“Then, by all means, go,” decided Mrs. Owen. “But start earlier than usual, so as to be back long before the retreat sounds; else I shall be uneasy.”
“We will do that, mother,” promised Peggy. And as soon as the morning tasks were finished the maidens set forth.
“Are you not glad that we are alone to-day?” asked Harriet, when they had ridden a while. “I tire of even Cousin David. Do you not?”
“Why, no!” exclaimed Peggy in surprise. “I would rather have father with us. I do not see how any one could tire of him.”
Harriet made no reply to this speech, and the two rode for some distance in silence. The February day was chill and gray, the roads slushy, but the outdoor life they had led rendered the maidens hardy, and they did not mind the dampness.
“Why!” ejaculated Harriet suddenly. “Aren’t we on the Elizabethtown turnpike?”
“Yes,” said Peggy glancing about. “I knew not that we had come so far. We must turn back, Harriet. Mother said that she would be uneasy if we were not there before the sounding of the retreat, and the afternoons are so short. ’Twill be time for it before we know it.”
“I’ll tell you what, Peggy,” cried her cousin. “Let’s go by Liberty Hall.”
“It is too late,” answered Peggy. “Thee must know that it is all of twenty miles to Elizabethtown, and though we have ridden a goodly part of the distance ’twould be more than we could do to-day. There and back, Harriet, is not to be thought of.”
“Well, I am going, anyway,” exclaimed Harriet with more petulance than Peggy had ever seen her exhibit. “So there!”