“Thee has come at last,” cried Peggy, a little catch coming into her voice. “Oh, Harriet! Harriet! why didn’t thee come before? Or write?”

“Why, I came as soon as I could, Peggy. When I knew that the Forty-third was to be sent down I went to Sir Henry for permission to accompany the regiment. The colonel’s wife bore him company, which made my coming possible. Oh, the voyage was delightsome! I love the sea. And the military also. You should have heard the things they said to ‘this sweet creature,’ as they styled me. And how is Clifford?”

“He is no longer an invalid, Harriet. He hath quit the hospital, and taken rooms at the Raleigh Tavern. Thee can see the building from here if thee will turn thy head. ’Tis the long low building with the row of dormer windows in the roof. He talks also of returning to the army, but hath been waiting to hear from thee. He hath worried. I am so glad that thou hast come, and he will be glad also. I do believe that thee grows more beautiful all the time.”

“Sorry that I can’t say the same for you,” laughed Harriet, pinching Peggy’s cheek playfully. “What have you been doing to yourself? You are pale, and thinner than when I saw you last. Mercy! how long ago it seems, yet ’twas but the first week in last month. I have had such a good time in New York, Peggy,” she ran on without waiting for answers to her questions. “The routs and the assemblies were vastly entertaining. And the plays! Oh, Peggy, you should have been there. I thought of you often, and wished you with me, you little gray mouse of a cousin! Why do you wear that frock? I like it not.”

“Did thee in truth think of me?” asked Peggy wistfully. “With all that pleasuring I wonder that thee had time.”

“Well, I did of a certainty. Particularly after your mother’s letter came telling me about Clifford, and how you had gone down to care for him. Of course I knew that he was in good hands, so I didn’t worry. Is this the hospital?”

“Yes,” answered the Quakeress who had been leading Harriet toward the spot during the conversation. “I left thy brother in the palace grounds, and I thought thee would like to be taken directly to him. Hath Captain Williams come in yet?” she inquired of an attendant.

“Captain Williams,” repeated Harriet who seemed to be in high spirits. “How droll that sounds! Are these the palace grounds?” as Peggy on receiving the attendant’s answer led the way into them. “Oh! there is Clifford!”

She made a little rush forward with outstretched arms as she caught sight of her brother, crying joyously:

“Clifford! Clifford!”

The youth rose at her cry. Over his face poured a flood of color. Incredulity struggled with joy, and was succeeded by a strange expression. His face grew stern, and his brows knit together in a heavy frown. He folded his arms across his breast as his sister approached, and made no motion to embrace her. Peggy was nonplussed at the change. What did it mean! He had been so anxious for her coming, and so uneasy about her. She could not understand it. Harriet too seemed astonished at this strange reception.

“One moment,” he said, and Peggy shivered at the coldness of his tones, “do you come, my sister, as a loyal Englishwoman, or as a rebel?”

“Loyal?” questioned Harriet wonderingly. “Why, of course I’m loyal. What else could I be?”

“And that Yankee captain? The one to whom you gave that shirt?”

“The Yankee captain?” A puzzled look flashed across Harriet’s face. “Oh! do you mean John Drayton? Well, what about him?”

“Is he not favored by you?” queried Clifford, a light beginning to glow on his countenance.

“Favored by me? John Drayton!” Harriet’s lip curled in disdain. “What nonsense is this, Cliff? I dislike John Drayton extremely. Didn’t Peggy tell you?”

“Then come,” he said opening his arms.

“You silly boy,” cried Harriet embracing him. “I am minded not to kiss you at all. What put such absurd notions in your head? How well you look! Not nearly so pale as Peggy is. One would think she was the invalid. Come, Peggy! ’Tis fine here under the trees. Sit down while you both hear about the gayeties of New York. And the war news! Oh, I have so much to tell. Sir Henry says the game is up with the colonies this summer. But oh, Cliff——”

“Have you been in New York?” he interrupted.

“Of course. Didn’t Peggy tell you how the Most Honorable Council of the revolted colony of Pennsylvania,” and Harriet’s voice grew sarcastic, “banished me to that city because I tried to get a letter to Sir Henry Clinton concerning your exchange? It hath afforded much amusement at the dinners when I would take off Mr. Reed’s solemn manner. ’Tis strange that Peggy did not tell you.”

