As if she had just become aware of the presence of others the girl turned a startled look upon Peggy.

“If you are David Owen’s daughter, then I am indeed your cousin,” she said slowly intense surprise in her accents. “And if you are his daughter, where is your father, and what do you here? I thought you were in Philadelphia.”

“Father is here,” answered Peggy, starting forward eagerly. “And thy father is——” But David Owen laid a restraining hand upon her arm.

“A moment, lass,” he said, a quick glance flashing between him and General Washington. “Let me speak to the maiden. My child,” turning to the girl who was regarding him intently, “thou wilt pardon me, I know, if I ask thee a few questions. It behooves us to be careful in times like these, and we but take precautions that thine own people would use under like circumstances. Therefore, tell me thy father’s name, and his regiment.”

“By what right do you question me?” she demanded haughtily.

“I am David Owen,” he answered briefly. “If thou art in truth my kinsman’s daughter there is no reason why thee should not answer my questions.”

“Ask what you will, if you are Mr. David Owen, and I will answer,” she said, her manner changing to one of extreme courtesy. “My father is William Owen, a colonel of the Welsh Fusileers. My brother’s name is Clifford, and I am Harriet. Do you believe me now, my cousin? Or is there aught else to be asked?”

“Nay,” replied he mildly. “I believe that thou art truly William’s daughter.”

“Then may I place myself under your protection, cousin?” she queried so appealingly that Peggy’s tender heart could not bear it, and she went to her quickly. “My father wished it, and I am a stranger in a strange land.”

“Surely thee may,” exclaimed Mr. Owen, touched, as his daughter had been, by the pathetic quiver that had come into her voice. “That is”—he hastened to add, “if His Excellency hath no objection?”

“I have none, Mr. Owen,” declared General Washington. “As the young lady hath proved herself a relative I give her into your keeping. There could be no better sponsor for her, sir.”

“I thank thee,” said David Owen gravely. “I will see that thy trust is not misplaced. And now, sir, we have troubled thee o’er long, I fear, and will therefore say good-night.”

“But not until Mistress Owen tells me when she and Miss Peggy, together with this newly found kinswoman, will honor me by their presence to dinner. Will you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey by Monday, Madam Owen?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. It will afford us great pleasure to dine with thee at that time,” replied the matron bowing.

The courtesies of leave-taking over, David Owen led the way to the coach.

“Take thy seat with us in the vehicle, my child,” he said to Harriet Owen. “I will have thy horse sent after us.”

“And has thee a horse too?” asked Peggy as the girl took her place beside her. “Then we shall have some famous rides, Cousin Harriet. And what is thy horse’s name?”

“Fleetwood. I brought him from England. He hath been mine from a colt. I have never had any other, and he will suffer none to ride him but me.”

“Thee thinks of him as I do of Star,” cried Peggy in delight.

“Didst say, my child,” interposed David Owen after the two maidens had chatted a while, “that thy brother left thee alone in England?”

“Yes, Cousin David. Clifford hath always been wild for the army, but father would not hear of his joining it. ’Twas lonesome after father left us, so I did not blame Clifford for leaving. A lad of mettle should not stop at home when His Majesty hath need of him to help put down this rebellion. Your pardon, cousin. Being English I am all for the king, you know.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Owen, pleased at her frankness. “I like thy manner of speaking of it, Harriet.”

“But still, that need be no reason why we should not be friends,” she said quickly. “There be those at home who think with the colonies, and blame them not for rebelling. It may be that I too shall be of like opinion after my sojourn with you.”

“It may be, Harriet. Have no uneasiness, my child. If thou art led to our way of thinking it must be of thine own conviction, and not from any effort that we shall bring to bear upon thee. Thou art welcome despite thy opinions. And didst thou cross the ocean alone?”

“Yes; that is,” she added hastily, “there was an officer’s wife who was coming to join her husband. I was with her. When father learned that I had come, he desired that I should go to you. He was sure that you would welcome me despite the difference in politics. And why are you not in Philadelphia?”

“I, of course, am with the army,” he replied. “The custom of campaigning only in the summer hath the advantage of permitting our wives and daughters to join us in camp during the winter; so my wife and Peggy have come for that time. Thou wilt like it, Harriet; for there are amusements such as delight the hearts of maidens. I doubt not but both thee and my little Peggy will sorrow when ’tis time to leave it.”

“Harriet must be tired, David,” suggested Mrs. Owen kindly. “Should not further explanation be deferred until the morrow?”

“I mind not the talk, madam, my cousin,” spoke Harriet, and Mrs. Owen noted instantly that she used Colonel Owen’s term of addressing her. “It warms my heart for my cousin to talk to me.” Again the little tremor came into her voice as she added: “It makes me feel more at home.”

“Then talk on, my child,” said the lady gently.

