“Thou foolish boy,” rebuked Peggy gently wiping the perspiration from his brow. “Thee must not waste thy strength if thee wishes to get well soon. Thee must be patient a little longer, my cousin.”
“Would I had died,” broke from him passionately, tears of humiliation in his eyes, “ere I was brought to lie here like a baby compelled to accept services that I wish not.”
A deep flush dyed the girl’s face, and she choked. For a moment she feared lest she should lose her self-control, then mastering herself—Peggy had been well schooled in self-repression—she said mournfully:
“Thee must not excite thyself, Cousin Clifford. Suffer me to care for thee a little longer. If it can be arranged so that another may take charge of thee, it shall be done. I knew not that thou didst dislike me so much.”
He made no reply, but partook of the broth she gave him without protest. Then, because it was part of her duty to wait beside him until the morning visit of the surgeon, she picked up the little bunch of violets and sat down quietly.
Her heart was very full. She could not understand the youth’s aversion. It was as though he held something against her that she had done; the resentment of an injury. In wondering perplexity she fondled the violets, and with unconscious yearning her thoughts flew back to far-off Philadelphia, and the long ago time when there was no war, and she had not known these troublesome cousins.
What times she, and Sally, and Betty, and all the girls of The Social Select Circle had had gathering the wild flowers in the great woods! When was it they had gone there last? It came to her suddenly that it had been six long years before, just after the battle of Lexington. They had made wreaths for their hair, she remembered. Was it violets that made Sally’s, she wondered, the blue of the flowers she held stirring her memories vaguely. No; it was quaker-ladies, and they were blue as Sally’s eyes. They never would go to the great woods again because the British had felled the trees.
At this point in her meditation Peggy looked up with a start to find her cousin regarding her with such an intent look that the color mantled her cheek and brow. He seemed as though he was about to speak, and, fearful that there would be another outbreak which would agitate him, she began speaking hurriedly:
“I am thinking of the great wood, cousin, which used to lie along the banks of the Schuylkill River at home. We went there in spring time for violets, and all the wildings of the forest. Thee should have seen the great trees when they were newly leaved, and again in the autumn when they were clothed in scarlet and gold; and——”
“What have you done with Harriet?” interrupted he in a tense tone.