And at this unlooked-for sympathy on Harriet’s part Peggy broke into sudden, bitter weeping.
“He is to die,” she cried. “There is no escape, Harriet. Thy brother holds the key, and is to stand guard himself lest aught should go amiss. He is cruel, cruel. Oh, the night is so short in summer! The sunrise comes so soon! Would that it were winter.”
“Now just how would that help you, Peggy?” demanded Harriet staring at her. “If one is to die I see not how the season could lessen one pang. After all, Peggy, you must admit that John Drayton deserves his fate. He is a spy. He knew the risk he ran. The sentence is just. ’Tis the recognized procedure in warfare.”
“That doth not make it less hard to bear,” cried Peggy with passion. “Grant that ’tis just, grant that ’tis the method of procedure in warfare, and yet when its execution falls upon kinsman or friend there is not one of us who would not set such method of procedure at naught. Why, when thee——” She paused suddenly.
“Yes? Go on, Peggy,” said her cousin easily. “Or shall I finish for you? You were about to speak, my cousin, of the time when I was a spy. You are thinking that I was perhaps more guilty than John Drayton, insomuch as he hath but given out information while I planned the captivation of both the governor of the Jerseys and the rebel general. And you are thinking, are you not? that you laid yourself under suspicion because of a promise to me. And you are thinking, my little cousin, of how you stole out like a thief in the night to aid me to make my escape. You are thinking of that long night ride, and of all the trials and difficulties in which it involved you. You are thinking of these things, are you not?”
As the girl began to speak Peggy ceased her weeping, pushed back her hair, and presently sat upright regarding her with amazement.
“Yes,” she almost gasped as her cousin paused. “Yes, Harriet; I was in very truth thinking of those things.”
“And you are thinking,” continued Harriet placing a jeweled comb in her hair, and gazing into the mirror, turning her head from side to side to note the effect, “that in spite of all that befell, you took me back to Philadelphia with you when I was ill, and cared for me until I was restored to health. And you are thinking of what you have done for father, and for Clifford. What a set of ingrates you must consider us, Peggy.”
“Why does thee say these things to me, Harriet?” demanded Peggy. “How did thee know what I was thinking? And yet thee, and thy father, and—and Clifford too, sometimes, have been most kind to me of late. Why does thee say them?”
“Because I should say them were I placed as you are,” returned her cousin calmly. “I think I would shout them from the house-top.”