So the girl chatted of her father and brother, her home in England, her voyage across the ocean, and other subjects with so much charm that when at length the coach drew up before a farmhouse whose sloping roof and low eaves were but dimly distinguishable in the darkness Peggy found herself very much taken with this new cousin.

“I could listen to thee all night, Cousin Harriet,” she exclaimed as her father assisted them from the coach.

“And so could we all,” said David Owen laughing, plainly as much pleased with the maiden as was Peggy. “But we are at quarters, and the rules are that every one must be in bed at tattoo. That will give us just time for supper.”

And so in spite of the protests of both girls they were sent to bed in short order.

The rides began the very next day, and as Harriet seemed to be as much interested in the encampment as Peggy, Mr. Owen took them through part of it.

“’Tis a strong cantonment,” he said. “There are seven brigades here in the vicinity of Middlebrook. The main army lies in the hills back of Bound Brook, near enough to be called into service instantly if necessary. The artillery under General Knox lies a few miles away at Pluckemin. The entire force of the army is scattered from here to Danbury, Connecticut.”

“But why is it so scattered, my cousin?” inquired Harriet. “Methinks that ’twould be the part of wisdom to keep the army together?”

David Owen laughed.

“Would that thou wert Sir Henry Clinton,” he said. “Then all thy soldiers would stay in New York instead of being transferred to the Southern colonies. ’Tis done for two reasons: the easy subsistence of the army and the safety of the country.”

“But doth it not hem Sir Henry in?” she demanded. “How can he get through these lines without fighting?”

“That is just it,” said Mr. Owen laughing again. “Thee will soon be quite a soldier, Harriet. Here we are at Van Vegthen’s bridge, which is one of three that crosses the Raritan. General Greene, who is acting as quartermaster at present, is encamped here. He hath his quarters in yon dwelling which lies to our left. ’Tis Derrick Van Vegthen’s house, and ye will both meet with him and the general. Mrs. Greene is here, and Mrs. Knox. Ye will like them. Let us ride closer. As ye are unaccustomed to camp life ’twill be a novelty to ye to see the men engaged in their various duties. How busy they are!”

From side to side the maidens turned, eager to see all that Mr. Owen pointed out. Quite a village of blacksmith shops, storehouses and other buildings connected with the quartermaster’s department had grown up around the house where General Greene made his headquarters. On the near-by elevation, even then called Mt. Pleasant, his brigade was encamped.

As Mr. Owen had said, the scene was a busy one. A company of soldiers was drilling on the open parade ground, while of those who were not on duty some chopped wood which had been brought from the near-by hills, or tended fires over which hung large chunks of meat spitted upon bayonets, while still others could be seen through the open flaps of the tents cleaning their accoutrements.

“I should think those tents would be cold,” remarked Peggy with a slight shiver, for although the winter’s day was sunlit, the air was chill.

“They are not o’er comfortable, Peggy,” returned her father. “But does thee not see the huts that are in process of construction? General Washington taught the men how to build them, and they will be comfortably housed ere long. Note that they are built without nails, and almost the only tools used are the axe and saw. ’Tis most marvelous that such comfortable and convenient quarters can be made with such little expense to the people.”

“The marvel to me,” remarked Harriet Owen thoughtfully, “is that such ill-clad, ill-fed looking troops can stand against our soldiers. Why hath not the British swept them down like chaff before the wind? ’Tis past understanding.”

“Because their cause is a righteous one,” said David Owen solemnly. “And because, also, what thou art in the way of forgetting, my little cousin: they are of thine own blood, and therefore fight with the spirit of Englishmen.”

“English?” she exclaimed. “English! I had not thought of that, my cousin.”

“Consider our case,” he said. “Thou art of the same blood as ourselves. Doth it make a difference in the stock because thou dost happen to live in England, while Peggy there lives in America?”

“I had not thought of it in that way,” she said again. “I think the English have not considered it either. I would talk more of the matter, Cousin David, but not now. I have much to think of now. But do you not fear that I shall tell the British about this camp?” added Harriet smiling.

“No, my child. Thou wilt not have opportunity,” observed Mr. Owen. “Does thee not know that once being with us there can be no returning to New York? There can be no passing and repassing to the city.”

“Oh,” she cried in dismay. “I did not know. Can I not return if I should wish to?”

“Not unless thou hadst been away from the army for a long time,” he answered.

“But suppose, suppose father should come?”

“Even then thee would have to stay with us until such time that it was deemed advisable for thee to return. So thee sees, Harriet, that the rebels, as thee calls them, will have the pleasure of thy company for some time to come.”

“I see,” she said. Presently she threw her head back and gave way to a peal of musical laughter. “There is but one thing to do, Cousin David,” she cried. “And that is to become a patriot myself.”