Harriet, with her chestnut hair flying in a maze of witching ringlets, her eyes starry with radiance, came dancing to meet them as they entered the house which Colonel Owen had taken for his use.

“Father told me that you had come,” she cried embracing Peggy rapturously. “Is it not delightsome that we are all together at last, Peggy? Here are father, Clifford, you, and last, but not least, your most humble and devoted servant, Mistress Harriet Owen. Oh, I am so happy! And why did you run away, you naughty girl? Still, had you not done so I should have missed seeing father and the army.”

“I was trying to get home,” answered Peggy, forgetting her weariness in admiration of her cousin’s beauty, and wondering also at her light-heartedness.

“Home to that poky Philadelphia, where tea and rusks, or a morning visit are the only diversions?” laughed Harriet. “You quaint little Quakeress, don’t you know that now that the army hath come we shall have routs, kettledrums, and assemblies to no end?”

“Be not so sure of that, Harriet,” spoke her brother. “Lord Cornwallis is not so inclined toward such things as is Sir Henry Clinton. He is chiefly concerned for this business of warfare.”

“On the march, I grant you, Clifford, but when the army camps there are always pleasurings. ’Twas so at Charlestown, and Camden, and ’tis the case in New York. We shall have a gay time, Peggy.”

“Suppose, Harriet, that you begin giving our cousin a good time by taking her to a room where she may rest,” suggested the youth. “Do you not see that she is greatly fatigued? The march hath been a hard one.”

“She does indeed look tired,” remarked Harriet glancing at Peggy critically. “Come on, Peggy. I’ll take you to our room. ’Tis much larger than the one we shared at Nurse Johnson’s.”

And so chatting she conducted the weary girl to a large, airy chamber on the second floor of the dwelling, leaving her with reluctance at length to seek the rest of which Peggy stood so much in need.

Meanwhile, much to the consternation of the citizens of Williamsburg, the entire army marched in and took possession of the little city. Cornwallis seized upon the president’s house at the college for his headquarters, forcing that functionary with his family to seek refuge in the main college building. As the origin of the institution was so thoroughly English, and it had remained in part faithful to the mother country, he caused it to be strenuously guarded from destruction, or injury of any sort. Indeed, this attitude had been maintained toward the college by all the English throughout the war.

Officers of the highest rank followed the example set them by their commander, and seized upon whatever dwelling pleased their fancy, sometimes permitting the rightful owners to reserve a few rooms for their own use; more often turning them out completely to find shelter wherever they could. The men of minor rank took what their superiors left, while the rank and file camped in the open fields surrounding the town. Parties were sent out daily on foraging expeditions, and once more York peninsula was swept by the devastating invader.

Of all that occurred in the five days that succeeded the army’s entry into the city Peggy knew nothing. She was so utterly worn out that she did not leave her room, and alarmed by this unusual lassitude in her Colonel Owen insisted that she should keep to her bed. By the end of the week, however, she felt quite herself again, and resolving to seek Nurse Johnson without delay, she arose and dressed herself.

“I must tell her of Fairfax,” she thought as she went down the stairs to the drawing-room. “It hath been unkind in me to keep the poor woman waiting so for news of her son, but I have in truth been near to illness. I know not when my strength hath been so severely tried. Peggy, thee must display more fortitude. I fear thee has a long wait before thee ere thee shall behold thy home again, and thee must call forth all thy endurance to meet it. Megrims have no place in thy calendar, Peggy.”

Thus chiding herself she reached the drawing-room where Colonel Owen sat with his son and daughter.

“’Tis quite time you came down, my little cousin,” cried the colonel as she entered the room. “Clifford here hath been importuning me to have a surgeon, to dose you with Jesuit’s bark, and I know not what else. Zounds! the boy hath shown as much solicitude as if it had been Harriet. I had hard work to convince him that all you needed was rest.”

“Clifford hath been most kind, Cousin William,” she said. “And so have you all. I could not have been more tenderly cared for at home. Fatigue was all that ailed me, however, and I have now recovered from that.”

“Come! that’s good news,” cried William Owen. “And now you shall hear something of great import. This son of mine hath quite puffed me up with pride. It seems that Earl Cornwallis wished some boats and stores of the rebels on the Chickahominy River destroyed, and all the cattle thereabouts brought in for the use of the army. He detailed Colonel Simcoe to accomplish the matter. Now mark, Peggy! what does this same Colonel Simcoe do but ask for Captain Williams, Captain Williams, understand, to accompany him, avowing that he was one of the most promising young officers in the army. It seems also that a little skirmish took place between the rebels and Simcoe’s forces in which a certain Captain Williams particularly distinguished himself. Egad! I hear encomiums on all sides as to his conduct. Would that his commission was in his own name!”

“And what do you think, Peggy?” exclaimed Harriet before Peggy could make reply to her cousin. “Your old friend——”

“Harriet,” interrupted Clifford warningly. “We agreed not to speak of that.”

