“And if it had not been for your insisting upon it that shirt would never have been made,” went on Harriet in an aggrieved tone.

“I think that ’twas I more than Peggy who persuaded thee to make the shirt,” said Mrs. Owen quietly. “It was done to woo thee from thy fancies, Harriet, rather than with any purpose to get thee to aid our soldiers. If thee will write to thy brother and explain the matter to him he will forgive thee it. Further, according to John’s letter, had it not been for that very same garment thy brother would not have acknowledged his identity. So thou seest, my child, that good hath come out of it after all.”

“Why, so it hath,” acknowledged Harriet brightening. “I had not thought of it in that light, madam my cousin. And would you mind if my brother were to come here, if a parole can be obtained for him?”

“Of course he must come here,” returned the lady with a smile of gratification. She was pleased that Harriet should show thoughtfulness for her convenience. It had not always been the case with either the girl or her father. Colonel Owen was wont to demand a thing rather than request it, and Harriet herself had been somewhat addicted to obtaining her desires in the same fashion at Middlebrook. Of late, however, she was evincing more consideration for both Peggy and herself. “David would not wish it otherwise.”

“’Tis very kind of you, my cousin,” said the girl with sudden feeling. “But you will like Clifford. Indeed no one can help it.”

“I am quite sure that we shall,” responded Mrs. Owen graciously. “His letter bespoke him to be a lad of parts. And now as to the parole. That must first be accomplished before the exchange can be thought of; the latter will of necessity take time.”

“How much?” queried Harriet. “I know that ’twas long before father got his, but that was in the early part of the war, before England had consented to exchange prisoners.”

“I know not how long ’twill take, Harriet.” Mrs. Owen threaded her needle thoughtfully. “Those things seem in truth to go by favor. As thy brother well says, if those in authority exert themselves it should be arranged quickly. If they do not then the matter drags along sometimes for months.”

“Awaiting the convenience of the great,” added the girl with some bitterness. “And such convenience is consulted only when they have need of further service. The past is always forgotten. Still, father stands well with Sir Henry, and I myself rendered him no little service by what I did at Middlebrook. I think,—nay, I am sure,—that if I can get his ear he will see that the affair is adjusted according to my wishes. I will write to him.”

“It may be, Harriet, but thee must make up thy mind to endure some little delay. It seldom happens that there are not some rules or regulations to observe, all of which take time. For thy sake we will hope that Clifford’s case will be the exception in such matters. We can do naught to-day about it because of the celebration, but to-morrow thou and I will go to Mr. Joseph Reed, the president of the council, who will advise us about the parole and anent the exchange also.”

“Harriet,” said Peggy suddenly, “does thee remember that when thy brother is exchanged he must return at once to the British lines? Thee had better not be too eager anent the exchange.”

“But I intend to go back with him,” Harriet informed her composedly.

“Thee does?” asked Peggy in surprise. “Why?”

“’Tis so much gayer in New York, Peggy. Don’t you remember the times we had before father made us go South? Beside, I cannot hear at all from father here. As you know, ’tis almost impossible to get letters through the lines to him, and I have had no word since I have been here. I know not whether he is in Camden, where we left him, or with my Lord Cornwallis.”

“But would he wish thee to be there, my child?” questioned Mrs. Owen gravely. “I cannot but think that he would prefer that thee should remain with us until he either comes or sends for thee.”

“He would not mind if I were with Clifford,” returned the girl lightly. “We could have great sport there together. Besides, if I wish it father would not care. If he did I could soon bring him to look at the affair with my eyes. I usually do about as I please; don’t I, Peggy?”

“Yes; but Cousin William did not always approve of thy way,” reminded Peggy. “If thee continues to dwell in the house thy father had ’twill cost greatly, and once he spoke to me about thy extravagance. He said that both thee and thy brother were like to bring him to grief. ’Twas for that reason that he welcomed the idea that I should look after the expense. Does thee not remember?”

“I remember naught but that I wondered that you should prefer housewifery to pleasuring,” answered Harriet gayly. “Father is always complaining about extravagance, but he likes right well for me to appear bravely before his friends. La! when one has position to maintain one must spend money, and no one knows it any better than my father.”

Peggy was silent. Did her cousin wish her brother’s exchange solely that she might return to New York, or was she in truth anxious to be where she could hear from her father? Had she really any natural affection for either, she wondered. Harriet began to laugh at her expression.

“I always know when you are displeased, cousin mine,” she said putting her arm about her. “You pull down the corner of your mouth, so.” Suiting the action to the word. “And your eyebrows go up, so. Now, confess: when you were with us, didn’t you want to come back to your own people?”

“Yes,” admitted Peggy, “I did. But it was because of my mother. Thy father would not be with thee there, and as thy brother is in the army also, he may be sent anywhere in the States at any time. While I know that thee must find it far from agreeable to be with those who are not of thy politics, still ’tis the wish of thy father that thee should stay here.”

“Will you never be naught but a prim little Quakeress?” cried Harriet shaking her. “Know then that I have wishes too, and friends there who are almost as close as kinspeople. Then, too, you would be relieved of me here. Just think how delightsome that would be,” she ended teasingly.

“I am not thinking of us at all,” confessed truthful Peggy, “but of what is best for thee. I feel as though I were responsible to Cousin William for thee.”

