“’Tis linen, mother,” answered the maiden bringing the bundle into the hall. “It came last night to Mrs. Evans for her to make into shirts for the soldiers, but word came from the hospital this morning that both she and Sally were needed there, so I told her that, as we had our apportionment all made up, we would gladly do hers. And such a time to get here as I had. So thee missed me? ’Tis worth going away for the night to hear thee say that. How is Harriet?”
“Wherriting over thy absence. Indeed, she seems scarce able to bear thee from her sight. I persuaded her to work upon the shirt, thinking to beguile her into something like calm. She should go out to-day if ’tis not too cold.”
“’Twould do her good,” declared Peggy. “It is fine out. Such a relief from the rain and mud of the past week. And oh, mother! what does thee think? Mistress Reed hath twenty-two hundred shirts already that the ladies have made, and she hath received a letter from His Excellency, General Washington, concerning them. She wished that all that were not needed for the Pennsylvania line should be given to our near neighbor, New Jersey, but left it with him to do as he thought best. She told Mrs. Evans that she wished to see thee and others of the committee soon. There is to be a notice as to time. Thee does not mind this extra work, does thee, mother?”
“Nay, Peggy. ’Twas right to bring it. ’Tis little that we who are at home can do for those in the field, and Mrs. Evans and Sally give too much time as it is to the hospital to undertake anything more. But let us go in to Harriet. She will be glad that thou art here.”
“Have you come at last, Peggy?” cried a slender girl starting up from a settle which was drawn before a roaring fire as mother and daughter entered the living-room. “And did I hear you say something about more cloth for shirts? Peggy Owen, you have done nothing else since we came from the South two months ago but make shirts. I doubt not that every soldier of the rebel army hath either a shirt of your making, or a pair of socks of your knitting.”
“That could hardly be, Harriet,” laughed Peggy. “I have made but twelve shirts, and just the same number of socks. As we have a few more in the army than that thee sees that it could not be. And how does thee feel?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” spoke Harriet plaintively. She was very pale as though she had been ill, which was the fact, but her disorder had reached that stage of convalescence in which it was more mental than physical. “I don’t know, Peggy. I don’t believe that I’ll ever be well again.”
“How thee talks,” chided Peggy. “Did thee finish the shirt mother gave thee to make? Methought that would woo thee from thy megrims.”
“Yes; it is finished,” answered the other with a sigh of weariness. “I have just put the last stitch in it, and I’ll do no more. Heigh-ho! to think of Harriet Owen, daughter of William Owen, a colonel of the Welsh Fusileers, and a most loyal subject of His Majesty, making a shirt for one of the rebels. What would father think of it, I wonder?”
“I think that he would rather have thee so engaged than to have thee give up to thy fancies, Harriet,” answered Peggy as her cousin drew the garment from among the pillows of the settle, and held it up to view. “Did thee put thy name on it? Mistress Reed wishes every woman and girl who makes one to embroider her name on it.”