Each day Peggy was taken to Colonel Tarleton to attend his wound. It was in truth painful, and often her tears fell fast upon the inflamed surface when she saw the suffering he endured, and knew that it had been caused by her hand. But it was healed at last, and when she told him joyfully that he had no further need of bandages or treatment, he looked at her with some amusement.

“And now for the punishment,” he observed. “What do you deserve, mistress?”

“I don’t know,” said Peggy, growing pale.

“I leave for the southern part of the state to-morrow,” he said. “The matter must be decided to-day. What say you to a parole?”

“Nay,” and the girl shook her head. “My father doth not believe in them, and neither do I. I want to be free to help the cause in any way that I can.”

“Well, upon my word!” he cried. “You are pleased to be frank.”

“Would you not rather have me so, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “I would. Then what are we to do? Ah! I have it. I shall banish you.”

“Banish me?” repeated she with quivering lips. “To—to what place, sir?”

“A distant place called Philadelphia,” he answered. “Think you that you can bear such exile?”

“Sir,” she faltered, trembling excessively, “do not jest, I pray thee. I—I cannot bear it.”

“Child,” he said dropping the banter, “I jest not. I am going to take you to Georgetown and put you aboard ship for the North. I am sincere, I assure you.”

“Thee will do this?” she cried not daring to credit her senses.

“Yes; and for this reason: In all this land, ay! and in England also, no one hath ever before shed a tear when aught of ill hath befallen Banastre Tarleton. Had any other woman, or girl, or man in this entire Southland wounded me there would have been rejoicing instead of sorrow. Had you not been sincere I would have made you repent bitterly. As it is, this is my punishment: that you proceed to your mother as fast as sail can carry you.”

“And they call thee cruel?” cried the girl catching his hand. “Sir, none shall ever do so again in my presence.”

“Come,” he said. “I will go with you to your cousins. You must be ready for an early start to-morrow. A number of loyalists are going to Georgetown to take ship for other ports, so there will be a numerous company.”

But Harriet received the news with dismay.

“What shall I do?” she cried, the tears streaming from her eyes. “I was getting better, and now you will go and leave me again. Oh, Peggy, I want to go too!”

Colonel Owen looked up eagerly.

“Why not?” he asked. “’Twould be the very thing! Peggy, could you not take Harriet with you? In Philadelphia she would regain her strength. A change from this malarious climate is what she needs. Won’t you take her, Peggy?”

“Oh, Peggy, do take me,” pleaded Harriet. “I shall die here!”

But Peggy made no answer. She looked from father to daughter, from daughter to father thoughtfully. Over her rushed the many things that had befallen her since they had entered her life. The father had caused the death of her dog; had treated her mother and herself scornfully; had lodged a spy in their very home; and had finally robbed them of everything the house contained in the way of food.

And Harriet! Had she not deceived them all? Her father, mother and herself? Would she not do so again if she were to be with them once more? Would she not spy and plot against the cause if she were given opportunity? Could she forgive and forget the deceit, the long absence from her mother, the hardships and trials, and take her to her own dear home? Could she do it?

Her heart throbbed painfully as she turned a searching glance toward her cousin. She was so thin, so wasted, so different from her former brilliant self, that the last tinge of bitterness left Peggy, and a sudden glow of tenderness rushed over her.

“Of course thee shall come with me,” she cried, catching Harriet’s hands and drawing her to her. “And thee shall see how soon mother and I will make thee well. And oh, Harriet, thee will be in my very own home!”

“Oh, I shall be so glad,” cried Harriet, a faint flush coming to her face. “Father, do you hear? Peggy says that I am to go!”

“You are a good little thing after all, Peggy,” observed Colonel Owen, not without emotion. “A good little thing!”

“I think that I will leave this love-feast,” exclaimed Colonel Tarleton, laughing cynically. “’Fore George, but I am glad the girl is going. A little more of this sort of influence would be bad for my reputation as leader of the cruel raiders. Be sure that you are up betimes, Mistress Peggy. I will have no dallying in the morning.”

“I will be ready, and so will Harriet,” cried Peggy, darting to his side and seizing the hand of the arm that she had wounded. Bending quickly she kissed it, exclaiming, “I will never forget how good thee has been, sir.”

“There,” exclaimed he. “I have no more time to spare.” And he strode away.

