“We should not stay here,” she said. “Clifford is no longer an invalid, ’tis true; still he should not remain out in the dew.”
“I have scarcely begun to talk,” demurred Harriet. “I think I should know what will suit my own brother, Peggy.”
“Our Cousin Peggy is right, Harriet,” observed Clifford in an unusually docile mood. “I should not be out in the dew, and neither should you. To-morrow there will be ample opportunity to converse. I confess that I do feel a little tired. Then too there are matters to ponder.”
“Of course if you are tired,” said his sister rising, “we must go in. To-morrow, Peggy, you will find yourself like Othello—your occupation gone.”
“I shall not mind,” Peggy hastened to assure her. “Thy brother hath desired thy coming so much that I make no doubt that he will enjoy the companionship.”
“I dare say he did want me,” was Harriet’s self-complacent remark. “Still, Peggy, there’s no denying the fact that you are a good nurse. Is it not strange, Clifford, that she hath nursed all three of us? Father when he was wounded in a skirmish at their house; me when I was ill of a fever, and now you.”
“No; she hath not told me,” he answered. “She hath been remiss in this at least, Harriet. Now——”
“I think mother did the most of the nursing,” interrupted Peggy hastily. “And after all, ’tis over now. There is no necessity to dwell upon what is past. We will bid thee good-night, my cousin.”
“And where do you stay?” inquired Harriet as Clifford left them at the cottage gate. “Is this the place? How small it is! Will there be room for me, Peggy?”
“Thee can share my room, Harriet. Mother made arrangements with Nurse Johnson, with whom I came to Williamsburg, that I was to stay with her. She is most kind, and will gladly receive thee.”