“Don’t you worry, mother mentor,” cried Harriet dancing about gleefully. “When Clifford comes your responsibility ceases. How he will laugh when he finds that I can no longer care for myself. I am going now to my room, little mother. If I stay longer than you think best call me.”

“Thee is saucy,” was Peggy’s retort, as Harriet ran out of the room, pausing only long enough to make a mouth at her.

But Harriet’s high spirits had vanished the next morning when she returned from her visit to Mr. Reed.

“What think you?” she cried bursting in upon Peggy who was ironing in the kitchen. “Mr. Reed will see that the parole is given Clifford, but the exchange must wait until an American prisoner is found of equal rank with Clifford, who can be given for him. Isn’t it provoking!”

“I should think thee could bear the delay patiently so long as thee will have thy brother with thee,” remarked Peggy quietly. “’Twould be far more vexatious if the parole could not be given.”

“Why, of course, Peggy. Oh, well! I suppose that I must content myself. Thank fortune, I can at least write to Clifford. If he were not in the rebel lines even that would be denied me. I am going to write him now.”

“Mr. Reed was much taken with Harriet,” observed Mrs. Owen, entering the kitchen as the English maiden left it.

“But not more than thee appears to be, mother,” smiled Peggy. “’Tis amusing to see the difference with which thee regards her now, and the way it was at Middlebrook.”

“She seems much improved,” answered her mother. “Does thee not think so? So much more thoughtful of others. It did not strike me that she was much given to consideration then; but now——”

“But now thee has had her under thy wing for nearly three months; thee has nursed her back to health, and humored her every whim as though she were a child of thine until thee regards her as though she were thy very own. Thou dear mother!” The girl stopped her ironing long enough to kiss her mother tenderly. “Doesn’t thee know that whatever thee broods over thee loves?”

Mrs. Owen laughed.

“How well thee knows me, Peggy. But thou art fond of her too, art thou not?”

“Yes, I am, mother,” admitted the girl. “Whenever we go anywhere I am proud of her beauty, and that she is my cousin. And my friends here are charmed with her. Even Sally and Betty—though she sometimes makes dreadful speeches because of being for the king. She can be so sweet, mother, that at times I must steel myself against her, lest I should be more tolerant of her opinions than is wise.”

“As to her being for the king, my child, that, as thee knows, is because of being English. And I would not have her feign a belief in the cause of Liberty did she not of a truth hold it to be just. An open foe is ever best, Peggy.”

“It isn’t politics, mother. At least not her feeling toward us, though it is trying to stand some of her comments, but——”

“Peggy, thee is troubled anent something,” asserted the lady taking Peggy’s face between her hands and gazing anxiously into her eyes. “What is it, my child?”

“’Tis anent the delay, mother. Should the exchange be effected quickly then there would be no cause for worry. But if it must be long, as Harriet thinks it may be, then I fear that my cousin will try to communicate with Sir Henry Clinton. In fact, she spoke of doing it yesterday, and I cautioned her against it. She said that she would not bring harm to us; but, mother, at her home in New York she was not always scrupulous about her promise. In truth, she let nothing stand in her way when she had her heart set on doing a thing. I intended telling thee about the chat when we returned from our ride yesterday, but what with the celebration and the letters it escaped my mind.”

“Thee may dismiss the matter from thy thoughts, Peggy, for she spoke about that very thing to Mr. Reed. He told her that it would not help the exchange at this time, but that after her brother came it could be taken up. Then, he said, he would see that whatever she might wish to communicate to the British commander should reach him.”

“Oh, I am so glad,” exclaimed Peggy. “It hath given me no small concern, mother. I did not think my cousin would wittingly cause us trouble, but I feared that on the impulse of the moment, she might try to pass a letter through the lines. Thee knows what that would mean, mother?”

“Yes; and she does also, for Mr. Reed went into it with her. He told her to be very careful in speaking even about writing to Sir Henry, as the people were in no mood to tolerate communications with the enemy. She understands all that it means, my child. I think she will do naught until Clifford comes, and perhaps he will be better of judgment than she.”

“I am so glad,” said Peggy again, and much relieved resumed her neglected ironing.

The days passed. March glided into April, but the soft sweet days of spring brought no letter from Clifford. If the parole had been given Harriet did not know of it. She fumed and fretted under the waiting.

“Why do I not hear from him?” she cried one morning. “It hath been a month since I wrote, and it doth not take half so long to hear from Virginia. I do wish that either I would hear from Clifford, or that Mr. Reed would let me know anent the parole.”

“Thee is like to get one of thy wishes, for here comes Mr. Reed now,” said Peggy who was standing by the front window of the living-room.

“Let me go to the door, madam my cousin,” exclaimed Harriet as Mrs. Owen started to answer the knocker.

“Very well, Harriet,” assented the matron with a smile.

But both Peggy and her mother were startled to hear Mr. Reed say gravely, in answer to Harriet’s eager questioning:

“Nay; ’tis not about the parole I am come, Mistress Harriet, but anent a more serious matter.”

“And what, sir, could be more serious than my brother’s release?” came Harriet’s clear voice.

“A charge against you, mistress, would be much more serious,” was the reply.

“Of what do you accuse me, sir?” was the girl’s haughty query.

“I accuse you of nothing, but I insist upon truthful answers to some questions. For the sake of these cousins with whom you are staying I entreat you to reply with truth, and nothing but truth.”

“Come, Peggy,” cried Mrs. Owen rising. “We will see what this means.”