“Of your Mr. Washington,” answered the girl. “He is so stern, and, and——Oh, I am afraid!” she cried wringing her hands.
“True, he is a stern man,” said the perplexed Peggy, “but still he hath a kind heart. We have dined there often, Harriet, and thee did not mind. I see not why thee should fear him now. He will but ask us about the note, and thank thee for thy timely warning to the governor and the brigade.”
“You will not tell him that at first I did not wish to go, or to have you go, will you, Peggy?” pleaded Harriet. “I thought better of it, Peggy. I—I felt sorry about it afterward.”
“Thee made up for thy hesitancy nobly, Harriet,” spoke Peggy warmly, all her bewilderment vanishing at her cousin’s acknowledgment of sorrow for what she had tried to do. “I will do as thee wishes in the matter.”
“And will you tell him that I was not near when the note was found?” asked the girl eagerly.
“Yes; for thee was not. But why? I cannot see what difference ’twould make whether thee was there or not.”
“You are a good little thing, Peggy,” said Harriet kissing her without replying to the question. “’Twas mean of me to ride ahead and give the warning. ’Tis you who should have the credit, but I had to. I had to. Some day you will know. Oh!” she cried checking herself suddenly, “what am I saying?”
“Harriet, thee is all undone anent something. Is thee not well? Let me call mother, and she will give thee some ‘Jesuit’s bark.’ Thee is all unstrung,” spoke Peggy with solicitude.
“No, no; I am all right now,” said Harriet with something of her accustomed gaiety of manner. “And, Peggy, whatever happens remember that I am your cousin, leal and true. I am only a girl, Peggy, and alone in a strange land.”
“Harriet, what is the matter? Thee speaks in riddles,” ejaculated Peggy, wonderingly.