“Mr. Reed was much taken with Harriet,” observed Mrs. Owen, entering the kitchen as the English maiden left it.
“But not more than thee appears to be, mother,” smiled Peggy. “’Tis amusing to see the difference with which thee regards her now, and the way it was at Middlebrook.”
“She seems much improved,” answered her mother. “Does thee not think so? So much more thoughtful of others. It did not strike me that she was much given to consideration then; but now——”
“But now thee has had her under thy wing for nearly three months; thee has nursed her back to health, and humored her every whim as though she were a child of thine until thee regards her as though she were thy very own. Thou dear mother!” The girl stopped her ironing long enough to kiss her mother tenderly. “Doesn’t thee know that whatever thee broods over thee loves?”
Mrs. Owen laughed.
“How well thee knows me, Peggy. But thou art fond of her too, art thou not?”
“Yes, I am, mother,” admitted the girl. “Whenever we go anywhere I am proud of her beauty, and that she is my cousin. And my friends here are charmed with her. Even Sally and Betty—though she sometimes makes dreadful speeches because of being for the king. She can be so sweet, mother, that at times I must steel myself against her, lest I should be more tolerant of her opinions than is wise.”
“As to her being for the king, my child, that, as thee knows, is because of being English. And I would not have her feign a belief in the cause of Liberty did she not of a truth hold it to be just. An open foe is ever best, Peggy.”
“It isn’t politics, mother. At least not her feeling toward us, though it is trying to stand some of her comments, but——”
“Peggy, thee is troubled anent something,” asserted the lady taking Peggy’s face between her hands and gazing anxiously into her eyes. “What is it, my child?”