After the departure of an inmate of a family, whether that person has been pleasant or otherwise, there follows a feeling of blankness, of something amiss. Distance, in truth, produces in idea the same effect as in real perspective. Objects are softened, and rounded, and rendered doubly graceful; the harsher and more ordinary points of character are mellowed down, and those by which it is remembered are the more striking outlines that mark sublimity, grace, or beauty. And so it was with Harriet.

Her irritability, her unpleasant remarks, her ceaseless demand upon their service were soon forgotten. The grace and dignity that distinguished her from others were remembered to her advantage. The pleasant smile, the pretty manner, the imperious bearing were idealized in the softening glamour of absence. The mode of her departure had palliated whatever of resentment Mrs. Owen and Peggy might have felt for the girl’s breach of hospitality.

“I believe that I am lonesome without Harriet,” declared Peggy one evening. “Is thee, mother?”

It was the seventh day of Harriet’s absence. Tea was over. The servants had retired for the night, and mother and daughter sat alone in the sitting-room, knitting by the light of the candles.

“’Tis most natural for us to miss her, my daughter. She hath been with us so long, and with thee especially that ’tis not to be wondered at that thee feels lost. Harriet hath many good qualities. She hath been left to follow her own impulses too much, but I hope that her association with thee hath been of benefit to her.”

“With me, mother?” exclaimed Peggy flushing scarlet at this praise. “Thee should not say that. In truth, I don’t deserve it, mother. I was often vexed with her, and sometimes gave way to sharpness. I ofttimes went to my room to gain control of myself. I have a temper, mother, as thee must know.”

“I do, my child; but I know too that thou art trying to get the mastery of it. Because thou didst so strive is the reason that I believe that companionship with thee will make Harriet better. She hath received impressions that cannot fail to be of advantage to her. I am hoping that Harriet will make a noble woman.”

“I wonder,” said Peggy musingly, “why Clifford did not write to her? It would have saved all this trouble had he done so.”

“Thee must remember that he said in his letter that he thought they were to stop for a time at Fredericksburg. They may not have done so, or he may have been taken elsewhere after a short stop. Mr. Reed says that there was no report of any such party at any of the taverns there.”

“The parole will not be given now, will it, mother?”

“I think Mr. Reed would exert himself further in the matter did we desire it, Peggy, but ’tis best to let it drop for the present. If there are whispers anent our having our cousins with us, ’twere best to let Harriet see to an exchange for the lad. If that could be obtained his whereabouts would have to be made known. For ourselves, we will live very quietly for a time. It may be as well that the boy did not come. Should he prove a lad of spirit, as I make no doubt he is, between him and Harriet they might have caused greater trouble than she did.”

“Yes,” assented the girl thoughtfully. “’Tis as well as thou sayest, mother. Still, I have heard so much anent my cousin, Clifford, that I confess that I am somewhat curious about him. I think I should like to see him.”

“I have wondered about him also, Peggy. Is he like William, I wonder, or doth he take after his mother? William could be agreeable at times, but one was sometimes cognizant only of his failings.”

Thus conversing the minutes passed quickly. The house was very still, and the monotonous quiet was broken only by the click of the needles. The tall clock in the hall had just announced the usual bedtime when there sounded three loud raps on the front door.

“That was the knocker,” cried Peggy, starting up. “I wonder who it can be at this time of night?”

“We shall soon see,” said her mother taking up a candle and proceeding to the hall. “Who is it?” she called cautiously.

“’Tis I, Sally. Open quickly. I have news,” answered the clear voice of Sally Evans.

Mrs. Owen unbolted the door hastily, and Sally tumbled rather than stepped into the hall. Her calash was untied, and her curly locks had escaped their ribbon and hung in picturesque confusion about her face.

“Harriet!” she gasped. “I want Harriet.”

“Harriet is gone, Sally,” exclaimed Peggy. “Has thee not heard?”

“Gone where?” asked Sally in dismay. “I have heard nothing. She must be found, wherever she hath gone. There is news——”

“Come in and sit down,” said Mrs. Owen drawing her into the sitting-room. “Now tell us what hath occurred.”

“I should tell Harriet,” persisted Sally, who was plainly excited. “Where hath she gone?”

“She was sent to New York for communicating with the enemy,” replied Mrs. Owen. “’Tis strange that thee heard naught of it. It happened a week since.”

“We have been so busy,” explained Sally recovering herself a little. “What shall I do? Her brother is dying in the Williamsburg Hospital.”

“What! Not Clifford?” cried Mrs. Owen and Peggy simultaneously.

“Yes; Dr. Cochran, who hath been appointed director-general of all the hospitals since Dr. Shippen resigned, hath just returned from a tour of inspection of the Southern division. At our hospital at Williamsburg he found Harriet’s brother, Clifford, who told him who he was. He was a prisoner, as we know, and was shot while trying to make his escape. The doctor promised to let his sister know of the matter as soon as he reached Philadelphia. He was too busy to come himself, but sent me. Oh, I ran every step of the way, and now she is not here.”

