“Lieutenant Drayton,” spoke Harriet suddenly. She had quite recovered her composure by this time. “Peggy did not tell you that I have made a shirt too.”
“Not for the patriots?” he asked amazed.
“Yes; for the rebels,” she replied.
“Come!” he cried gayly. “You are improving. We will have a good patriot out of you yet.”
“Perhaps,” she responded graciously, a roguish gleam coming into her eyes. “Are you in need of shirts, lieutenant?”
Drayton’s face flushed, and then he laughed.
“I am not as badly off as some of our poor fellows, Mistress Harriet, but they would not come amiss. Why?”
“Because,” said she speaking deliberately, “if you will accept it, I should like to give you the shirt that I made.”
“To give it to me?” he queried astonished. He had always known that Harriet disliked him, and therefore could not understand this sudden mark of favor. “To give it to me?”
“Yes; to you. Will you promise to wear it if I give it to you?”