“What is it, Clifford?” asked Peggy turning to him with alarm. “Hath any of my friends met with injury? Hath any been made a prisoner? Or wounded? Or—or killed?”

“No,” he told her kindly. “None of these things has happened. One of your friends took part in the engagement which father has just mentioned. There occurred an incident after the mÊlÉe which was curious, but ’twas nothing that should concern you. I would rather not tell you about it. You will know it soon enough.”

“If none of those things happened,” she said relieved, “there is naught else that I care about if thee does not wish me to know. Was thy side the victor, my cousin?”

“Yes; though I understand that the rebels claim it also. The loss was quite heavy on both sides for so small an action. You are arrayed for the street, Peggy? Are you going out?”

“To Nurse Johnson’s, Clifford. I saw her son while away, and she would be glad to have news of him,” Peggy explained frankly. “I ought to have gone before this.”

“I would not go elsewhere, and I were you,” he said. “Harriet and I are going for a short ride after parade. Would you like to accompany us?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I will not stay long, Clifford.”

Peggy started forth with this intention, but it took some little time to reach the cottage so filled were the streets with troops. It seemed to the girl that every foot of ground held a red coat. When she at length arrived at the place it was to find Nurse Johnson out. She would soon be back, she was told, so the girl sat down to wait for her. Finally the good woman made her appearance, but there was so much to tell that it was high noon before the visit was ended.

“I shall miss the ride,” mused Peggy passing quickly through the tiny orchard to the gate which opened on Palace Street. “I hope that my cousins won’t wait for me, or that they will not be annoyed. Why, John!”

For as she turned from shutting the gate she came face to face with John Drayton.

“Is thee mad,” she cried, “to venture here like this? ’Tis certain death, John.”

“Is anything liable to happen to a fellow who wears such a garb as this in a British camp?” he asked indicating his clothes by a careless gesture.

Peggy’s glance swept him from head to foot. He was clad in the uniform of a British officer, and seemed not at all concerned as to his safety. An awful suspicion clutched her, and again her gaze took in every detail of that telltale uniform. Then her eyes sought his face and she looked at him searchingly, as though she would read his very soul. Suddenly she leaned forward and touched the red coat fearfully.

“What doth it mean?” she whispered, all her apprehension and doubt contained in the query.

Over Drayton’s face swept a swift indescribable change at her words. He drew a deep breath before answering, and when he spoke his voice held a harshness she had never heard before:

“What doth such a thing usually mean, Peggy?”

“Not, not that, John,” she cried piteously. “Thee can’t mean what that uniform says. Thee can’t mean that, John?”

“Just that,” he answered tersely.

With a low cry she shrank from him, her eyes wide with horror.

“A deserter! Thou?” she breathed.

“Even I, Peggy.”

All the color left her face. She swayed as though about to fall, but when Drayton put forth his arm to support her she waved him back. For a long time Peggy stood so overwhelmed that she could not speak. Then she murmured brokenly:

“But why? Why?”

“I will answer you as I did his lordship,” replied the youth clearly. “When he asked that same question, I said: ‘My lord, I have served from the beginning of this war. While my commander was an American it was all right, but when I was sent here to be under a Frenchman I thought it time to quit the service.’”

“And is that all thy reason?”

“Is it not reason enough, Peggy?”

“No,” she cried passionately. “It is not. Oh, I see it all! Thee has heard from General Arnold.”

“Why should you think that?” Drayton regarded her queerly. “What would hearing from him have to do with my desertion?”

“Everything,” she answered wildly. “He hath wooed thee from thy allegiance, as he said he would. ’Twas on this very spot that he boasted that not two months would pass before thee would be fighting by his side. And I defended thee because I believed that naught could turn thee from thy country. Why look thee, John! how short hath been the time since thou wert made a captain! For valor, thee said, at Hobkirk’s Hill.”

“That was under Greene,” he made answer. “He is not a frog-eating Frenchman.”

“Yet that same Frenchman hath left country and family to give his services, his money, his life if necessary to help an alien people in their fight for liberty. And thee cannot fight under such a man because, forsooth, he is French. French,” with cutting scorn, “who would not rather be French, English, German, or aught else than an American who would desert his country for so small a thing?”

“Don’t, Peggy,” he pleaded. “It—it hurts.”

“And I have been so proud of thee,” she went on unheeding his plea, her voice thrilling with the intensity of her feeling. “So proud of thee at Middlebrook, when thee was spoken of as a lad of parts. So proud when General Washington himself said he wished the whole army had thy spirit. I treasured those words, John Drayton. And again I have been proud of thy conduct in battle, and for all thy career, because I thought of thee as my soldier. Oh!” she cried with passion, “I would rather thee had died in battle; and yet, from the opening to the close of every campaign I have prayed nightly that thee might be spared.”

Drayton adjusted his neck ruffles, and swallowed hard.

“Peggy,” he said. “Peggy——” and paused.

“I think my heart will break,” she sobbed; and with that last cry she left him standing there.