“No,” said Mrs. Owen. “She is not here. Oh, the poor boy!”

“Why, I have forgot his note,” exclaimed Sally. She drew an unsealed letter from the bosom of her gown and handed it to Mrs. Owen. The lady opened it at once.

“Come to me, Harriet,” she read, “if you wish to see your brother alive. I am dying, and I wish not to die alone in a strange land with none of my kinspeople near me. The doctor will find a way for you. Can write no more. Come!

“Clifford.”

“Would that the child had not been so hasty,” sighed the matron folding the missive thoughtfully. “And now what is to be done? We must let her know, of course. I will see Mr. Reed in the morning.”

“But ’twill be too late for her to go to him by the time she gets the word,” said Sally. “How long doth it take to send a letter to New York?”

“All of three days. More, if the roads are bad. I fear too that ’twill be too late, but it must be done.” Mrs. Owen let her head fall on her hand and sat in deep perplexity for a while. “Sally,” she said abruptly, “can the doctor be seen to-night?”

“He might see thee, Mrs. Owen,” answered Sally. “We are monstrously busy, but the case is exceptional. And that reminds me that ’tis time I was returning.” She rose as she spoke.

“Alone? Nay; wait until I get my cloak.”

“Tut, tut!” cried Sally. “An army nurse afraid? Why, I would not fear a whole Hessian regiment. Nay; I will not hear of taking thee out at night, Mrs. Owen.”

“Let us both go, mother,” suggested Peggy, running for their wraps.

“And I would like to see the doctor,” said Mrs. Owen as Sally began again to expostulate.

The walk to the hospital, which occupied the entire square between Spruce and Pine Streets and Eighth and Ninth Streets, was short. Peggy and Sally talked in low tones over Harriet’s absence and the cause thereof, while Mrs. Owen mused in silence. The lady was still thoughtful after her interview with Dr. Cochran.

“How did the doctor say he was, mother?” asked Peggy as they started for home.

“Badly hurt, my child. He was sorry for the lad’s sake that Harriet was not here. Clifford, it seems, looks to her coming with great eagerness. ’Tis his one hope of life, the doctor thinks.”

Peggy fell into silence. The night was beautiful. One of those soft balmy nights that come sometimes in the early spring, leading one to thoughts of summer joys. But its sweet influence was not felt by these two. One idea possessed the minds of both, and each waited for the other to give voice to it.

“Mother,” spoke Peggy abruptly as they reached the stoop of their own dwelling, “thee means that one of us must go to my Cousin Clifford, doesn’t thee?”

“Yes; one of us must go,” answered her mother. “One must remain here to have the house in readiness for David should he have need of it. The other must respond to the poor lad’s appeal for his kinsmen.”

“’Twill mean more whispers against our patriotism, will it not, mother?”

“It cannot be helped, Peggy. If others choose to believe ill of us for doing a deed of mercy then we must pay no heed. We must so order our conduct that our friends will know that we are loyal to the cause, even though we do minister to an English cousin. The others matter not. ’Tis David’s kin who calls, and not to heed the call were to be false to the dictates of humanity. And now which one of us shall go, Peggy?”

“Mother, I must be the one, of course. Thee must be here to look after affairs and in case father should have need of thee. I will go. I knew that I must as soon as Sally told her news. But oh, mother! I have been home such a little while! What if something should happen to keep me from thee as it did before?”

“Peggy, if thee talks like that I cannot let thee go,” exclaimed her mother. “If it were in either of the Carolinas I would not think of permitting it even to succor a poor wounded boy. It should take but a short time to go and come. I talked it over with the doctor. He had thought that Harriet might wish to go, and, not knowing of her departure, made arrangements whereby she might go with one of the nurses who hath been here on a furlough. She returns to-morrow in a cabriolet with her son. Thou art to take Harriet’s place. Thee will not mind, Peggy.”

“No, mother. I shall murmur no more. ’Tis right to go. Thee will let Harriet know, though how she can do anything I see not. She will not be allowed to enter the lines again. What time doth the cabriolet with the nurse start? Should we not begin to prepare for the journey now?”

And seeing her so willing to accept the charge the mother in Mrs. Owen would not down. She drew the girl in a close embrace.

“If it were not right, Peggy,” she murmured. “If the doctor had not already prepared a place, or if I thought for a moment that harm would befall thee, I should not let thee go. But——”

“Why, mother, there is naught else to do,” answered Peggy cheerfully. “Thee must not think of harm. I was foolish to give way, and so art thou, mother mine. Of course naught will happen, and it is the right thing to do. What shall I take? And we should have supplies also, should we not?”

And with the Quaker habit of self-repression mother and daughter put aside their emotion to prepare for the coming journey.