His eyes opened, and Peggy almost gasped, so like were they to David Owen’s.
“Harriet,” whispered the youth making a weak attempt to rise. “Hath she come at last?”
“It is not Harriet,” said Peggy touching his forehead gently, “but Peggy, my cousin.”
The young fellow turned a wondering look upon her.
“But Harriet, Harriet?” he murmured. “Why do you call me cousin?”
“Thee is not to talk,” cried Peggy quickly, as the nurse shook a warning finger. “I call thee cousin because thou art my Cousin Clifford. Harriet could not come because she had been sent to New York. I am Peggy. Peggy Owen, thy very own cousin. I have come to care for thee, and to take thee home when thou art strong enough. And that is all,” she ended breathlessly as the nurse again nodded a warning.
“I want Harriet,” reiterated the youth turning away from her. “Why have you come? I want you not.”
This was more than the girl could stand. She had been on the road for ten long days and was fatigued almost beyond the point of endurance. And when Clifford, who was so like her father that she had been stirred to the very depths of her being, said:
“I want you not. Why have you come?” she could no longer control her feelings but burst into tears.
“I came because thy sister was sent on to New York and could not come,” she sobbed.