Half hidden by lilac bushes and trellised grape-vines the cottage of Nurse Johnson stood in Nicholson Street. A tiny garden lay on one side of the house, and back of it a small orchard extended through to Palace Street.

It was a week later, and Peggy stood by the open window of the living-room of the cottage gazing thoughtfully at the garden. The sunshine lay warm upon the thick green grass studded with violets. Daffodils flaunted golden cups at their more gorgeous neighbors, the tulips. The lilac bushes were masses of purple and white blossoms. The apple trees in the orchard were great bouquets of rose and snow. It was a pleasant place, cool and inviting under the trees.

But Peggy was looking with eyes that saw not its pleasantness. She was considering the events of the past few days. The matron of the hospital had acceded to her desire to assist in the care of her cousin, and she had devoted herself to him assiduously. But Clifford’s manner toward her troubled her, and there was a pained expression upon her face as she gazed into the pretty garden. Unconsciously she sighed.

Nurse Johnson threw aside her sewing and came to her side.

“Child,” she said, “what troubles you? Are you homesick?”

“Friend nurse,” answered Peggy abruptly, “my cousin doth not like me.”

“Why do you think so, Peggy?” asked the nurse quietly. “Hath he been rude?”

“Rude? Oh, no! I would he were,” answered the girl. “Were he rude or cross I should think ’twas merely his illness. Mother says the best of men are peevish when convalescing, but my Cousin Clifford is not cross. Yet he is surely getting well. Does thee not think so?”

“Yes,” responded Mrs. Johnson with conviction. “He surely is. He began to mend from the day you came. The matron, the doctors, the nurses all say so.”

“And yet,” said Peggy sadly, “’tis not because of my coming, nor yet of my care that he hath done so. It seems rather as though he were trying to get well in a spirit of defiance.”

“He is an Englishman, Peggy. Saw you ever one who was not obstinate? The nurses have remarked the lad’s frame of mind, and ’tis commonly thought that he believed that you desired him not to recover.”

“What?” cried Peggy horrified. “Oh, friend nurse, why should he think such a dreadful thing? I desire his death? Why, ’tis monstrous to think of.”

“A mere fancy, child; though why any of us should wish any of the English to live is more than I can understand. What with all the ravaging and burning that is going on ’twould be small wonder if we should desire the death of them all. But if he lives, Peggy, as he seems in a fair way to do, ’twill be owing to your care.”

“Still,” said Peggy, “I wish he were not so cold to me. Mother and I cared for Cousin William, his father, when he was wounded, and often he was irritable and would speak crossly. Yet he always seemed to like it right well that we were with him, and would say sometimes that he knew not what he would have done without us. And Harriet! why, when Harriet was ill with fever she was petulant and fretful at times, but there were other occasions where she was sweet and grateful. But Clifford accepts my attentions in a manner which shows plainly that he would prefer another nurse, but that he submits because he cannot help himself. As of course he cannot,” she added smiling in spite of herself. “Sometimes I would rather he would be cross if he would discover more warmth of manner.”

“Don’t mind him, child. It is, it must be some vagary of his illness. I should not pay much attention to it, and I were you.”

“He does not know that I notice it,” the girl told her. “But I cannot help but think of it, friend nurse. ’Tis strange that he should dislike me so. ’Twould cause mother much wonder.”

“Have you writ anent the matter to her, Peggy?”

“No; ’twould worry her. I have told her only of his condition and that I hope that he will soon be strong enough to start for Philadelphia. When does thee look for Dr. Cochran to come?”

“About the first of June. Should your cousin be well enough you might start north before that time. For my part, while sorry to lose you, I shall be glad when you are at home with your mother. You have been so occupied with your cousin that you may not have noticed that the militia are drilling every evening now.”

“I have seen them on the Market Green,” answered Peggy. “Is the fact alarming, friend nurse?”

