Late afternoon of the fourth day after leaving Mount Vernon found the little party drawing near to the lowland city of Williamsburg. The road had no other travelers than themselves. There were no more thick woods, the road running in a blaze of sunshine past clumps of cedars, and wayside tangles of blackberry, sumac and elder bushes.

Presently the spires of churches and the roofs of several large buildings came into sight, clustered in one small spot, as it seemed to Peggy, until they entered the town itself, when they receded to their proper distances. The maiden leaned forward eagerly to see the place, for she had heard much of its gayety and fashion.

One broad unpaved street was the main thoroughfare of the town. It was very straight, shaded by mulberry and poplar trees, and ran for a measured mile from the Capitol at one end to the goodly college of William and Mary at the other. Houses, vine-clad, with wide porticoes and large gardens, bordered it, and two or three narrower streets debouched from it.

“This is the Duke of Gloucester Street, my dear,” explained Nurse Johnson as they entered the broad thoroughfare. “Yonder lies the Capitol where the courts convene. Once it was the center of all the legislation of the state, but all that is past since the capital hath been removed to Richmond.”

“Hath it?” exclaimed Peggy in surprise. “I did not know it. When was it, friend nurse?”

“’Twas done two years ago,” responded the nurse sadly. “Williamsburg was deemed too accessible to the enemy, so the government was removed to Richmond. I doubt not that we should be thankful, since the British did march for the capital in their late invasion of the state. The worst feature of the matter is that the traitor, Arnold, led the force that sacked and burned Richmond in January. No doubt ’twould have been our fate had the government still been here. Look well at the college, Peggy. It hath sent forth many of the men who are of prominence in the nation.”

Peggy regarded the college with great interest, for its fame was far spread, as it was the second university to be founded in the New World, Harvard being the first.

On the right of the large campus was the president’s house, built of brick alternately dull red and gray, brought over from England. Opposite was another building of like proportions and architecture known as the Brafferton School, built and endowed as an Indian seminary, a modest antitype of Hampton.

Although there were a number of shops and ordinaries, as the taverns were called, the town was thinly peopled, and Peggy was conscious of a chill of disappointment. Where was the glitter and glamour of pageantry of which she had heard so much?

Was this modest hamlet with its few detached houses with no pretentions to architectural beauty the gay capital of Virginia? As though divining her feeling Nurse Johnson spoke.

“Virginia is a state of large plantations and few cities,” she said.

“Williamsburg is not like Philadelphia, my dear, and yet it hath had its share of gayety. Before the war began ’twas a goodly sight in winter to see the planters and their families come in for divertisement and enjoyment. ’Twas very gay then. Gloucester Street was filled with their coaches and the spirited horses of the youths. Those were gladsome times that I fear me we shall see no more since the capital hath been removed.”

She sat for a time lost in thought, and then spoke mournfully:

“Ah, child, ’tis sad to see the passing of greatness. There are many like me who grieve to see the old town overshadowed. And this,” she continued as they passed a long low building with a wide portico and a row of dormer windows frowning from the roof, “this is the Raleigh Tavern. Its Apollo room is a famous place for balls, and meetings of belles and beaux. We are entering Palace Street now, Peggy. That large building at the end was formerly the Government Building, or the Palace, as ’tis called, where the royal governors were wont to dwell. The old powder magazine yonder held the spark that ignited the wrath of Virginians to rebel against the king. And this, my dear, is the end of our journey. ’Twas formerly the barracks of the mansion, but ’tis now used for a hospital.”

Peggy was conscious of quickening heart throbs as she alighted from the cabriolet, and ascended the few steps that led to the door of the building.

The westering sun cast a pleasant glow through the wide hall, for the entrance doors were thrown back, but Peggy had time for only a glance. The nurse led the way at once to one of the rooms which opened from the hall, saying:

“I must give report of the supplies immediately to the storekeeper, my child. Then I will see the matron and find where your cousin lies. Sit you here for a short time.”

Peggy sank obediently into the high-backed chair that the nurse pulled forward, and waited with some trepidation for the summons to go to her cousin. The office was full of business. A large force of storekeepers were busied in giving bedding and other necessaries to what seemed to Peggy an endless stream of nurses; while a number of clerks bent over their books, deep in the accounts of the storekeepers.

The song of birds came through the open window near which the girl sat. A bee hummed drowsily over a budding peach tree that stood just outside, and all at once it came to her that she was a long, long way from home. All her light-heartedness had vanished. The sunshine, the budding trees, the journey with its pleasant companionship, and, above all, her own youth, had served to lull into forgetfulness, for the time being, the purpose of the journey. Now, however, the passing to and fro of the nurses, the coming and going of the doctors with their low-toned orders, all brought a vivid realization of her mission, and Peggy felt suddenly faint and weak.