It was a snowy day in early December, fourteen days later, that Peggy, mounted on Star and Harriet on Fleetwood, left the ferry, and galloped into Philadelphia.

“’Tis my own dear city at last,” cried Peggy excitedly. “And that is the Delaware in very truth. Thee hasn’t seen a river like it, has thee, Harriet? We will soon be home now. ’Tis not much further.”

And so in exuberance of spirit she talked until at length the home in Chestnut Street was reached. She sprang to the ground just as Tom, the groom, came to the front of the house. The darkey gave one glance and then ran forward, crying:

“Foh massy sake, ef hit ain’t Miss Peggy! An’ Star! Yas, suh, an’ Star! Mis’ Owen will be powerful glad ter see yer. She am in de dinin’-room.”

“Yes, it’s Peggy. Peggy—come to stay,” cried she, giving the bridle into his hand. “Come, Harriet!”

But Harriet hesitated. For the first time something like confusion and shame appeared upon her face.

“Your mother?” she whispered. “How will she receive me?” She clasped Peggy’s hand convulsively. “What will she say to me?”

Before Peggy could answer, the door of the dwelling opened and Mistress Owen herself appeared on the threshold. There were lines of care and grief in her face, and Peggy was shocked to see that her hair was entirely white, but in manner she was as serene as of yore.

“I thought——” she began, but at sight of the slender maiden advancing toward her, she grew pale, and leaned against the door weakly. “Peggy?” she whispered.

“Mother! Mother! Mother!” screamed the girl springing to her arms. “Mother, at last!”

Her mother clasped her close, as though she would never let her go again, and so they stood for a long time. Presently Peggy uttered a little cry. “Harriet!” she exclaimed in dismay. “I had forgotten Harriet.” She ran quickly down the steps, and putting her arm around her cousin drew her up the stoop toward Mistress Owen.

For the briefest second a shadow marred the serenity of the lady’s countenance. Then, as she noted the girl’s wasted form, her glance changed to one of solicitude and she took Harriet into her motherly arms.

“Thou poor child,” she said gently. “Thou hast been ill.”

“I feared you would not want me,” faltered Harriet, the ready tears beginning to flow.

“We have always wanted thee, my child, when thou wert thine own true self,” answered the lady. “But come into the sitting-room. Sukey shall bring us some tea and thou shalt rest while Peggy and I talk. Thee must be tired.”

“Tired?” echoed Harriet, sinking into the great easy chair which Peggy hastened to pull forward. “Tired?” she repeated with a sigh of content as the exquisite peacefulness of the room stole over her senses. “I feel as though I should never be tired again. ’Tis so restful here.”

“It’s home,” cried Peggy, dancing from one object to another in her delight. “And how clean everything is! Was it always so, mother?”

“That speech doth not speak well for the places of thy sojourning, my daughter,” observed her mother with a slight smile. “But tell me how it hath happened that thou hast returned at last? I wish to know everything that hath befallen thee.”

And nestling close to her mother’s side, Peggy told all her story.

LUCY FOSTER MADISON

Mrs. Madison was born in Kirkville, Adair County, Missouri, but when she was four years old her parents removed to Louisiana, Missouri, and there her girlhood was spent. She was educated in the public schools of that place, and graduated from the High School with the highest honor—the valedictory.

As a child she was passionately fond of fairy stories, dolls and flowers. Up to her eleventh year the book that influenced her most was “Pilgrim’s Progress.” Mrs. Madison’s father had a large library filled with general literature, and she read whatever she thought interesting. In this way she became acquainted with the poets, ancient history and the novelists, Dickens and Scott. It was not until she was twelve that she came in contact with Miss Alcott’s works, but after that Joe, Meg, Amy and Beth were her constant companions. At this time she was also devoted to “Scottish Chiefs,” “Thaddeus of Warsaw” and “Ivanhoe,” and always poetry.

She doesn’t remember a time when she did not write. From her earliest childhood she made up little stories. In school she wrote poems, stories and essays. When she became a teacher she wrote her own stories and entertainments for the children’s work.

Mrs. Madison’s stories for girls are:

PeggyOwen
PeggyOwen,Patriot
PeggyOwenatYorktown
PeggyOwenandLiberty
AColonialMaidofOldVirginia
ADaughteroftheUnion
InDoubletandHose
AMaidofKingAlfred’sCourt
AMaidoftheFirstCentury