“She did,” he replied, and turning he looked at Peggy as though seeing her for the first time. A gaze that embraced the gray gown that clung close to her slender figure; the snowy whiteness of her apron, the full fichu fastened firmly about the round girlish throat; and the simple cap of fine muslin that rested upon her dark tresses. “She did,” he repeated, and paused expectantly as though for her to speak.

But she made no comment. It was enough that she was vindicated at last. It had hurt Peggy that her cousin should doubt her word, and now her sole feeling was one of content that he should know that she had indeed spoken naught but truth.

“Then if Peggy told you that I was sent there I see not why you should ask if I came from there,” spoke Harriet in perplexity. “Clifford, have you seen father?”

“No,” his face clouding. “I dread meeting him, Harriet. You know that he left you and the home in my charge. Had I known that you would not remain I would never have left you. And why did you not stay there, my sister?”

“Alone, Clifford? Did you not know me better than that? Know then, brother mine, that if you can serve your country, Mistress Harriet Owen can also. Oh, I have seen service, sir. I was a spy in the rebel headquarters at Middlebrook, in the Jerseys, for nearly a whole winter.”

“You, Harriet! A spy?” he cried aghast. “Not you, Harriet?”

“Don’t get wrought up, Cliff. Father knew it, and consented. We were well paid for it. Didn’t Peggy tell you about it?” Harriet turned a smiling countenance upon Peggy. “She knew all about it. I stayed with our cousins while there.”

“I think there is much that Cousin Peggy hath not told me,” he remarked, and again he looked at the girl with a curious intent glance. Peggy felt her color rise under his searching gaze. “I will depend upon you for enlightenment as to several things.”

The shadows lengthened and crept close to the little group under the trees. Fireflies sparkled in the dusk of the twilight. A large white moth sailed out of the obscurity toward the lights which had begun to glimmer in the hospital windows. An owl hooted in a near-by walnut tree. Peggy rose suddenly.

“We should not stay here,” she said. “Clifford is no longer an invalid, ’tis true; still he should not remain out in the dew.”

“I have scarcely begun to talk,” demurred Harriet. “I think I should know what will suit my own brother, Peggy.”

“Our Cousin Peggy is right, Harriet,” observed Clifford in an unusually docile mood. “I should not be out in the dew, and neither should you. To-morrow there will be ample opportunity to converse. I confess that I do feel a little tired. Then too there are matters to ponder.”

“Of course if you are tired,” said his sister rising, “we must go in. To-morrow, Peggy, you will find yourself like Othello—your occupation gone.”

“I shall not mind,” Peggy hastened to assure her. “Thy brother hath desired thy coming so much that I make no doubt that he will enjoy the companionship.”

“I dare say he did want me,” was Harriet’s self-complacent remark. “Still, Peggy, there’s no denying the fact that you are a good nurse. Is it not strange, Clifford, that she hath nursed all three of us? Father when he was wounded in a skirmish at their house; me when I was ill of a fever, and now you.”

“No; she hath not told me,” he answered. “She hath been remiss in this at least, Harriet. Now——”

“I think mother did the most of the nursing,” interrupted Peggy hastily. “And after all, ’tis over now. There is no necessity to dwell upon what is past. We will bid thee good-night, my cousin.”

“And where do you stay?” inquired Harriet as Clifford left them at the cottage gate. “Is this the place? How small it is! Will there be room for me, Peggy?”

“Thee can share my room, Harriet. Mother made arrangements with Nurse Johnson, with whom I came to Williamsburg, that I was to stay with her. She is most kind, and will gladly receive thee.”

“Let’s hurry to bed,” pleaded Harriet. “I do want to tell you about Major Greyling, and—well, some others. We can talk in bed.”

“Very well,” was Peggy’s amused response. “But I have somewhat to tell thee also. Wilt promise to let me talk part of the time?”

“Don’t be a goose,” said Harriet giving her a little squeeze. “I have something important to tell you.”

“Then come in,” said Peggy, opening the door.