Life flowed along in its customary channels with little of incident for Peggy and her mother after the departure of Drayton. But if it was not eventful there was no lack of occupation.

The house and grounds were brought into order; the stores of unspun wool and unhatcheled flax were at length all spun into yarn and thread which in turn were woven into cloth from which the two replenished their depleted wardrobes. But, though all patriotic women strove to supply their every need by domestic industry, the prices of the commonest necessities of life advanced to such an extent that only the strictest frugality enabled them to live.

“There is one thing, mother,” said Peggy one morning in November as she found Mrs. Owen studying accounts with a grave face. “There is one thing sure: if the war lasts much longer we shall all be ruined as to our estates, whatever may be the state of our liberties.”

“True, Peggy,” answered her mother with a sigh. “Philadelphia hath become a place of ‘crucifying expenses,’ as Mr. James Lovell says. And how to be more frugal I know not.”

“And yet there was never so much dressing and entertaining going on,” remarked Peggy.

“Times are strangely altered indeed,” observed the lady with another sigh. “The city is no longer the town that William Penn desired, but hath gone wild with luxury and dissipation.”

“Many are leaving the city, mother. ’Tis not we alone who find it expensive.”

“I know, Peggy. ’Tis affecting every one. Would that a better example were set the citizens at headquarters. Mr. Arnold is a good soldier. He hath shown himself to be a man of rare courage, but I fear ’twas a mistake to put him in charge of our city. Would that he had less money, or else more prudence. I fear the effect on the country. But there! I have uttered more than was wise, but I trust to thy discretion.”

“The city is rife with rumors of his extravagance, mother,” Peggy made answer. “Thee is not alone in commenting upon it. Here was Robert yesterday looking exceedingly grave anent the reports. He says that there is much talk concerning the number and magnificence of the entertainments given at headquarters, and that many deem it but mere ostentation.”

“I feared there would be comment,” was Mrs. Owen’s reply. “’Tis pity that it should happen so when he hath such a fine record as a soldier. Such things cause discontent. There is so much use for the money among the suffering soldiers that I wonder he does not choose to spend it so. I like not to see waste. ’Tis sinful. Ah! here is Betty, who looks full of importance. Belike she hath news.”

“I am come to say good-bye, Peggy,” announced Betty Williams bustling in upon them. “Mother and family are going to Lancaster. Father hath advised us to leave the city owing to the high price of commodities, and while they go there, I, with a party of friends, am going to Dr. Simpson’s to take the smallpox. It hath been so prevalent that mother feared for me to delay longer in taking it.”

“Does thee not dread it, Betty?” questioned Peggy, regarding Betty’s fair skin with some anxiety.

“I like not the pittings,” confessed Betty candidly. “But Dr. Simpson advertises that he hath acquired special skill in the Orient in distributing the marks so as to minister to feminine looks instead of detracting from them, and he promises to limit them to but few. Can thee not come with me, Peggy? Thee has not had it, and we shall be a merry party.”

“I fear that it would not be altogether to my liking, Betty. I know that I should be inoculated, but I shrink from the process. I will say so frankly.”

“Thee is just like Sally,” cried Betty. “She hath courage to become a nurse, yet cannot pluck up heart to join a smallpox party. And thee, Peggy Owen! I am disappointed in thee. I have not half thy pluck, nor Sally’s; yet I mind not the ordeal. It may save me from a greater calamity. Just think how relieved the mind would be not to dread the disease all the rest of one’s life. And then to emerge fairer than before, for so the doctor promises. Oh, charmante!” ended Betty.

“Thee is brave to feel so about it, Betty,” said Peggy. “I hope that all will result as thee wishes. I shall miss thee.”

“I wish thee would come too,” said Betty wistfully. “The other girls are nice, but there are none like thee and Sally. It used to be that we three were together in everything, but since the war began all that hath changed. What sort of times have come upon us when the only fun left to a damsel is to take the smallpox? And what does thee think, Peggy? I wove some linen, and sent it to the ladies to make into sheets for the prisoners. They said that it was the toughest linen they had ever worked with. It made their fingers bleed.”

“Oh, Betty, Betty! was it thou who wove that linen?” laughed Peggy holding up her hands for inspection. “I’ve had to bind my fingers up in mutton tallow every night since I sewed on it. Never mind! thee meant well, anyhow. Come now! Shall we have a cup of tea, and a chat anent things other than smallpox, or tough linen?”

The two girls left the room, and Mrs. Owen turned once more to her accounts. But as the days passed by and the complexion of the times became no better her perplexity deepened.

The ferment of the city grew. Personal and political disputes of all kinds were rife at this time. Men began to refer to the capital city as an attractive scene of debauch and amusement. In compliment to the alliance French fashions and customs crept in, and the extravagance of the country at large in the midst of its distresses became amazing. It was a period of transition. The war itself was dull. The two armies lay watching each other—Clinton in New York City, with Washington’s forces extending from White Plains to Elizabeth, New Jersey. The Congress was no longer the dignified body of seventy-six, and often sat with fewer than a dozen members. Even the best men wearied of the war, and their dissatisfaction communicated itself to the masses. The conditions favored excesses, and Philadelphia, as the chief city, was caught in a vortex of extravagances.

So it was much to Mrs. Owen’s relief when she received a letter from her husband bidding her to come to him with Peggy.

“There will be no luxuries, and few conveniences,” he wrote from Middlebrook, which was the headquarters for the winter of seventy-eight. “None the less there is time for enjoyment as well as duty. Many of the officers have their wives and families with them so that there is no reason why we should not be together also.

“Tell Peggy that she will live in the midst of military equipment, but will not find it unpleasant. General Greene told me that he dined at a table in Philadelphia last week where one hundred and sixty dishes were served. Would that our soldiers had some of it! What a change hath come over the hearts of the people! I shall be glad to have thee and my little Peggy out of it.

“Come as soon as thou canst make arrangements, and we will be a reunited family once more, for the winter at least. God alone knows what the spring will bring forth. ’Tis now thought that Sir Henry Clinton intends for the South at that time. ’Twould change the complexion of affairs very materially.”

Here followed some instructions as to financial and other matters. Mrs. Owen called Peggy hastily.

“Oh, mother, mother! isn’t thee glad?” cried the girl dancing about excitedly. “And we will not only be with father, but with the army too. Just think! The very same soldiers that we have been making socks and shirts for so long.”

“The very same, Peggy,” answered her mother, her face reflecting Peggy’s delight. “I am in truth pleased to go. I was much worried as to the outcome of the winter here.”