“The cause of such frequent drill is quite alarming, child. The British, under General Arnold, have come out of their quarters at Portsmouth, and have started up the James on another ravaging expedition. General Phillips hath joined the traitor and hath sent a large force against Richmond again. They are plundering and destroying every plantation and town on the south side of the river. ’Tis wonder they have not come to Williamsburg ere this. I fear that they will soon. Would there were a way for you to go home, Peggy.”

“If it were not for Clifford I could go on Star,” mused Peggy.

“Alone? Why, child, I should not be easy one moment if you were to start on that journey all by yourself. Ten days on that lonely road? ’Tis not to be thought of.”

“No,” sighed the girl. “I suppose not, friend nurse. There is but one thing to do at present, and that is to care for my cousin. And that reminds me that ’tis time to go to him now.”

Throwing aside all her melancholy, for Peggy had been taught that gloom had no place near the sick, she went into the kitchen, took from its place on the dresser a salver which she covered with a napkin, placed thereon a bowl of steaming broth, for Peggy permitted no one to prepare his food but herself, and then regarded it thoughtfully.

“There should be some brightness,” she mused. “’Tis passing hard to lie all day in bed with no hint of the spring time. I have it.”

She ran out to the empurpled grass where the violets grew thickest, and gathered a small nosegay of the largest blossoms. These she brought in and laid daintily on the salver beside the bowl of broth.

“As thee cannot go to the blossoms I have brought the blossoms to thee,” said she brightly when she reached her cousin’s bedside. “See, my cousin, ’tis a bit of the May, as thee calls it, although May hath not yet come in truth; but ’tis very near. Friends say Fifth month, though ’tis not so pretty a name as thine. Thou canst hold them if thou wishest. ’Tis so small a bunch that it will not tire thy poor, weak fingers.”

“I thank you,” said the lad coldly. “I fear me that you put yourself to too much trouble for me.” He took the violets listlessly, never vouchsafing them so much as a glance.

“And how does thee do this morning, my cousin?” The girl shook up the pillows, then slipped them under his head so that he half sat, half reclined in the bed, cheerfully ignoring the chilly reception that the poor violets received. “I think thee looks brighter.”

“I rested well, Mistress Peggy,” he answered briefly, and then he dropped the blossoms, and taking the spoon from her, added: “I will not trouble you to feed me this morning. I am quite strong enough to feed myself.”

“Very well,” assented Peggy with becoming meekness, quietly arranging the salver in front of him.

The lad began strongly enough, but soon his hand began to tremble. The perspiration stood on his forehead in great drops as he continued to make the effort, and presently the spoon fell with a clatter from his nerveless fingers. He sank back, panting and exhausted, on his pillows.

“Thou foolish boy,” rebuked Peggy gently wiping the perspiration from his brow. “Thee must not waste thy strength if thee wishes to get well soon. Thee must be patient a little longer, my cousin.”

“Would I had died,” broke from him passionately, tears of humiliation in his eyes, “ere I was brought to lie here like a baby compelled to accept services that I wish not.”

A deep flush dyed the girl’s face, and she choked. For a moment she feared lest she should lose her self-control, then mastering herself—Peggy had been well schooled in self-repression—she said mournfully:

“Thee must not excite thyself, Cousin Clifford. Suffer me to care for thee a little longer. If it can be arranged so that another may take charge of thee, it shall be done. I knew not that thou didst dislike me so much.”

He made no reply, but partook of the broth she gave him without protest. Then, because it was part of her duty to wait beside him until the morning visit of the surgeon, she picked up the little bunch of violets and sat down quietly.

Her heart was very full. She could not understand the youth’s aversion. It was as though he held something against her that she had done; the resentment of an injury. In wondering perplexity she fondled the violets, and with unconscious yearning her thoughts flew back to far-off Philadelphia, and the long ago time when there was no war, and she had not known these troublesome cousins.

What times she, and Sally, and Betty, and all the girls of The Social Select Circle had had gathering the wild flowers in the great woods! When was it they had gone there last? It came to her suddenly that it had been six long years before, just after the battle of Lexington. They had made wreaths for their hair, she remembered. Was it violets that made Sally’s, she wondered, the blue of the flowers she held stirring her memories vaguely. No; it was quaker-ladies, and they were blue as Sally’s eyes. They never would go to the great woods again because the British had felled the trees.