“I wish mother were here,” she thought, a great wave of longing sweeping over her. “Oh, I do wish that mother were here, or else that everything was done that must be done so that I could go back.”

At this point in her musings Nurse Johnson returned, and it was well that she did so, for Peggy was getting very close to the point of breaking down.

“You are tired,” exclaimed the nurse at sight of her face. “Child, give o’er the meeting until to-morrow. You would be more fit then.”

“’Tis naught, friend nurse,” said Peggy rousing herself resolutely. “I fear me I was getting just a little homesick. And how is my cousin? Is he—is he——”

“He is better,” the nurse hastened to tell her. “Much better, the matron says, and longing for his sister. You are to go to him at once, but he must not do much talking as he is still very weak. With careful nursing he may pull through. And now come, but be careful.”

Peggy arose and followed her across the hall into a large room, scrupulously clean, and bare of furniture save the rows of beds, some small tables and a few chairs.

On one of the beds in the far corner of the room lay a youth so like her father that Peggy could not repress an exclamation. His eyes were closed; his face very pale, and serene in its repose. His hair was light brown in color, with auburn lights in it that fell low over his forehead. Peggy drew near and looked at him with full heart.

“How like he is to father,” she murmured with a quick intake of her breath. “He doth not look like either Cousin William, or Harriet. Oh, he should have been my brother!”

The nurse bent over the lad, and touched him gently.

“Captain Williams,” she said. “Here is some one to see you.”

His eyes opened, and Peggy almost gasped, so like were they to David Owen’s.

“Harriet,” whispered the youth making a weak attempt to rise. “Hath she come at last?”

“It is not Harriet,” said Peggy touching his forehead gently, “but Peggy, my cousin.”

The young fellow turned a wondering look upon her.

“But Harriet, Harriet?” he murmured. “Why do you call me cousin?”

“Thee is not to talk,” cried Peggy quickly, as the nurse shook a warning finger. “I call thee cousin because thou art my Cousin Clifford. Harriet could not come because she had been sent to New York. I am Peggy. Peggy Owen, thy very own cousin. I have come to care for thee, and to take thee home when thou art strong enough. And that is all,” she ended breathlessly as the nurse again nodded a warning.

“I want Harriet,” reiterated the youth turning away from her. “Why have you come? I want you not.”

This was more than the girl could stand. She had been on the road for ten long days and was fatigued almost beyond the point of endurance. And when Clifford, who was so like her father that she had been stirred to the very depths of her being, said:

“I want you not. Why have you come?” she could no longer control her feelings but burst into tears.

“I came because thy sister was sent on to New York and could not come,” she sobbed.

“Because thee said in thy letter that thee didn’t want to die with none of thy kin near. And I have come all the way from Philadelphia to be with thee if thou shouldst die, and to take thy last messages.”

“I am not going to die,” said he in an obstinate voice. “And I shall save my last messages for my sister.”

At that Peggy looked up in blank amazement, thinking she had not heard aright. She had made no small sacrifice to come to Virginia to minister to him on his death-bed, if need be; or to bring him to health by careful nursing. And now for that cousin to tell her that he would give her none of his messages was unsettling to say the least.

And so the girl looked up, and met the lad’s eyes, which held a queer look of defiance. His lips were bloodless, but they were set in a straight line of determination. He looked so like a great big spoiled child that Peggy’s tears vanished as if by magic, and she gave vent to a low laugh. A laugh so sweet and girlish that many who heard it smiled in sympathy, and turned to get a glimpse of the maiden.

“Thee is a great big goose,” she cried wiping her eyes. “And I am another. I shall hold thee to thy words as a promise. Thee is to save thy last messages for thy sister. And until she comes, which, I make no doubt, will be soon, I shall care for thee whether thee likes or not. And I shall begin right now by fixing that pillow. Thee is not comfortable. Nurse, please may I have some vinegar? My cousin’s head is so hot. There! Sleep now, and to-morrow thee may talk some more. Sleep, my cousin.”

And Peggy, mistress of herself once more, firmly checked the feeble remonstrances of the youth and began stroking his forehead with soft, soothing touches. Finding his protests of no avail her cousin submitted to her ministration, and soon, in spite of his efforts to keep awake, his eyelids drooped, the drawn look of his face relaxed, and he slept.

“And now you too must rest,” said the nurse. “Come, my child, to my home.”

“But these other poor fellows,” said Peggy. “Can we not make them comfortable first?”

“We will let the others attend to it for to-night, Peggy. The first duty in nursing is to keep one’s self in trim, otherwise the nurse herself becomes a patient. Come.”

And nothing loth Peggy followed her.