“Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
No care beyond to-day.”
—Gray.
The great clock of the State House was striking ten, the next morning, as Peggy emerged from the west entrance of the dwelling, and, basket in hand, went down the steps of the terrace into the gardens.
It was a lovely day. The sky was blue with June’s own cerulean hue, and across its depths floated the softest of fleecy white clouds. The air was fresh and balmy, and tinged with the honeyed sweetness of red roses. With basket and shears the girl wandered from bush to bush, cutting the choicest blossoms. That her mind was not on her task was manifest by the fact that ever and anon she paused, shears in hand, and became absorbed in thought. In this manner she sauntered through the grassy paths and graveled alleys until she came at length to the fence which separated the garden from Fifth Street. Peggy stopped here, and gazed thoughtfully across at the State House, as she was wont to do in the early years of the war.
“What will the Congress do?” she mused. “Would that I could see into that east room! Will they listen to Harriet, I wonder? And the people! how many there are in the square. What makes them cluster about the grounds so?”
The State House Square was in truth filled with groups of men who stood about talking earnestly. It was the custom of the citizens of Philadelphia to do this when any exciting event occurred, or when any stirring measure was before the Congress. Peggy’s curiosity as to the cause was therefore natural, but there was no one near who could gratify it, so she turned reluctantly from the fence, and resumed her task of cutting the roses. Abstractedly she worked, oblivious to her surroundings, when all at once the sound of flying feet brought her back to reality. Startled she turned to see Sally Evans running toward her from under the trees.
“I have just heard about Clifford, Peggy,” cried Sally, flinging herself upon her friend. “Mr. Deering told me. I thought that I should find thee here, or some of thy people. Oh, Peggy! Peggy! that it should be Clifford.”
“Yes,” replied Peggy sorrowfully, as she returned the embrace. “’Tis dreadful.”
“And what is thee going to do anent it? Why, Peggy Owen! surely thee hasn’t been coolly picking flowers?”
“I had to do something, Sally, to while away the time until they come back,” apologized Peggy meekly. “Waiting is trying when so much depends upon the issue.”