At this point in her meditation Peggy looked up with a start to find her cousin regarding her with such an intent look that the color mantled her cheek and brow. He seemed as though he was about to speak, and, fearful that there would be another outbreak which would agitate him, she began speaking hurriedly:

“I am thinking of the great wood, cousin, which used to lie along the banks of the Schuylkill River at home. We went there in spring time for violets, and all the wildings of the forest. Thee should have seen the great trees when they were newly leaved, and again in the autumn when they were clothed in scarlet and gold; and——”

“What have you done with Harriet?” interrupted he in a tense tone.

“What have I done with Harriet?” repeated Peggy so surprised by the question that she let the violets fall to the floor unheeded. Clifford had not mentioned his sister’s name since the first day she came. “I told thee, my cousin, that the council had sent her to New York, because she communicated with Sir Henry Clinton which is not allowed. She had been warned, but she heeded it not. Does thee not remember?”

“I know what you told me,” he made answer. “Think you that I believe it? Nay; I know that your people have prevented her from coming to me.”

For a moment Peggy was so amazed that she could only stare at him. When she had recovered sufficiently to speak she said clearly:

“I think thee must be out of thy mind, cousin. I spoke naught but truth when I told thee of Harriet. I should not know how to speak otherwise. Why should we hinder thy sister from coming to thee? There would be no reason.”

“At one of the taverns where we stopped on the way down here, a captain, a whipper-snapper Yankee, flaunted a shirt in my face made by my sister.” The boy’s eyes flashed at the recollection. “I wrote her praying her to tell me that he did it but to flout me. I prayed her to write that she was still loyal to her king and country. And she answered not. I sent another letter, and still there was no reply. Then I tried to escape to get to her, and I was wounded in the attempt. The director of the hospital here promised, to quiet me, that he would see that she received a letter, and I wrote for her to come. Harriet would have come had she not been prevented.”

“But why should she be prevented?” demanded the astounded Peggy.

“Because ’twas feared that once she was with me she would return to her allegiance. That my influence would make her remember that Colonel Owen’s daughter could show no favors to a Yankee captain; that——”

“Clifford Owen,” interrupted the girl sternly, “listen to me. Thou art exciting thyself needlessly. Thy sister likes the Yankee captain, as thee calls him, no more than thee does. She did make that shirt; but ’twas done because she was as full of idle fancies as thou art, and mother sought by some task to rid her of the megrims. She gave it to John hoping to flout him, thinking that he would not wear a garment bearing the inscription embroidered, in perversity, upon it. She did write to thee. Not once but several times. That thee did not receive the letters is to be deplored, but not to be wondered at, considering the state of the country. She exerted herself on thy behalf to procure a parole, and ’twas near accomplishment when, impatient at the delay, she wrote to Sir Henry Clinton imploring him to ask thy exchange. As I have told thee, ’tis not permitted for any to communicate with the enemy, and so she was sent to New York. And now thee has the gist of the whole matter,” concluded Peggy with dignity.

“And why is she not here?” he asked obstinately.

The girl rose quickly.

“I have told thee,” she said quietly. “I will say no more. If thee chooses to doubt my word then thee must do so. I have spoke naught but truth. My cousin, thee will have to get another nurse. I am going back to my mother. ’Twas a mistake to come. I but did so because mother and I felt sorrow for thee alone down here with none of thy kin near, and perchance dying. ’Twas a mistake, I say, to have come, but I will trouble thee no longer. I shall start home to-day on my pony. The way is long, and lonely; but better loneliness and fatigue than suspicion and coldness. I hope thee will recover, my cousin. Farewell!”

She turned, standing very erectly, and started to leave the room. Before she had taken a half dozen steps, however, there came the quick beat of the mustering drum from the Market Green, and a hoarse shout from without:

“The British! The British are coming!”