“Clifford Owen? A son of that Colonel Owen who as a prisoner on parole stayed at your house?”
“Yes,” answered Peggy.
“A brother to that Mistress Harriet Owen who played the spy with our army at Middlebrook, and who while at your house tried to communicate with the enemy at New York and was banished for so doing?”
“Yes,” answered the girl again.
“And to favor one of these cousins you would do that which might cause doubt to be cast upon your father’s patriotism, and bring this friend here under displeasure of this tribunal? This friend who hath served us so nobly as nurse.”
“Thee must not do anything to Sally,” cried Peggy, roused by this speech. “I alone am to blame for everything. None knew that I hid my cousin, and Sally helped only because she saw how greatly I was distressed lest Clifford should be taken. She did not know him, and only helped me out of friendship. Ye must do naught to her. There is no one to blame but me.”
“And do you justify yourself for involving a loyal friend in difficulty by the mere fact that the prisoner was your cousin?” he asked, and the cold incisiveness of his tone made the girl shiver. “You have said that he was your cousin, Margaret Owen, as though that were excuse for disloyalty. Ye have both attended Master Benezet’s school; while there did ye not read of one Junius Brutus, who sentenced his own sons to death when he found them implicated in a conspiracy against the country?”
“Yes, we read of it,” interposed Sally so shrilly that the grave men who composed the semicircle were startled into keen attention. “We read of it, Friend Moore; but does thee think their mother would have done it? I’ve often wondered where Mistress Junius Brutus was. Had he been my husband,” with an impressive shake of her curly head, “I’d have led him a life of it after such an act. ’Twas unnatural and cruel, I think. Of course Peggy hid her cousin. Is she not a female? Think ye that females are made of such stern fiber that a relative, even though he were an enemy, would ask aid and be refused? I don’t believe that there is one of ye but what would do the same thing under like circumstances. Thee has spoken of what I have done for the Cause. Why doesn’t thee mention Peggy’s services? Didn’t she ride in the cold and the storm to inform General Putnam of the spy, Molesworth’s plot? Hasn’t she worked to keep the hands, and the feet, and the backs of the army warm? I don’t believe that another girl in the Union hath knit so many mittens and socks, or made so many shirts as Peggy Owen hath. I can’t begin to tell all she hath done for the Cause; and yet just because she hath regard for her kin, which being a woman she cannot help, ye want to convict her of a misdemeanor. ’Tis monstrous! How can she help softness of heart? Hath she not been taught every First-day to do good to them that despitefully use her? When I first went into nursing I hated the English intensely, and when the wounded were brought in I’d attend to our own soldiers first, no matter how badly the others were hurt. And then one day, Dr. Cochrane said to me: ‘They’re all mothers’ sons, Miss Sally. Somewhere, some woman is waiting and praying for each one of them. Our own boys might be in like predicament with the enemy. Treat them as you would like our own treated.’ Since then,” Sally continued half crying, “I’ve tended them all alike—American or English, French or Hessian.”
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Jacob Deering, as the maiden’s voice broke. Like a flash she turned upon him.
“Thee has a niece, Kitty, hasn’t thee, Friend Deering?” she cried.