had recognized the altered sentiments of the country regarding the case of retaliation, and Clifford was set unconditionally at liberty. England had advised that hostilities be suspended, so that—while the two armies retained their respective positions, one in New York, the other in the Highlands—it was only as a precautionary measure. The prospects for peace were at last assuming reality. There were yet many months to come before the terms would be agreed upon, and the treaty signed; but American Independence was not only achieved, but recognized at last by England.

It was a bright October day. Peggy sat with her mother in the sitting-room of the dwelling in Chestnut Street. The air was just chill enough to warrant a fire, and the two were deep in conversation before its pleasant warmth. The door opened hastily, and Harriet, looking marvelously beautiful in a new riding habit, stood on the threshold.

"I am going for a ride with Robert, madam my cousin," she said, and the rich color flooded her cheeks as she pronounced the young man's name. "We may be a little late. You will not mind?"

"Nay, Harriet." Mrs. Owen smiled at her fondly. "I hope that thy ride will be a pleasant one."

"Mother," spoke Peggy as Harriet closed the door, "how this terrible contagion of domesticity, as General Washington puts it, hath seized everybody! Here Betty hath married her Frenchman and gone to France; Clifford is to come for Sally before he sails for England; and now there is Robert and Harriet. What does thee think of them?"

"I am much pleased," answered the lady. "It will be the making of Harriet. Robert is of a strong, true nature which will command her respect. He hath invested her with every noble quality, believing her to be as lovely in character as she is beautiful in person. Harriet likes to be so considered. Peggy, rather than fall below his ideal she will become all that his fancy paints her."

"I am so glad that we are not to lose her, mother. Harriet hath become very dear to me."

"And mother is glad that thou art not to go across the seas, Peggy. At one time I feared that perchance Clifford——"

"And so did John," laughed Peggy.

* * * * *

Other Stories in this Series are:

PEGGY OWEN PEGGY OWEN, PATRIOT PEGGY OWEN AT YORKTOWN



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.

THE END