Peggy turned toward her quickly.
“What know thee of the Owen temper?” she asked in amazement.
“Everything, Margaret. How hot and unruly it is. I well know how it doth refuse advice, howsoever well meant. Thee should be sweet and amiable, like me.”
“Like thee?” Puzzled, perplexed, and withal indignant, Peggy could not help retorting. “Will thee pardon me, Truelove, if I say that thy amiability lacks somewhat of sweetness?”
“Nay; I will not pardon thee. Lack somewhat of sweetness indeed, Mistress Margaret Owen! Does thee think thee has all the sweetness in the family? Obstinate, perverse Peggy!”
With a cry Peggy sprang toward her.
“Thy face!” she cried. “Let me see thy face. ’Tis Harriet’s voice, but Harriet——”
“Is before you.” The girl unclasped the mask and revealed the laughing, beautiful face of Harriet Owen. “Oh, Peggy! Peggy! for a Quakeress you did not show much meekness. So you would not take a lesson from a stranger, eh? You should have seen your face when I proposed it.”
“But how did thee come here, Harriet? And why did thee assume this dress?”